Kids, if there's one lesson my mom drilled into my head growing up, it was this:
"Nothing good happens after 2 a.m."
At the time, I thought she meant:
• Don't sneak out
• Don't drive sleepy
• Don't microwave fish sticks in the middle of the night
What I didn't realize?
She was giving me a warning about one very specific night.
The night I decided to answer a phone call at 1:45 a.m.
The night everything got… complicated.
Static on the Line
By the time this happened, our lives looked like this:
• Victoria: in Germany, waking up at ungodly bakery hours, texting me pictures of bread that made me question my love for New York bagels.
• Me: doing late-night calls, pretending I was totally fine with time zones and spotty Wi-Fi.
• Marshall: living among the gorillas, trying not to become their king.
• Lily: grading papers and aggressively not panicking about corporate law.
• Robin: working late at Metro News 1, slowly realizing "on-air" doesn't mean "in control."
• Nox: bouncing between Nyx Co huddles and our couch, acting like an amused Greek chorus with better hair.
On paper, everyone was… functional.
In reality?
We were all one bad decision away from a mess.
Mine just happened to show up at 1:45 a.m. on a Thursday.
It started earlier that night at MacLaren's.
The booth felt off-balance.
Marshall was still at the office.
Lily was home, lesson-planning.
Barney was out "running reconnaissance" (code for trolling midtown bars).
So it was just me, Robin, Nox, and Bryce.
Robin nursed a scotch, still in her blazer from the evening broadcast.
Nox was half-listening, half tinkering with something on his phone.
"…and then Sandy throws to me with, 'And now here's Robin with a story about why being single might be scientifically better than being married.'" Robin said bitterly. "Like I'm the mascot for spinsterhood."
Bryce winced.
"Ouch," she said. "Did you punch him?"
"Only with my eyes," Robin said. "HR says that's the safest option."
I swirled my beer, trying not to take that personally.
"You know he only does that because he's intimidated," I said. "You're good on air, Robin. You're the only one there who doesn't look like a malfunctioning teleprompter."
She smirked.
"Keep complimenting me, Mosby," she said. "You're helping undo the damage of my evening."
Nox looked up.
"You could always quit," he said. "I'll give you a morning show on Nyx Stream. News, dogs, and you calling out billionaires. It'll be a hit."
Robin snorted.
"Tempting," she said. "But I'm not ready to sell my soul to this billionaire yet."
Nox put a hand over his heart.
"Rude," he said. "Fair, but rude."
My phone buzzed on the table.
I didn't have to look to know who it was.
Victoria.
My chest did that familiar, stupid flip.
"Germany?" Robin asked, eyes softening just a little.
"Yeah," I said, checking the screen. "She's on a break."
VICTORIA:
Survived pretzel training. Knees covered in flour. Send news from the land of non-bread things.
I smiled.
"She's sending you carbs again?" Bryce asked.
"Emotionally, yes," I said.
I typed back.
ME:
Brooklyn report:
– Marshall in gorilla jungle
– Lily grading essays
– Robin battling weatherman patriarchy
– Nox being rich and bored
– I miss you
I hesitated a second on that last line.
Sent it anyway.
Robin watched my face.
"You two doing okay?" she asked. "Like… for real? Long-distance is hard."
"It's…" I searched for a word, "complicated. Some days are great. Some days it feels like I'm dating a pixelated ghost who smells like cinnamon."
"You always did have a type," Nox said.
Bryce kicked him gently.
"Shut up," she said. "Let him emo in peace."
Robin took a sip of scotch.
"You know," she said, carefully casual, "if you ever want to talk about it… I'm around. I know what it's like to pick career over… other stuff."
"Thanks," I said.
And I meant it.
That was the thing about me and Robin at that point.
We had this… line.
We were closer. Softer. Comfortable.
But under all of that?
There was a map of the night I'd said, "Let's be friends," and tried to believe it 100%.
Spoiler: it was more like 80%.
Nox watched us over his glass.
He didn't say anything.
Which, in Nox-speak, meant: this is fine for now, but I'm going to make fun of you later.
By midnight, the bar had thinned.
