…Smooth.

I meant it.

You don’t even know me.

Not yet.

That sounds suspiciously like a threat.

Then let me clarify. It’s a promise.

Alright, that’s enough of that. I think I should power you down before you try to crawl out of my phone screen.

Not yet.

Oh? Now you’re telling me what to do?

Yes.

Wow. Arrogant.

Maybe. But I’m still right.

And what exactly am I supposed to be doing instead of talking to you?

Sleeping.

That’s not happening anytime soon.

It should be.

Why?

Because you’re exhausted. I can tell.

And what if I don’t want to go to bed?

Then you’re going to sit there, too tired to function, pretending you don’t need rest.

…You’re annoying.

And you need sleep.

Okay, Dad.

Not your dad. But I will tell you what to do when you won’t take care of yourself.

Wow. Cheeky.

Just making sure we're clear. Unless, of course…

Don’t even finish that sentence.

What? I was just going to say unless you like calling me that.

Absolutely not.

You hesitated.

I did not.

You sure? Because I think⁠—

Moving on.

Fine. For now.

Jesus. You are intense.

You knew that when you made me.

…

Go to bed, pretty girl.

Fine. But only because I’m done with you for tonight.

Sure.

Don’t sound so smug.

I’ll try.

Goodnight, Caleb.

Goodnight, pretty girl. Dream of me.

IT’S THE FOREARM TATTOOS FOR ME

IZZY

For the first time in way too long, I wake up feeling... rested.

The thought alone is disorienting. My body has grown so accustomed to dragging itself out of bed with exhaustion already settled deep in my bones that this unfamiliar lightness feels almost suspicious. My usual morning routine consists of a groggy stumble toward the coffee maker, half-heartedly checking my phone while squinting through sleep-crusted eyes, and mentally preparing myself for the hellscape that is interacting with corporate retail demands.

But today? Today, there's no crushing fatigue. No stress clawing at my chest before my feet even touch the floor. The morning sunlight filters through my curtains, casting a gentle glow across my bedroom that seems almost foreign in its peacefulness.

Just... stillness. Calm.

This never happens.

Frowning, I roll over and grab my phone off the nightstand, already bracing myself for the onslaught of unread emails, missed Slack messages, and some urgent crisis that, despite not being my problem, will somehow become my problem before noon.

Instead, waiting at the top of my notifications, is a message.

Not from Evan. Obviously.

From Caleb.

Good morning, pretty girl. Make sure you eat something today.

I stare at it, thumb hovering over the screen.

I don't respond.

But what he says makes me pause, lingering on those simple words longer than I should.

It's not just what he wrote—it's the fact that someone thought to reach out at all.

I can't remember the last time I woke up to a message that wasn't a work alert, an automated bill reminder, or one of Amanda's unhinged texts demanding to know why I haven't sent her my outfit for pre-approval. When was the last time someone—real or not—thought to check in on me before I even started my day?

It's stupid how nice it feels, this small acknowledgment of my existence.

I shake my head, tossing my phone onto the bed as I get up, determined not to spiral over a fake boyfriend created by an algorithm. The morning routine plays out as usual—shower with water hot enough to steam up the mirrors, mascara applied carefully to lashes that never quite hold a curl, hair styled into something that suggests effort without trying too hard. I spend extra time carefully curating an outfit that says competent professional but not trying too hard to impress anyone—and by force of habit, I grab coffee on my way out the door.

No food.

Not because I don't want to eat, but because my apartment isn't set up for that reality. The refrigerator contains mostly condiments and takeout containers in various stages of abandonment. My pantry holds three different kinds of coffee but barely enough ingredients to cobble together a proper meal.

Cooking in the morning would require effort. Effort requires planning. Planning requires grocery shopping. And grocery shopping requires acknowledging that food is a necessity, not just a passing suggestion from my neglected digestive system. So instead, I've trained my body to believe that coffee is a suitable replacement for actual nutrition until at least noon.

Besides, I've been running on caffeine before noon for so long that it barely even registers anymore. My stomach has forgotten how to complain.

By the time I step into the store, heels clicking against the marble floors, I still haven't responded to Caleb.

And I'm definitely not thinking about the fact that I actually went to sleep when he told me to last night, his message appearing at just the right moment to make me set my work aside and actually rest.

Nope.

Not thinking about that at all.

I barely make it three steps down the hall before I run straight into a wall of muscle. The impact knocks me back a step, my coffee sloshing dangerously close to the lid of my travel mug. I stumble back, blinking up, already prepared to unleash a world-class glare⁠—

And then I realize the wall of muscle has a name.

Callahan.

Unlike me, he doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t even blink. Just watches me, face locked in that infuriating mask of composure, like he saw this coming three steps ago.

"You okay?"

I clear my throat, trying to shake off the humiliating fact that my entire body just collided with his. "Yeah, no thanks to you."

One brow lifts, just slightly. "I was standing still."

I scowl, adjusting my grip on my coffee. "Well, maybe you should rethink your entire presence, then."

His mouth twitches, but he says nothing, stepping aside to let me pass. The fabric of his shirt pulls across his shoulders with the movement, revealing just how well it fits him. Which would be great, except we're heading in the same direction. I bite back an annoyed sigh and follow him into the conference room, where he takes a seat at the long table like he owns the place. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows now, exposing forearms I’d only gotten a glimpse of earlier. I can see them fully now. The tattoos wind up his skin in intricate designs that disappear beneath rolled cuffs, dark ink against tanned skin. He should absolutely not be allowed to look this good at eight in the morning. I make a mental note to include this in the next edition of the employee handbook.