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I reach for my phone on instinct, thumb hovering over Wes’s name. I shouldn’t. He’s probably asleep. It’s selfish.

But my finger moves anyway, pressing the call button before I can think better of it.

The line rings once. Then twice.

I’m already pulling the phone away to hang up when I hear his voice.

“Lena?” His voice is thick with sleep but alert, like he was ready the second he saw my name.

I blink fast, my mouth suddenly dry. “Hey. Sorry. I—um. Grandpa’s on antibiotics. The nurse said he’s okay, just resting, but…” I trail off. There’s nothing else to say.

For once in my life, I have nothing to say.

A pause stretches between us.

“I’m sorry. I just—” I clear my throat. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

There’s a silence on the other end. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just present.

Needing someone is new to me. Having him be the first person I think to call when everything feels like it might be falling apart is both terrifying and comforting, like handing someone the blueprint to all your broken parts and praying they know how to hold them.

I try to laugh off any awkwardness I’ve created. “God, that’s cheesy. Kill me, Wes.”

No reply.

Then, softly, “Hey, baby?”

The word clutches something low in my gut.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to need you to take a deep breath forme.”

I do. It stutters a little, but I manage it.

After a beat, I exhale. “Sorry for calling. I know it’s late and—”

“You don’t have to explain. You don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to. Stay on the line,” he says. “I’m here.”

Just that.

I’m here.

Somehow, those two words undo me. The tears come silently this time, hot tracks down my cheeks as I lie back down with the phone pressed to my ear.

He stays quiet, just breathing with me. No rushing. No fixing. Just being there.

“Goodnight, Turner,” I whisper.

“Goodnight, Carter.”

I fall asleep like that with the phone to my cheek and my heart wide open.

Until it rings again at 3:42 a.m.

My body knows before my brain does.

I don’t even look at the caller ID.