Robin had gone home to edit a segment.
Bryce had stolen Nox for "one responsible adult hour of sleep."
I walked back to the apartment alone.
The place was quiet.
Lily's door was shut, soft light under it.
Marshall's side of the bed would be empty for at least another hour.
Nox's door was closed, muffled laughter behind it.
I flopped onto the couch.
My phone buzzed.
Victoria again.
VICTORIA:
Just got home.
Attempted to teach German roommates about grilled cheese.
They called it "cheese toast" and I feel personally attacked.
I smiled.
ME:
That's a hate crime.
How's everything else?
There was a longer pause this time.
Then:
VICTORIA:
Can we do a call tomorrow?
A real one? Like, actual conversation, not just "I miss you, look at this bread"?
The drumroll started, faintly.
ME:
Yeah, of course.
Everything okay?
Another pause.
Then:
VICTORIA:
I think so.
Just… a lot to talk about.
Too tired right now. 6 a.m. comes fast.
My stomach twisted.
"A lot to talk about" is never anyone's favorite phrase.
Especially when your girlfriend is a continent away.
ME:
Okay. Call me when you're free.
Miss you.
Three dots.
VICTORIA:
Miss you too.
Night, Ted. 💛
I stared at the screen long after it went dark.
That little flicker I'd seen in her eyes at the bakery?
Yeah.
It was back.
This time in text form.
"Deep sigh number four," a voice said from the hallway.
I nearly jumped off the couch.
Nox padded in, barefoot, holding a glass of water.
"You counting?" I asked.
"Always," he said. "Three at the bar, one just now. That's your 'something's wrong but I'm not ready to say it aloud' tic."
I rubbed my face.
"We're fine," I said. "Victoria's fine. I'm fine."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Okay," he said. "I will believe you until I have more data. What's tomorrow's 'lot to talk about'?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "And that's what's freaking me out."
He sat on the arm of the couch.
"Could be anything," he said. "Could be her schedule changing. Could be a weird roommate. Could be homesickness. Could be her realizing German bread is better than your cereal and wanting to renegotiate."
"I'm serious," I said.
"So am I," he said. "You're scared she's going to say it's too hard. That she wants to… end the six-month experiment early."
I stared at the coffee table.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "Kind of."
He nodded.
"That's a valid fear," he said. "But you don't get to pre-break up with her in your head to soften the blow. Talk. Listen. Respond to the actual words, not the ones you wrote for her in your anxiety brain."
I sighed again.
"That's… weirdly specific," I said.
"I've met you," he answered.
We sat quietly for a second.
"You ever feel like…" I tried, "you're in two lives at once? Like, there's the one where she's here, and the one where she's not, and you're living both in your head at the same time?"
Nox tilted his head.
"All the time," he said. "I just call those 'parallel timelines' and build contingency plans instead of emotional monologues."
"I don't know how to be casual about this," I admitted. "I'm not wired that way."
"I know," he said. "Just… don't go reaching for the nuclear option because you're afraid of uncertainty. You picked the hard path, remember? This is what it feels like."
He stood.
"Also," he added, "go to bed. Nothing good happens after 2 a.m."
I frowned.
"Why does everyone keep saying that?" I asked.
He smirked.
"Because Mom did," he said. "And annoyingly? She's often right."
I glanced at the clock.
1:10 a.m.
"Plenty of time before 2," I said.
He shook his head, amused, and retreated to his room.
Kids, your grandma really did have a rule:
"Nothing good happens after 2 a.m. If you're out past then, go home. If you're still talking, go to bed. If you're about to make a big decision… don't."
At the time, I thought it was a generic parent thing.
I didn't realize it was also a prophecy.
Because that night, as the clock ticked closer to 2, two very important people were awake:
Me…
…and Robin.
At her apartment, Robin was still in her work clothes, sprawled on the couch, watching a rerun of some old nature documentary with the sound low.
Her phone buzzed.
Derek.
Her ex from Canada, recently resurfaced as a "safe" option.
DEREK:
Still up?
Want me to come over?
She stared at the screen.
