On screen, some romcom couple was having a dramatic misunderstanding—the kind that would be resolved in twenty minutes with a grand gesture. Y/n rolled her eyes, taking another sip. The alcohol burned going down, but it was better than the silence.

Then her phone buzzed.

She almost ignored it. It was late, and she wasn't in the mood for Blair's drunk texts or her mom's "just checking in" messages. But the screen lit up with a name that made her stomach flip.

Chase.

Her heart did that stupid thing it always did—skipped a beat, then raced to catch up. She unlocked the phone with trembling fingers, reading the message twice, three times.

Y/n bit her lip, heat creeping up her neck. She knew what he meant. She knew what this was. A booty call. A late-night hookup with the guy who couldn't even stay the night.

But maybe—just maybe—this time could be different.

She stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The romcom couple was kissing now, the music swelling. Miso meowed, as if sensing her hesitation.