Chloe sat curled on the couch, wrapped in one of Damien's oversized hoodies—the dark navy one that still smelled faintly like him. Her phone was clenched in her hand, the screen dim and lifeless. She hadn't looked away from it in over an hour.
She had called. Again. And again. And again.
There were five missed calls. All from her.
The last one was just twenty minutes ago.
She hadn't left another voicemail. What was the point? The first two had said enough. The second even ended with a weak laugh, one meant to cover the crack in her voice. She hated that she'd sounded needy. She hated even more that she was needy right now.
Sighing, she unlocked the screen and stared at the call log. His name sat at the top like a ghost: Damien Cross.
No returned call.
No message.
Not even a read receipt on the text she sent earlier. She opened it again:
"Are we still on for tonight? Let me know when you're close."
It was delivered. That was it.