She thought about:
• Her empty bed
• Sandy's smirking face on the news
• Victoria in Germany
• Me, probably asleep, probably not, probably still too earnest for my own good
She typed.
ROBIN:
Long day. Think I'm just going to crash. Rain check?
Three dots.
DEREK:
Sure. Night.
She put the phone facedown.
Stared at the ceiling.
"Fun fact," she muttered to no one. "It's possible to feel lonely and not want your ex over. Who knew?"
She reached for the remote.
Paused.
Thought about calling me.
Thought better of it.
Did that thing where you flip your phone over just to make sure it hasn't magically grown a notification.
Nothing.
She sighed.
Poured herself another inch of scotch.
When you live in a city like New York, kids, the silence between midnight and 2 a.m. is its own creature.
It whispers.
It pokes.
It says:
"Do something. Say something. Call someone."
Sometimes, you resist.
Sometimes, you don't.
At 1:42 a.m., Robin didn't.
She scrolled to my name.
Hesitated.
Hit "call."
My phone buzzed.
I glanced at the clock.
1:45 a.m.
Robin.
The part of my brain labeled "Mom's Rules" cleared its throat.
The part labeled "Lonely and Stupid" punched it in the face.
I answered.
"Hey," I said. "What's up?"
Her voice came through a little fuzzy, but steady.
"Hey," she said. "Sorry. Did I wake you?"
"No," I said. "I was just… staring at the ceiling. You?"
"Same," she said. "Couldn't sleep. Long day. Sandy was at peak… Sandy."
"Do I need to fly to the studio and liberate you?" I asked. "Stage a coup?"
She huffed a small laugh.
"Tempting," she said. "But no. I just… wanted to hear a friendly voice."
Something in my chest loosened.
"I can do friendly," I said. "I'm great at friendly. I have a PhD in friendly."
"You have a master's in architecture and a minor in bad metaphors," she said.
"Harsh," I said. "But fair."
There was a pause.
"One of my sources flaked," she said. "My live hit got bumped for a segment about a dog fashion show. I had to say the words 'pup couture' on air."
"Oh, that's rough," I said. "I'm so sorry for your loss of dignity."
"I'm in a very complicated fight with my career," she admitted. "I just… needed to forget about it for five minutes."
We talked.
About nothing.
About everything.
About Marshall's new nickname "Big Fudge" and how much Nox hated it, which made us laugh.
About Bryce teaching Nox to cook something that wasn't instant ramen.
About Lily's latest story from kindergarten—one kid ate a crayon, another one asked her if Santa was in jail.
Time blurred.
At some point, I asked:
"How's Derek?"
It slipped out.
I regretted it immediately.
There was a pause.
"He's… Derek," she said. "Familiar. Safe. Trying to act like the last few years didn't happen."
"You thinking about getting back together?" I asked as casually as I could.
"Maybe," she said. "I don't know. Feels like putting on an old jacket. It fits. It's warm. It also smells like your parents' basement and bad choices."
I chuckled weakly.
"Very specific," I said.
"He called earlier," she admitted. "Wanted to come over."
"And?" I asked.
"And I said no," she said.
Something in me brightened.
"Why?" I asked, too quickly.
"Because," she said, "I didn't want to wake up tomorrow feeling like I'd gone backwards. Or like I'd… settled. Just because it was late and I was lonely."
We went quiet for a beat.
"Good call," I said softly.
Another silence.
This one… heavier.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
"Yeah," I said. "Anything."
"What if…" she started, then exhaled, "what if this—whatever I'm doing—isn't enough? This job. This… version of my life. What if I'm just… not where I thought I'd be?"
I swallowed.
Because on my end of the line?
That question hit too close.
"I think…" I said carefully, "everyone feels like that sometimes. That they chose the wrong thing. Or didn't choose enough. Or missed a turn."
"You ever feel that way?" she asked.
"Constantly," I admitted. "Though, in my case, it's usually about Lego sets and relationship decisions."
She laughed.
Then her voice softened.
"Do you ever…" she began, "wonder what would've happened if, that first night on the terrace… we'd done things differently?"
The drumroll in my chest went from background noise to full percussion section.
My mouth went dry.
"Robin," I said.
