I pull out my phone, my fingers already flying over the keyboard to message Alex.

I have good news! Call me the minute you get this text.

I hit send, my stomach flipping with anticipation. Violet watches me with a smug little smile. “You told me first, right? I’m your emotional-support best friend. There’s a hierarchy here and I’m on top.”

I laugh. “Straight up. You’re the first to know.”

She leans back in her chair, satisfied. “Good. Because if you’d told your boyfriend first, I would require flowers, chocolates, and an apology written in calligraphy.”

I roll my eyes. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

She shrugs. “What can I say? I have standards.”

I glance down at my phone. The message delivered, but no response yet.

Violet’s grin falters. “Chill Mags.”

“I’m sure he’s busy with work.” I set the phone on my lap, trying to ignore the knot of impatience tightening in my stomach.

He’ll text me back soon. And when he does, he’s going to be ecstatic to hear the news.

We’re going to be together again. And this time, it’s going to be perfect.

The sun has long since set by the time I step into my apartment, kicking off my heels and tossing my bag onto the couch. The golden glow of the city paints the room, but I’m too distracted to care.

I’ve been checking my phone every few minutes for the past hour, waiting for Alex’s response. This is unusual for him. He’s always quick to respond—especially when I tell him to call me. But tonight? Nothing. Not a single text.

It’s… odd. And disappointing.

I stare at the message still sitting there with that quiet, mocking delivered status, more annoying than reassuring. A flicker of unease nudges at my chest, but I push it aside. I’m sure he’s tied up with work, or family, or perhaps something came up with the new hotel they’re building. There are a dozen reasonable explanations.

Sighing, I set my phone on the counter and head for the kitchen cabinet. If I’m going to sit here spiraling like a lovesick fool, I might as well do it with a glass of wine in hand. I pour a generous amount of pinot noir, the glug-glug of it filling the quiet with a strange comfort. I take a slow sip, savoring the way it warms my throat, then lean back against the counter, trying to stay calm.

It’s fine. He’ll text any minute now.

And a minute later, he does.

Shit, what took so long?

This relationship isn’t working for me.

Tell me about it, big guy. It’s not working for me either.

I need to be with him. Not an ocean apart. Not sharing goodnight texts instead of good-night kisses. I need to be near him. With him inside me. Every night.