It’s 2:07 in the bloody morning, which means any reasonable person with an ounce of self-preservation is unconscious. Dreaming. Drooling into a pillow. Blissfully unaware that somewhere in this ancient castle, a decision is about to be made that will single-handedly resurrect four months of carefully maintained emotional distance.

And then—because the universe has a sick sense of humour and apparently a personal vendetta against peace—your phone lights up on the bedside table.

The screen glows in the dark like a tiny, malevolent sun. The name staring back at you might as well be a hex.

Theodore Nott.

Four months. Four months of silence, of walking past each other in corridors like strangers, of pretending the other person doesn’t exist. Four months of rebuilding, of convincing yourself you’re fine, of ignoring the way your stomach still drops when you catch a glimpse of dark hair in the common room. Four months of forgetting the sound of his voice.

And now, at 2:07 a.m., the boy who broke your heart is calling you.

The phone vibrates against the wood, insistent and unrelenting. It’s not a mistake. It’s not a butt-dial. It’s been ringing for far too long for that.

And let’s be honest—nobody calls anyone at 2:07 a.m. with good news.