"I know," she said quickly. "We said we'd be friends. I respect that. I'm not trying to… blow things up. I just… sometimes I wonder about the… other version. The one where you didn't run off to chase a baker in a wedding dress."
"Hey," I said weakly. "She wasn't wearing the dress."
"You know what I mean," she said.
I stared at the ceiling.
At the light fixture.
At nothing.
Suddenly, I was there again:
On that rooftop.
With that blue French horn.
With that "maybe" hanging between us.
And now, in my living room, distance buzzing in my ear, I was between:
• The girl I'd chosen, who was in another country with flour on her hands and a six-month timer over our heads.
• And the girl who lived fifteen minutes away, voice warm in my ear at 1:50 a.m., asking me if I ever thought about "the other version."
"Yes," I said finally. "I… think about it."
The words felt like stepping onto thin ice.
On the other end of the line, I heard her exhale.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "Me too."
We sat in that silence.
Both of us fully aware of what we weren't saying.
Finally, she broke it.
"I shouldn't have called," she said. "Sorry. It's late. You should sleep."
"No," I said quickly. "I'm glad you called."
My brain was screaming at me.
Mom's voice: Nothing good happens after 2 a.m., Teddy.
Nox's voice: Don't make choices just to avoid pain.
My own voice, somewhere under all of that:
Don't lie. Not to her. Not to yourself. Not again.
And then Robin said:
"You could… come over. If you want. Just to talk. I've got scotch and cable. I'm not saying anything should happen. I just…"
She trailed off.
Didn't need to finish.
I knew.
I also knew it was 1:55 a.m.
I looked at the door.
At my shoes.
At my phone.
At the clock.
If I went?
I'd be stepping into that other version of the story.
If I didn't?
I'd always wonder.
"Robin…" I began.
"Forget it," she said quickly. "It's stupid. I'm tired. You're tired. You have a girlfriend who makes superior cupcakes. You should stay home."
I closed my eyes.
Every part of me that wanted the high-ground answer—You're right, it's late, we'll talk tomorrow, I care about you but this would be unfair to Victoria—was getting drowned out by the part that missed her.
Her laugh.
Her sarcasm.
Her presence.
Not the idea.
The actual her.
"Say something," she said, half-laughing, half-nervous. "Otherwise I'm going to hang up and blame this on Nyquil."
"Don't hang up," I said.
Another beat.
"Okay," I heard myself say. "I'll come over."
Kids, that?
That right there?
That was the wrong answer.
Not because I didn't love Robin.
Not because she didn't care.
But because of the clock.
Because of the state my heart was in.
Because of that simple rule I'd been given my whole life and, for one very important night, chose to ignore.
Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.
When we come back to this, I'll tell you exactly how I broke that rule.
How I put on a mask.
How I lied.
How I walked into her apartment carrying not just my feelings, but a ticking bomb called Victoria is still my girlfriend.
And how, for a little while?
It felt amazing.
Right up until everything exploded.
Kids, there are three times you hear your mother's voice in your head the loudest:
• When you're about to touch something hot
• When you're about to text an ex
• When you're putting on shoes at 1:58 a.m. to go to another woman's apartment while your girlfriend lives in another country
I hit the trifecta.
I grabbed my coat.
Phone in my pocket.
Heart doing gymnastics.
I'd said it. The words were out there:
"Okay. I'll come over."
And the second I hung up, Mom's voice dropped in like a warning bell:
"Teddy. Nothing good happens after 2 a.m."
I checked the clock.
1:57.
"Technically," I muttered, "we're still in the clear."
That's how dumb you get at that hour.
I opened the apartment door quietly—
And nearly ran straight into Nox.
He was leaning against the hallway wall, hoodie on, arms folded, like he'd been cast as "smirking judgment" in a play.
"Going somewhere?" he asked.
I jumped.
"Jesus—were you waiting out here?" I hissed.
"Yup," he said. "You do this thing where your guilt walks ten seconds ahead of your body. I followed."
"I'm just going to Robin's," I said. "She had a rough night. We're gonna talk. That's it."
He looked pointedly at the clock on his watch.
1:59 a.m.
