It was 1:43 a.m. when her name lit up his screen.

"Come get me." That's all she said. No hello, no explanation. Just a whisper in his ear, a loaded invitation crackling through his phone like static in a storm.

She was out with her girls, dressed like trouble, laughing like she didn't feel the ache he left behind. He knew the bar. She always called when the liquor made her honest, when her walls softened, when she missed him.

And he always came.

He opened for her the door of his apartment. She let him in with those eyes—wild, glassy, unsure. A mess in mascara and perfume. She dropped her purse on the floor, kicked off her heels, and just stood there. Waiting.

"You only call me when you're drunk," he muttered, voice low, the way it always got when she was this close.

Touché.

But tonight felt different. Her kiss wasn't soft. It was desperate. Her fingers weren't gentle. They were searching—digging into his skin like she was trying to find the part of him that used to love her out loud.

He let her. He always did.

But when their breaths slowed and silence crept back in, she turned away. Just like before. Pulling on his shirt, standing near the window with a cigarette she never lit.

"You'll be gone before the sun," he said.

He stood, walked over, tilted her chin up. His voice was gravel and hunger. "Don't run."

She closed her eyes.

Too late.

She always did.