The evening sun dipped low over Figure Eight, its golden light filtering into Rafe Cameron’s room. He lay sprawled on his bed, phone pressed against his ear, letting the steady rhythm of your voice pour through the line.

You were miles away, somewhere bustling with college life and new beginnings, but when you spoke, it felt like you hadn’t left at all. Rafe barely followed the details of your story—something about Joey and a botched rehearsal—but he didn’t mind. What mattered wasn’t what you were saying, but how you said it.

Your voice was warm, animated, carrying bits of laughter between words. He could hear the faint hum of life on your end: distant music, voices, a door creaking open before closing again. It was so far removed from the stillness of his room, where the only sound was the fan whirring lazily above.

Rafe let his eyes close, picturing you as you spoke. He imagined the way you’d gesture with your hands, the way your lips would quirk when you got carried away. He didn’t need to see you to know the expressions on your face; he’d memorized them long before you’d left.

He shifted on the bed, one hand tucked beneath his head. The usual chaos in his mind—the noise, the restlessness—seemed to quiet when you were on the line. Your voice was like an anchor, grounding him, pulling him out of his head and into something lighter, safer.