Cheryl’s POV
I stared at the phone on my dresser for longer than I should have, the contact name glowing like it knew too much — like it was mocking me.
Damon.
I didn't even know what I wanted to say. What did you say to a man you shot? To a man you might've killed — who might still be bleeding out in some forgotten room?
Still, my fingers moved on their own, like muscle memory. I tapped the call button before I could talk myself out of it. I held my breath as the dial tone started.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
He’s not going to pick up, I told myself. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe—
Click.
His voice, low and gruff, filled my ears like smoke curling under a door.
"What a pleasant surprise," he said.
I froze. My throat clenched, mouth suddenly dry.
"...You're okay," I managed.
