Distance Made Him Mine

3am Texts

My heart was beating so violently against my ribs I thought it was going to crack them.

I told you I was coming.

The text sat on my screen like a drop of ink in water, bleeding into every corner of my brain. I stared at the dark slit of my front door, paralyzed, my hand trembling so badly the screen's light flickered against my face. The bronze handle was still turned downward, held in place by whoever was on the other side.

Move, my brain screamed at me. Move!

I scrambled off the couch, my knees almost buckling beneath me as I reached for the heavy glass candle holder on my coffee table. White-knuckling the weapon, I backed up toward the kitchen island, keeping my eyes glued to the crack in the door.

"Who's there?" My voice cracked, sounding small, stripped of all the bravado I'd used on him just minutes ago. "I'm calling the police!"

A soft, confused chuckle echoed from the hallway.

"Miss Miller?" a muffled, distinctly elderly voice called through the gap. "It’s Mrs. Gable from next door. I... oh dear, I am so sorry. My hands are full of groceries and I put my key into your lock by mistake. The lock tags look identical in the dim light."

The handle snapped back up. The door opened a few inches wider, revealing my seventy-two-year-old neighbor holding two heavy paper bags, looking terribly embarrassed.

"I heard you shout—are you alright, dear? You look pale as a sheet."

A long, shuddering breath tore out of my throat. The candle holder slipped slightly in my sweaty grip before I managed to set it down on the counter.

"I'm... I'm fine, Mrs. Gable," I managed to say, clutching my chest as adrenaline flooded out of my bloodstream, leaving me weak and shaking. "Just... jumped a little. Don't worry about it."

"So sorry to startle you! Goodnight, dear."

She pulled the door shut, and the heavy deadbolt clicked securely back into place.

I sank onto the kitchen floor, resting my forehead against my knees, waiting for my rapid breathing to slow down. My phone was still humming against the hardwood next to me.

I picked it up with a shaking hand, unlocking the screen to look at the text again.

** Unknown:** I told you I was coming.

Below it, a second text had just arrived.

** Unknown:** To your city, sweetheart. Next month. Did I scare you?

It was him. Using a temporary work line or a different burner number.

A mixture of hysterical laughter and pure, unfiltered rage bubbled up in my chest. I scrambled back onto the couch, grabbing the phone with both hands, my fingers flying across the screen so hard I almost cracked the glass.

** Me:** YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY PSYCHOTIC. ** Me:** Do not EVER text me something like that when someone is literally messing with my front door lock. I almost threw a glass centerpiece through my neighbor's face!

The response was instant.

** Him:** Someone was at your door?

The tone shifted entirely. The playful, arrogant edge was gone, replaced by a sudden, razor-sharp intensity.

** Me:** It was my neighbor. She used her key in my door by mistake.

Three dots flickered. Then disappeared. Then flickered again.

** Him:** Did you lock the deadbolt?

** Me:** Yes.

** Him:** Check it again.

** Me:** I just saw her leave. It's locked.

** Him:** Check it again. Please.

That single please—soft, commandingly quiet, and laced with genuine concern—sent a different kind of shiver down my spine. I stood up on unsteady legs, walked to the foyer, and checked the deadbolt. It was turned fully to the right, solid and secure.

** Me:** It's locked. I'm safe.

** Him:** Good. Don't open it again tonight.

I leaned my back against the cold wood of the door, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor again, staring at the glowing screen. The clock at the top of my phone read 03:15 AM in his time zone.

** Me:** Why are you still awake? Isn't it after 3 AM over there? You said you had an early workout.

** Him:** Couldn't sleep.

** Me:** Why?

** Him:** Because every time I close my eyes, I hear your voice telling me to hang up.

My heart took a slow, heavy tumble in my chest.

** Me:** You're ridiculous. You need to sleep. You're going to pass out over a squat rack tomorrow.

** Him:** Then send me a photo so I can go to sleep.

My breath hitched.

** Me:** A photo? Absolute dream on, desk boy.

** Him:** Not that kind of photo. Just you. Right now. Prove to me you're unhurt and safe in your bed.

The request wasn't demanding; it was dark, low, and possessive in a way that made my skin flush hot under my sweater. He wanted to know I was safe, but he also wanted me.

I walked slowly back to my bedroom, shedding the heavy sweater until I was left in a silk camisole and lounge pants. I climbed under the duvet, pulling the white sheets up to my collarbone. I held the phone up, taking a raw, unedited picture—my hair messy around my shoulders, bare skin, my eyes soft and heavy with exhaustion in the dim lamp light.

I stared at the image for a long thirty seconds before my thumb hovered over the send button.

If I send this, everything changes, a small voice warned in the back of my mind. This isn't just playful DMs anymore.

I tapped send.

The image delivered.

Silence descended on the chat. One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes.

No typing bubble. No text.

Just as I was about to type a sharp, defensive Forget I sent that, the phone vibrated with a long, heavy buzz.

An audio message.

I pressed my thumb against the play button and lifted the speaker to my ear.

His voice came through, thick with sleep, gravelly, and dangerously intimate—a rough 3 AM whisper recorded in the pitch-black quiet of his bedroom thousands of miles away.

"You are going to be the absolute death of me," he rasped, the sound of his deep breath rustling against his microphone. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to me over here? Looking like that... sitting in your bed while I'm stuck on the other side of the ocean?"

He paused, a low, breathy growl escaping his throat.

"Go to sleep, baby. Keep your door locked. I'll be in your notifications the second you wake up."

The audio clip ended with a soft click.

I pressed the phone against my chest, my face burning, my pulse thumping wildly in my veins.

Baby.

He had never called me that before.

I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of my apartment. The fear from earlier was completely gone, replaced by a deep, intoxicating ache that settled right under my ribs. He was thousands of miles away, operating in the dead of night, yet he was occupying every single inch of my room.

My phone chimed one last time.

** Him:** And for the record... I answer every time you text. No matter what time it is over here. Try me.

I smiled into the dark, pulling the blanket higher around my chin, and typed back six small words before closing my eyes.

** Me:** I'm going to hold you to that.