He stares at her name for a long time.
Not because he doesn't want to call.
Because this is the moment without excuses.
No contract.
No city.
No clause to hide behind.
Just him.
And whatever six months did to them.
He presses call.
It rings once.
Twice.
Then—
"Hi."
Her voice is steady.
Not breathless.
Not guarded.
Just steady.
"Hey."
There's a pause.
He hears something faint in the background.
The studio, maybe.
A door closing.
Life continuing.
"I heard," she says quietly. "About the contract."
He swallows.
"Yeah."
Another pause.
"So?"
"It's over."
He waits for something big.
A gasp.
A sharp intake of breath.
Emotion spilling out.
She just exhales softly.
"Okay."
He laughs once under his breath.
"You're not going to say anything else?"
"What do you want me to say?"
He doesn't know.
That's the problem.
"I don't know," he admits.
Silence settles between them.
Not tense.
Just real.
"I told you I wasn't going anywhere," she says finally.
It's not accusatory.
It's not wounded.
It's factual.
He closes his eyes.
"I know."
Another beat.
"But I thought you would."
The words leave him before he can reshape them.
Honest.
Unpolished.
He hears his own vulnerability in them.
The quiet fear underneath.
"I thought you'd realize it was easier without me," he adds, softer now. "That I'd drift and you'd… adjust."
On the other end, she doesn't rush to correct him.
Doesn't fill the space immediately.
She lets it sit.
"I don't leave when it's hard," she says.
Simple.
Clear.
Not dramatic.
That line lands deeper than anything else she could have said.
He presses his fingers lightly against his forehead.
"You could've," he says.
"Maybe," she replies. "But I didn't."
There's no performance in her voice.
No grand declaration.
Just certainty.
He thinks about the café guy.
About Amelia's joke.
About the six months of distance.
"You didn't move on?" he asks, quieter now.
A small huff of breath on her end.
"Zane."
He hears it in her tone.
Almost disbelief.
"You really thought I would?"
"I didn't know," he says honestly. "I didn't know if I was still…"
He doesn't finish the sentence.
Still yours.
Still needed.
Still home.
She fills the silence for him.
"You were."
The steadiness in that word hits harder than any crowd ever did.
"I'm not taking another contract like that," he says, the words rushing slightly now. "Not if it costs me myself. Not if it costs—"
"Stop."
Her voice is gentle, but firm.
"I don't need promises," she says. "I need you to choose things that don't erase you."
He goes still.
That's it.
That's the difference.
She isn't asking him to shrink his world.
She's asking him to stay himself inside it.
"Are you coming to the studio?" she asks.
There's no desperation in it.
Just invitation.
"Yeah," he says.
A beat.
"Unless you don't want me to."
She lets the silence stretch just long enough for him to feel it.
Then—
"I wouldn't have answered if I didn't."
That almost breaks him.
Not loudly.
Not visibly.
But somewhere deep in his chest.
"Sunny," he says softly.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not leaving."
Another small pause.
"I don't leave when it's hard," she repeats.
He smiles.
This time it reaches his eyes.
When the call ends, the room doesn't feel hollow.
It doesn't feel triumphant either.
It feels grounded.
He thought freedom would feel explosive.
It doesn't.
It feels like accountability.
Like stepping forward without armor.
She stayed.
Not because she couldn't do better.
Because she chose to.
Now—
He has to do the same.