Exhaustion hits with unexpected force—adrenaline crash, combining with emotional intensity, combining with whatever biological changes are occurring from the bonding. My eyelids feel weighted, muscles going slack, body demanding rest after everything we just put it through.
Should clean up.
Check on Wendy properly.
Do something productive rather than passing out in bed covered in their blissful chaos.
But my body refuses cooperation, insisting that sleep takes priority over hygiene or practical concerns. My eyes drift closed despite half-hearted attempts to stay conscious, exhaustion pulling me under with irresistible force.
Just a few minutes.
Short rest, then I'll?—
My phone vibrates on the nightstand—harsh buzzing that cuts through my drowsy haze with jarring intrusion. I contemplate ignoring it, letting whoever's calling go to voicemail while I embrace unconsciousness that's rapidly becoming unavoidable.
But what if it's an emergency?
What if the station needs me?
What if something happened that requires immediate response?
I force my arm to move, reaching blindly toward the nightstand, fingers fumbling until they close around the phone's familiar shape. The screen is too bright, making me squint against sudden glare, caller ID is blurry until my vision adjusts.
Aidric Hawthorne
What the fuck?
I stare at the name, confusion momentarily overriding exhaustion. Why would Aidric be calling me? We haven't spoken directly through phone in years—not since the explosive breakup that resulted in both of us fleeing to start over without one another and the pain we ignited.
Thought he deleted my number.
Claimed he had announced it dramatically during our final argument, like erasing my contact information somehow erased our history.
Apparently, that was bullshit.
My thumb swipes to answer before conscious thought catches up, reflex overriding logic.
"'Lo," I manage, the greeting emerging as a weak grunt rather than an actual word. My voice is wrecked—hoarse from exertion and dehydration, and the general abuse my vocal cords have endured.
"What did you just do?" Aidric's voice explodes through the speaker, bypassing pleasantries entirely, fury and something else—panic?—evident in his tone.
What?
I try to organize thoughts enough to respond, to understand why he'd be calling, demanding explanations for actions he couldn't possibly know about. My brain feels sluggish, synapses firing slowly, exhaustion making coherent thought nearly impossible.
Why would he care what I did?
Why would he know anything occurred?
We're not in contact, not connected, nothing that would give him insight into my personal life.
The silence stretches while I fight to stay conscious, to formulate a response that makes sense. But my eyelids are so heavy, my body so determined to shut down, that maintaining awareness feels like swimming through molasses.
Aidric curses—a creative string of profanity that would be impressive if I had energy to appreciate it.
"Did you just bond with Wendolyn?" The question is sharp, demanding, carrying urgency that penetrates my exhausted haze.
Bond?
