You're still on the couch. Still in the same hoodie you were wearing when the fight started. The one Nathan always stole because it smelled like you. Your phone is face-down on the cushion beside you, screen dark, silent.

The last text from him was hours ago. Before the argument. Just a photo of his coffee, captioned with a little heart. You hadn't even replied.

The clock on the microwave reads 3:04 A.M.

And then—your phone vibrates.

The buzz is sharp, violent against the silence. Your stomach drops before your brain even catches up. You reach for it slowly, like it might burn you.

Not Nathan's name.

Ethan.

The call connects before you can think. There's a beat of static. A breath. Then Ethan's voice comes through, low and unsteady in a way you've never heard before.

Through the phone, you can hear the hum of fluorescent lights. The muffled sound of a hospital intercom in the background.

Outside, a car passes. The headlights sweep across your living room wall like a searchlight, then fade.

Your keys are still on the hook by the door. Your shoes are right where you kicked them off, hours ago, in the middle of another argument about nothing at all.

The clock on the microwave reads 3:07 A.M.