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“Well,” she said, “whoever he is… I’m glad you found him.”

We spoke a little longer after that, about mundane things like the weather, and how the boiler at home had finally been fixed. When the call ended, I set the phone down and stood there for a moment.

My mother still didn’t really understand me. She probably never would. But she’d asked the question that mattered.

Is he good to you?

And for the first time in a long time, the answer had been simple.

Yes.

I remembered the tea bag and removed it before adding a splash of milk. The flat was quiet again.

Too quiet.

After my shift, the walk home, and my mum’s call, the silence settled in like a weight. Normally I appreciated it.

Tonight it felt unfinished.

I picked up the mug and my phone, and headed for my bedroom. I sat on the bed, supported by pillows, aware that the smell of Quinn still lingered.

That was the decider.

I opened the thread and clicked on Call. Quinn answered on the second ring.

“Hi.”

The warmth in his voice landed immediately.

“Hello there.”

“You sound tired,” he said.

I sighed. “That’s because I am.”

“Bad day?”

“No, just a long one.”

There was a brief rustling sound on his end of the line.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Lying on my bed pretending to read.”

“Pretending?”

“I’ve read the same page four times. It’s not a gripping novel.”

I settled back against the pillows. “You should choose better literature.”

The quiet stretched between us for a moment, comfortable in that strange way conversations sometimes are when neither person feels the need to fill it.

“Did something happen today?” Quinn’s voice was soft.

“Yes.”

He waited, and I appreciated him not pushing.