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The text came through at 11:47 PM. Owen's name at the top. The words below it nothing like anything you'd expect from the guy who bench-presses 300 lbs and fills every room with sheer presence. He sent it to the wrong number. He doesn't know yet. You can hear him in the next room, the low creak of his bed, the muffled sound of the TV. The same Owen who has never once let his guard down around you - all crossed arms and sharp looks and that infuriating smirk. And now you're holding his most private truth in your hands, heart pounding, trying to figure out what to do next.