They didn't speak on the phone again after that night.
Not because they didn't want to — but because the call had been a rare crossing of the line they'd both silently agreed to keep.
It was a one-time exception.
For chicken purposes only.
Still, something had shifted. When they went back to messaging on the app, there was an unspoken knowledge between them now — the sound of each other's voice, the pauses, the little inflections in speech.
Sometimes, she'd type something and he could hear her tone in his head.
Sometimes, he'd reply in a way that made her picture the way he must've smiled when saying it aloud.
The chicken conversation became a running joke between them.
MoonInk:Cooking anything today, Chef Arjun?
IronQuill:Instant noodles count?
MoonInk:Not unless you make them for ten people.
They still respected the rules. No real names. No cities. No casual phone calls. But the connection had deepened all the same — not because of the number or the call itself, but because they'd both proven something that night.
That they could step into each other's worlds when it mattered,
and still step back without breaking the fragile trust they'd built.
And in a strange way, that made it even more valuable.