Page 101 of His Drama Queen

"You're my brother. And you called. You apologized. Yeah, I want to see you." His voice cracks slightly. "I've wanted to see you for six years."

"I'd like that." My own voice is unsteady. "I'd really like that."

"Give me your number. Your real number, not whatever burner you're calling from."

"It's my real number. I never deleted your contact. I just... never called."

"Jesus, Dorian." He sounds like he's crying now too. "You kept my number for six years?"

"I couldn't delete it. It felt too final. Like erasing you completely."

"Okay." He takes a shaky breath. "Okay. Text me when you're back in the city. We'll set something up. And Dorian?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell Vespera thank you. For pushing you to call. For being the person who made you brave enough to choose differently."

"I will."

"And Dorian? One more thing."

"What?"

"Tell the people you love that you love them. Before it's too late. Before circumstances force your hand." His voice is steady now, almost fierce. "Don't waste time hiding what matters. I learned that the hard way. Don't make the same mistake."

"I won't," I promise.

"Good. Now go back to bed. It's too early for emotional breakdowns."

Despite everything, I laugh. It comes out wet and broken, but it's genuine. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

"Love you, little brother."

The words hit me square in the chest. How long has it been since I heard them? Since I let myself hear them?

"Love you too, Julian."

I hang up and sit there in the darkness, phone clutched in my hand, and let myself cry. Really cry. For the years I lost with my brother. For the person I became in his absence. For the fear that still lives in my chest about what I'm about to lose.

But also for hope. For forgiveness. For the chance to be better.

The door creaks open behind me.

"Dorian?"

Oakley's voice is rough with sleep, confused. I turn to look at him standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light, and I can't hide the tears on my face.

He's wearing only sleep pants—loose gray cotton that hangs low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of muscle that disappears beneath the waistband. His chest is bare, showing the lean definition of someone who runs every morning, all smooth skin over compact strength. His hair is mussed from the pillow, sticking up in ways that make him look younger, softer than he usually allows himself to be.

And there's the unmistakable outline of morning wood tenting the front of his pants.

Even through my tears, even in the middle of falling apart, I want him. I've always wanted him. That's never been the problem.

He hasn't seemed to notice his state of arousal, too focused on my face with those concerned brown eyes. Still half-asleep but fully alert to my distress.

God, he's beautiful. How did I spend years pretending this didn't matter?

"What's wrong?" He's across the room in seconds, seemingly unconscious of how his body moves—that athletic grace, the flex of his abs as he bends toward me. His hands land on my shoulders, warm and solid, searching my face with growing concern. "What happened?"