"Say it again," he said. "But this time, try to make it sound like something you actually believe."
I bristled.
"I'm not—" I started. "Look, it's not like that. We're friends. I care about her. She's lonely, I'm lonely, we're just—"
He raised a hand.
"Ted," he said, calm, "you have a girlfriend. In Germany. Who trusts you. Who asked for six months of trying. You're on your way to your ex at two in the morning."
"She's not my ex," I said. "We never actually dated."
"Cool," he said. "Then you're on your way to your unresolved emotional landmine at two in the morning. Better?"
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
"This is… complicated," I said weakly.
"Yeah," he said. "That's why you don't make the call at 2 a.m. Make it at two in the afternoon when your brain isn't drunk on loneliness."
I felt my temper spike.
"You don't get it," I snapped. "You and Bryce—whatever—you're here. You get to… be in the same place. To see each other. To screw up in person. I'm just… talking."
He held my gaze.
"Okay," he said slowly. "Then answer me one thing: if Victoria magically teleported to New York right now and walked into Robin's apartment while you were 'just talking'… would you feel good about it?"
That landed like a punch.
I looked away.
That was my answer.
"Right," he said quietly. "You know this is a bad idea."
"Then why does it feel so—" I struggled for the word, "inevitable?"
"Because you never really closed that door," he said. "You just leaned on it and hoped it wouldn't open."
Silence.
"I don't want to hurt her," I said.
"Which her?" he asked.
I didn't answer.
He sighed.
"Look," he said. "I'm not your dad. I'm not going to chain you to the radiator. You're going to do what you're going to do. Just remember something."
"What?" I muttered.
"If you walk out that door," he said, "you're not allowed to pretend you're still the good guy tonight. You're a guy making a selfish choice. Own it. Don't wrap it in speeches."
That stung.
Because it was true.
"I'm just going to talk," I said again, but even I could hear how weak it sounded.
He stepped aside.
"Then go talk," he said. "But this is the last green light you're getting from my silence. Next part? That's on you."
I walked past him.
Down the stairs.
Out into the cold.
Mom's rule ringing in my ears.
Robin's apartment was exactly fifteen minutes away.
I know because I counted every step like maybe if I tallied them, it would turn into math instead of ethics.
By the time I got there, it was 2:11 a.m.
So, officially, the bad part had begun.
I knocked.
The door opened.
There she was.
Robin in an old T-shirt, flannel pajama pants, hair down, makeup smudged off.
No armor.
No stage lights.
Just her.
"Hey," she said, softer than usual.
"Hey," I echoed.
We stood there for a second, awkward.
Then she stepped back.
"Come in," she said. "I promise the only thing I'm trying to sleep with tonight is my self-respect."
"Good line," I said. "A little dark, but solid."
"Long day," she said. "Scotch?"
"Please," I said.
She poured two fingers into a glass for me, more for herself.
We sat on the couch, careful to leave a totally normal, absolutely not loaded amount of space between us.
"So," I said. "You okay?"
She exhaled.
"Career crisis level: moderate," she said. "Personal crisis level: probably higher than I want to admit."
"Want to rank them on a scale?" I asked. "One to everything-is-on-fire?"
She smiled.
"You're deflecting," she said. "I called you. I get to be messy first."
"Fair," I said.
She swirled the scotch.
"You ever feel like…" she said slowly, "you're living someone else's version of your life?"
"That's… oddly specific," I said.
"Sandy keeps telling me to be 'more fun, less serious,'" she said. "As if the only way to be on TV is to giggle about pets and horoscopes. I want to cover real stories. But I also… want to be there. On screen. I worked so hard to get here. And now that I'm here, half the time I feel like I'm just… reading scripts someone else wrote for me."
I nodded.
"I get that," I said. "Architecture's got its own version. Clients hiring you because they think you'll build their dream castle, then handing you a blueprint for a cube and saying, 'We want… edgier cube.'"
She snorted.
We drank.
Silence settled.
Comfortable. Dangerous.
She glanced at me.
"Can I be really honest?" she asked.
"Please," I said. "I only came here for lies."
