The line clicked, and your voice came through the speaker, warm and familiar even oceans away.

“Tim?”

He shut his eyes at the sound, head falling back against the wall of his darkened bedroom. His chest rose and fell unevenly, still tight with the adrenaline of patrol, but it wasn’t the kind of rush that usually followed him home. This was different. Sharper.

“You okay?” you asked, concern threading your words. “You sound… out of breath.”

“I’m—” he cut himself off, swallowing hard. His voice was rough, low. “I just… needed to hear you.”

There was a pause. You knew him well enough to hear the cracks in his control.

“Tim,” you said gently, “talk to me.”

His grip tightened around the phone. He wanted to say it all — how empty the Manor felt without you, how his body ached with the memory of your touch, how he couldn’t shake the image of you even when he closed his eyes. He wanted to confess how much he missed you, every part of you, in ways words barely touched.

But all that slipped out was a broken whisper: “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The silence on your end stretched, but it wasn’t empty. He could almost picture your expression — soft, knowing, maybe even blushing. The thought made his pulse quicken.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he rushed, his voice strained but sincere. “Just… stay on the line. Please. Let me hear you. Your breathing, your voice—anything. I just… I need you.”