You were never supposed to call him again. That was the unspoken rule, the invisible line drawn the night everything between you and Chris Ruddock came crashing down. The fight had been ugly—uglier than either of you ever thought you were capable of. Up until then, you'd prided yourselves on being the couple who didn't fight like that, who communicated, who held each other accountable without tearing each other down. But that night had been different.

It started with something small. A sideways comment about Daniel—just a friend, but one whose presence seemed to needle at Chris more than either of you wanted to admit. He'd caught the way Daniel looked at you, the way his jokes made you laugh, the way you leaned in when he spoke. Chris hated it. He'd tried to swallow it for months, but the resentment leaked out in sharp edges.

And then came the bigger wound—the one that never healed no matter how often you tried to bandage it over. Kids. He wanted them. He wanted them with you. He wanted the picture-perfect future of sticky fingers on the kitchen counter, toys littering the living room floor, a little one with your eyes and his grin calling him "Dad." You weren't against it—not forever, at least—but you weren't ready.

"Why is it always someday with you?" he'd snapped, voice sharp in a way that made your chest ache. "Do you even see me in your future? Or am I just filling space until you figure yourself out?"

The words hit harder than he meant them to. You knew that from the instant he said them, from the regret flashing in his eyes even before you spoke back. But you weren't about to swallow the hurt.

Days bled into weeks after that. The silence between you wasn't just physical—it was digital, emotional, spiritual. No texts, no calls, no accidental run-ins. He wasn't a ghost exactly; you still felt him everywhere, in the songs you skipped on shuffle, in the mug shoved to the back of your cupboard because it was his favorite, in the way your body still curled to one side of the bed like you were leaving room for him.

Until tonight.

The club was too loud, too bright, too suffocating. Your friends had dragged you out, insisting you needed to stop sulking, to drink, to flirt, to forget. And you tried—you really did. You even let some stranger lean in and kiss you, his lips hot and clumsy against yours.

But the second it happened, you hated it. He wasn't Chris. His kiss didn't know the rhythm of yours, didn't pause in the middle to smile, didn't feel like home. You pulled away so fast you nearly stumbled, muttering something before you pushed through the crowd to the exit.

The alley was cooler, darker, damp with the smell of old rain and trash. You sank down against the wall, head spinning, tears threatening without warning. And in the fog of your drunken haze, your phone was suddenly in your hand, screen blinding you as you scrolled. You shouldn't. You couldn't. You promised yourself.

But you did.

You pressed Chris's name.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. And then a groggy voice, thick with sleep:

"...Hello?"

The sound of him nearly broke you. It was the same voice that used to murmur good morning against your shoulder, the same voice that used to call you "baby" when you were curled up on the couch together. Now it was hesitant, unsure, but still him.

"Chris," you slurred, nearly surprised. "You ...you picked up."

He furrowed his eyebrows, sitting up. "Of course I did," he replied, listening to the noise in the background. "Are you drunk?"