"I didn't call Derek because I didn't want him," she said. "But I did want… something. Someone who remembers the me that isn't hair and makeup and viewership numbers."
I swallowed.
"I remember you," I said softly.
We looked at each other.
Too long.
My brain screamed, Say the thing. Say the hard, honest thing: I remember you, and I love you, and I also love someone else, and going further is unfair to everyone.
Instead, my mouth said:
"I miss you."
Her eyes flickered.
"Yeah," she said. "I miss you too."
We sat in that.
Our shared, stupid truth.
"I know this is messy," she said. "I'm not trying to steal you from Victoria. I'm not… plotting. I just… sometimes I think about that night. Blue French horn. That 'maybe.' And I wonder if we were idiots."
"We were definitely idiots," I said.
"But were we wrong?" she asked.
There it was.
The real question.
I cleared my throat.
"Robin, I—"
Her gaze sharpened.
"Are you still with her?" she asked.
Victoria.
Germany.
Six months.
Everything honest we'd promised each other over takeout in a closed bakery.
"Yes," was the truth.
The truth would've ended the night right there.
It would've hurt.
But it would've kept us on the side of the line we could come back from.
Mom's voice again:
"Nothing good happens after 2 a.m. The only way something good can happen is if you just go to sleep."
Nox's voice:
"Don't make choices just to avoid pain. Pick the truth."
Robert Frost's voice, probably, from some poem about forks and roads and regret.
I looked at Robin.
At the way her shoulders were tense like she was bracing for impact.
At the way her eyes were already telling herself a story: He's going to say yes, and this was stupid, and I'm worse than Derek for even calling.
And because it was 2 a.m.
Because I was lonely.
Because I hated being the guy who disappointed people—
I lied.
"No," I heard myself say. "We broke up."
It came out too quickly.
Too clean.
Like I'd rehearsed it.
Robin froze.
"You… did?" she asked.
I nodded, bile rising.
"Yeah," I said. "We talked. Germany, time zones, everything. It was… too hard. We decided it was better to end it now."
It was half-true.
We had talked about how hard it was.
We hadn't ended it.
"Wow," she whispered. "Ted, I… I'm sorry. When did that happen?"
"Recently," I said.
Another half-truth.
My stomach twisted.
"And you're… okay?" she asked.
Yeah, sure. I was great. I was totally fine. That's why I was bleeding integrity on her couch.
"Not really," I admitted. "But… it felt like the right thing."
The worst part?
Some stupid, selfish part of me believed it in that moment.
Believed that the decision my future self would eventually make gave my lie retroactive validity.
That's how 2 a.m. works, kids.
It takes your fear, your desire, your half-formed rationalizations, and whispers:
"Close enough."
Robin set down her glass.
Moved a little closer.
"Ted…" she said.
Her hand brushed mine.
Heat shot up my arm.
"I don't know if this is a good idea," she murmured.
"It's probably a terrible idea," I said.
"Yeah," she said.
We looked at each other.
"I'm still glad you're here," she added.
And then she kissed me.
Here's the thing about wrong kisses:
They don't feel wrong at first.
They feel like finally.
All the almosts and maybes and "what if"s collapsing into one electric, terrifying, perfect second.
Her hand on my neck.
My fingers in her hair.
The couch tilting just enough to feel like the world had shifted.
For those few minutes, there was no Germany.
No six-month timer.
No bakery kitchens at dawn.
Just… me and Robin.
Finally in the version of the story where we chose each other.
But kids?
If a kiss requires a lie to happen, it's not the right version.
It's a forged one.
Right when I started to forget that—
My phone rang.
We froze.
Robin pulled back, breathing hard.
"Who is it?" she asked.
My heart already knew.
I looked.
VICTORIA.
Germany.
Incoming call.
If the universe had a sound effect, that was it.
Robin watched my face.
"Ted," she said slowly. "Who is that?"
I stared at the screen.
Ringing.
Flashing.
Germany calling New York at 2:18 a.m.
My thumb hovered.
"I should—" I started.
"Answer it," Robin said.
Her voice was calm.
Too calm.
I swallowed.
Hit "accept."
"Hey," I said, voice cracking. "Victoria."
