Rafe sat at the bar, absentmindedly nursing his glass of bourbon as he tried to decide if calling you was the bad idea he thought it was. It was late, and he knew waking you up was never a good idea. You’d be grumpy and more likely to tell him off, than to actually listen to anything he had to say. And you’d only remind him that you two were broken up and he needed to stop calling you.

He was still pondering this, his finger hovering over the call button, when his phone lit up, your name on the display. It was like he’d summoned you.

“Hey baby” he says into the phone, the nickname slips out automatically.

“Rafe” you say, your voice scratchy, and immediately he knows something is off. You don’t sound like you. “I’m dying”

“What?” He puts his drink down, mind racing, panic setting in.

“ have a cold. It feels like I’m dying” he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“You’re not dying, baby” his voice sounds amused yet concerned all at once. God, he hated it when you were sick. You always became ten times more dramatic. Of course you’d call him at 1am, interrupting his pity party, to tell him you were dying.

“If you were dying, I’d know” he pauses for a moment, realizing how true that statement actually is. He would know. He’d be able to feel it through the weird bond you two seemed to share even when you were fighting.

“I am, this will probably be our last conversation” you groan.

“God, you’re such a drama queen” he sighs into the phone. He knows you can’t help it. He knows when you’re sick you get extra whiny. But you’re so damn cute when you’re a baby. It’s probably why he’s already moving off the bar stool, keys in hand.

“What do you need, baby? Medicine, food? I’ll bring it over. Can’t have my girl dying of the common cold”