The Dreaded Text: The Text Confession

You send the text: "I care because you're the most important person in my life. And I have to tell you something I should have told you years ago."

His immediate reply is not words, but a notification: Dre is calling.

You stare at the screen, heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

You know this is the final moment of your life as his 'just friend.'

You answer.

His voice is tight, rough, and desperate, sounding like gravel mixed with need.

"Lana. Do not say another word. I am in the Uber to the airport now. I'm taking the earliest flight. I will be at your door in four hours. Do not answer texts. Do not answer calls. Just wait for me. I need to be there in person for this."

The call clicks off.

The absolute lack of discussion is more potent than any argument.

He is staking his claim and demanding the confrontation on his terms.

The next four hours are excruciating.

You shower, pacing your apartment until the exact moment you hear the sound of his key in the lock.

He's there.

He looks exhausted, rumpled from the early flight, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, but impossibly handsome.

He doesn't say "hello" or "I'm sorry." He simply uses his spare key, locks the door with a sharp, echoing click, and throws his duffel bag aside, letting it thud heavily to the floor.

He strides toward you, his eyes blazing with the same possessive need you heard in his voice on the phone.

The air around him feels charged, hot, and undeniable.

He stops inches away, his shadow falling over you.

He doesn't touch you, but the lack of distance is its own kind of fire.

"You don't get to drop a bomb like that over text, Lana," he growls, his voice a low, dangerous command.

"You don't get to tell me that after everything we've been to each other, you've been harboring that for years. Look at me, Lana."

He reaches out, his thumb running a slow, deliberate line along your jaw, sending a shiver straight to your core.

"Tell me you mean it. Tell me that this isn't some breakdown before my transfer. Tell me you're not going to regret this in the morning. I need the truth, and I need it now."

The unspoken question—the years of electric tension—hangs between you, ready to combust.

What do you do?



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