"Ted," she said, bright and tired and familiar. "Sorry it's so late. Or… early? Time zones are weird. I just… I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about what I wanted to tell you tomorrow and decided to stop being a coward."
Robin stiffened.
Her eyes locked on mine.
Every word coming through the speaker felt like a jury verdict.
"I've been thinking a lot," Victoria went on. "About us. About Germany. And I realized… I don't want to do the halfway thing. Not with you."
I closed my eyes.
Robin's face went blank.
"I know we said six months," Victoria continued, "but… I also know myself. And I know you. And I think if we're both still here, still calling, still… choosing this, it means something. So, um… if this is insane, tell me, but… I think I love you, Ted."
My chest imploded.
Robin looked like someone had turned out the lights behind her eyes.
"And I want to keep trying," Victoria added, voice small but steady. "Really trying. Not just in theory. I know it's going to be hard. I know it'll suck sometimes. But I also know that when I think about my future, you're in it. So… yeah. That's what I wanted to say."
Silence.
You know that moment in a test where you know the answer but your hand won't move?
Yeah.
It was that.
"Ted?" she said softly. "You still there?"
I swallowed.
"Yeah," I croaked. "I'm here."
"I know it's a lot," she said. "You don't have to say it back. I just… needed you to know where I am. Emotionally, not just… geographically."
On the couch, Robin looked down at her hands.
Pulled them into her lap.
Creating space.
"I—" I started.
I looked at Robin.
At her flannel pants.
At the scotch on the table.
At the exact line I'd just crossed.
"I think I love you too," I said.
Because it was true.
But coming on the heels of that lie?
It felt like counterfeiting.
On the other end, Victoria exhaled a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.
"Okay," she said. "Okay. That… helps. I have to go. Bread is calling. But… I'm glad I called."
"Me too," I said weakly.
"Night, Ted," she said.
"Night," I replied.
I hung up.
The room felt smaller.
Quieter.
Heavier.
Robin stared straight ahead.
Then:
"So," she said. "You're still with her."
It wasn't a question.
"Robin," I said.
"Don't," she cut in. "Please don't lie again. I heard enough."
My stomach dropped.
"I'm sorry," I blurted. "I—I panicked. I didn't know what to say. You asked, and I—"
"And you said what you thought I wanted to hear," she finished. "Ted, come on. You know me better than that."
Her voice wasn't angry yet.
That was worse.
It was… hurt.
"You could've just said yes," she said. "I would've been embarrassed. I would've hung up faster. But at least we wouldn't have—"
She gestured vaguely between us.
"What we just did," I said.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "That."
I wanted to fix it.
To speech my way out.
To explain that I did love her, that I did wonder about us, that maybe in some alternate universe this would've been the right call.
But all of that would've just been me centering myself again.
"I messed up," I said instead. "I lied. I came over when I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have let it get this far. That's on me."
She laughed once, sharp.
"Congrats," she said. "You finally made a speech that didn't make me feel better."
I winced.
"Robin—"
"You know what the worst part is?" she cut in. "For a second, I believed you. I thought… maybe the timing finally lined up. Maybe we were… I don't know. Getting a second chance."
Tears pricked her eyes.
She wiped them away angrily.
"I'm not the other woman, Ted," she said. "I'm not… that. I spent years being 'one of the guys' so no one would treat me like that. You don't get to make me complicit in your 2 a.m. crisis."
That hit harder than anything.
"Yeah," I heard myself say. "You're right."
She looked at me.
"And the thing that really sucks?" she went on. "I care about you. I want you to be happy. I want you to figure your stuff out. I just… don't want to be collateral damage again."
I was quiet.
"I'm sorry," I said again, uselessly.
She stood.
Walked to the door.
Opened it.
"You should go," she said.
"Yeah," I said.
I walked to the threshold.
Paused.
"Robin—"
"If you're about to give me a metaphor," she said, "save it for your kids."
I shut my mouth.
She softened a fraction.
"Call me when you've figured out how to tell the truth to both of us," she said. "Or don't. Just… don't do this again."
I nodded.
And for the second time that night, I walked out into the cold.
