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Two months later, late at night.

A call came in from an unknown number. I picked up.

Ashton. Half-smiling through the slur of someone very drunk. He got straight to it—had we had a child? Together?

Faint rushing sound on the other end of the line. Wind. He was driving.

He'd seen the hospital records I hadn't bothered to take with me.

I saw no reason to hide it. I admitted it, calmly, and congratulated him—genuinely.

"Losing it was a blessing, Ashton. You were always the one who hated being tied down, weren't you?"

Long silence.

The line went dead.