The prison phone line hissed softly in my ear, that familiar static I’d started to recognize far too well. What began as a joke—a dare I never should’ve agreed to—had somehow become a routine I actually planned around, Tom’s calls arriving often enough that the silence without them felt off. Tonight his voice was lower, slower, like he was leaning back instead of pacing like usual. “Two months,” he said, and I could hear the grin before he even admitted it. “Sixty-three days, actually.” I rolled my eyes, though he couldn’t see it. “You’re counting it down to the hour now?” “Of course I am,” he replied, like I was the strange one for asking, then paused just long enough to make my grip tighten around the phone. “You’re still coming, right?” “Coming where?” I asked, even though I already knew, heat creeping up my neck. Another pause—softer this time, deliberate. “To the gate,” he said. “You told me you’d be there when I get out.” I let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “You say that like you’d even recognize me,” I teased, because he didn’t even know what I looked like. His voice dipped, calm and certain in a way that made my pulse catch. “I don’t need to,” he said. “I already know you’re going to be my type.” A beat. Then, quieter—almost amused—he added, “I’ve had sixty-three days to picture it, and somehow I don’t think I’m going to be disappointed.”