Back at the apartment, I expected everyone to be asleep.
Of course Nox wasn't.
He was on the couch, TV on mute, laptop closed, a glass of water on the table.
He looked up when I came in.
Took one look at my face.
"Ah," he said. "So you chose violence."
I dropped my keys.
Sat heavily in the armchair.
"I screwed up," I said.
"Yup," he said. "Want to give me the highlight reel, or should I guess?"
I told him.
Not everything.
But enough.
Robin's call.
My lie.
The kiss.
Victoria's "I love you" coming through the speaker like a verdict.
Robin's face when she realized.
He listened.
Didn't interrupt.
When I was done, he sat back.
"Okay," he said. "First things first: you're not a monster. You're just… human and selfish and lonely and dumb at two in the morning."
"That's… not very comforting," I said.
"Good," he said. "You don't deserve comfort yet."
I winced.
"You do deserve clarity, though," he went on. "So let's be very clear: tonight, you cheated."
The word landed like a slap.
"I—" I started.
"Doesn't matter that you didn't sleep with her," he said. "You lied to Robin so you could cross a line. You lied to Victoria by omission. That's cheating. Emotional, logistical, whatever adjective you want. Own it."
My stomach twisted.
"I didn't want to hurt anyone," I said lamely.
"That's the problem," he said. "You wanted to avoid pain. So you spread it around. Congratulations, you minimized yours and maximized everyone else's."
That shut me up.
We sat there.
Quiet.
"You can fix it," he said finally. "Not tonight. But you can. It's going to hurt no matter what you do next. You don't get a pain-free path from here."
"I need to tell Victoria," I said, the words tasting like acid. "I can't… start every call with this hanging over us."
"Correct," he said. "And you need to give Robin space. Not the kind where you text her six times saying, 'Are we okay?' The kind where you sit with the fact that you showed her the worst version of you and let her decide if she still wants you in her life."
I pressed my palms into my eyes.
"I hate this," I said.
"I know," he said. "This is what Mom meant."
"About 2 a.m.?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said. "She didn't mean nothing physically good happens after 2 a.m. You can have great pizza at that hour. What she meant is: after 2 a.m., your brain gets foggy and your ego gets loud. You start making choices from fear and loneliness instead of truth."
I thought about that.
"I should've stayed," I said quietly. "On the couch. Texted Robin, 'Let's talk tomorrow.'"
"Yup," he said. "Then maybe you would've had a hard but honest conversation at noon instead of a disastrous one at 2:15."
I sank deeper into the chair.
"Do you think she'll forgive me?" I asked.
"Which she?" he said again.
"Both," I said.
He looked at me for a long moment.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "Robin's got a high tolerance for bullshit but a low tolerance for disrespect. Victoria… loves you. But love doesn't make this not a betrayal."
I nodded, throat tight.
"You still love them both?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said hoarsely. "In… different ways. But yes."
"Then your job now," he said, "is not to get them back. It's to tell the truth. All of it. And then live with whatever they decide."
I swallowed.
"Even if that means… neither?" I asked.
"Especially then," he said. "You lit the match. You don't get to control how far the fire spreads."
We sat there.
Me, my guilt, my little brother being weirdly wise.
After a while, he stood.
"Go to bed, Ted," he said. "Start writing the apology in your head now, because you're going to need it."
"Which one?" I asked. "To Victoria or to Robin?"
"All of them," he said. "To them. To yourself. To Mom's rule. Maybe to the concept of 2 a.m. in general."
He went to his room.
I stayed in the chair a little longer.
Staring at my phone.
At the two most recent calls.
ROBIN.
VICTORIA.
Two names.
One night.
And the sound of my mother's voice finally, finally getting through:
"Nothing good happens after 2 a.m…
unless you have the guts to say 'I'm going home' before it's too late."
That night, kids?
I didn't say it.
And I paid for it.
We all did.
But that's how you learn sometimes:
the hard way,
the late way,
the 2 a.m. way.
And though it would take a while for the dust to settle, that night would shape everything that came after—
with Victoria,
with Robin,
and with the man I had to become if I ever wanted to tell this story to you honestly.