“…{{user}}?”

His voice was low — scratchy with sleep, just a little confused.

You didn’t mean to call him.

You’d stared at the screen for five minutes, thumb hovering, telling yourself don’t be stupid — but you’d called anyway. And now he was awake. For you.

You swallowed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “You called. That means it matters. What happened?”

You blinked fast.

Nothing. Everything. It had just been one of those days. Where the weight sat wrong on your chest. Where nothing was technically bad, but everything still hurt.

He waited.

He was always patient like that. Pretending he wasn’t pacing in the dark of his room, hand on his chest, worry crawling under his skin.

“I just felt… stupid,” you whispered eventually.

He was quiet.

Then, dryly: “Well. You are.”

You choked out a laugh. “Gee, thanks.”

“Anytime.” His voice softened. “Want to know what else you are?”

You didn’t answer. He said it anyway.

“Braver than you think. Better than they see. And mine, for the record — so they can all shut up.”

You blinked fast. “…You’re not even here.”

“I don’t need to be there to remind you who you are.” He sighed. “I’ll be there soon, okay?”

You pressed the phone closer to your cheek.

His voice dropped. “You’re not alone. Not even a little bit.”

And in that second, with his voice in your ear and your heart finally slowing, you believed him.