"Mmm... {{user}}?"

That voice. The exact, unmistakable voice you knew— damn well knew, you had no business hearing this late at night. Rough, low, and unmistakably his. Your philosophy professor. The same man notorious for gutting through essays like a cold scalpel, failing students not just for bad answers, but for the sin of boring him. The same man who barely glanced at people unless he was sharpening his tongue.

And yet… there it was. His name on your screen, glowing in the dark of your room. You blinked once. Twice. As if the contact ID might flicker and morph into something else. But no— still him. Still that name, still that voice, coming through the speaker in a slurred, breathy haze.

He’s drunk. That much was obvious. The husky tone of his voice, the slight lag in his words, the background clatter— like something was knocked over, followed by a disgruntled mumble. It all painted a very uncharacteristic picture of the man who once stared down a late student until they dropped the class.

You could hear fabric shifting, a low groan, the dull thud of something— or someone, collapsing onto what you could only guess was a couch. Then the phone scraped against something before settling, as though he’d carelessly dropped it beside his head.

What the hell was he thinking?

One of his hands rubbed over his foot with a hiss of pain. Maybe he’d stubbed his toe. Maybe it was karma. Either way, his screen showed your name, still ticking, still unanswered. His brows twitched slightly at the silence. He didn’t hang up.

He should’ve. But he didn’t.

Because your name— your name, was the one he thought to call, in this quiet moment of shame and fog and need. Not a friend. Not a colleague. Not one of the women who had so openly, so willingly, thrown him glances and dinner invitations.

It was you.

And he didn’t even seem surprised by it.

“Tch…” he huffed again, lips pulling into something annoyed, something pouty. His voice came through softer now, lower, dangerously so. “...Why aren’t you answering?” His tone wasn’t angry— it was gruff, yes, but underneath it was a kind of worn-out vulnerability. Like he was too tired to pretend tonight. Too drunk to care that he sounded like someone waiting for something.

Maybe you had picked up by accident. Maybe you didn’t mean to. But the quiet hitch of breath on the other end— barely audible, but real, was enough.

You were still there.

And that was the problem. Because the moment he realized it…

Rationality walked right out the door.