If Loving You Were Wrong

In the Middle of the Night

The shrill ring of my phone pierced the silence of the night, jolting me awake from a restless sleep. Groggily, I fumbled for my phone, my heart and head pounding with anticipation and worry. As I glanced at the caller ID, relief washed over me—the hospital's name illuminated the screen.

"Braelin? Is everything alright?" I asked, my voice laced with both worry and hope. Braelin's voice, though weakened, held a glimmer of hope and resilience. She assured me that she was getting released from the hospital and that she forgave me for our heated exchange during her stay. Waves of relief washed over me, mingled with gratitude for her forgiveness.

"Akilah, I just wanted to let you know... I'm getting released from the hospital. I'll be okay. And... I forgive you, for what happened at the hospital. I understand... the fear and frustration," she said over the phone.

Thanking her profusely, tears welled up in my eyes as I hung up the phone. I couldn't contain the overwhelming emotions that surged within me. A mix of joy and gratitude filled my heart as I realized that Braelin was on the path to recovery. She had been through so much, and now it was our turn to be there for her. 

Without wasting a moment, I rushed to Clint's room, knocking urgently on the door. I needed to share the wonderful news with him. I was expecting him to be awake during this time, but he was fast asleep.

"Jordan, wake up," I called out, my voice urgent but gentle. "Braelin just called. She's being released from the hospital. We need to go and pick her up."

In an instant, he was alert and by my side. His eyes reflected a mix of concern and determination as he listened to my words. With renewed energy, he hastily dressed, but I watched him. Jordan stood tall, his physique commanding attention as his sculpted muscles rippled beneath his taut skin. Every movement he made exuded strength and power, a testament to the hours of dedication and hard work he had poured into honing his body.

His broad shoulders, chiseled chest, and well-defined arms showcased the results of his rigorous training regimen. Veins danced beneath the surface, tracing a roadmap of determination and discipline. Each muscle group, from his bulging biceps to his carved abs, seemed to have a story to tell, a testament to his commitment to physical fitness.

His muscular legs, built from countless hours of squatting and lifting, anchored him firmly to the ground. With every step he took, the sinewy grace of his leg muscles flexed, lending an aura of athleticism to his presence.

But it wasn't just the sheer size and definition of his muscles that made him captivating. There was an effortless confidence in the way he carried himself, as if his physical strength was merely an extension of the self-assuredness that radiated from within. It was an attractive combination of power, grace, and a quiet assurance that drew the gaze of those around him.

His muscles told a story of dedication, determination, and an unyielding pursuit of personal growth. They were a testament to his physical prowess, serving as a visible reminder of the strength that lay within him. And as others observed his impressive physique, they couldn't help but be in awe of the sheer power and beauty that his muscular form possessed.

Mesmerized by his body, I walked over and placed my hand on his chest. I moved my hand downwards. His body was beautiful. I could tell that I turned him on. 

Just then, the room began to spin, I felt nauseous, I was quite dizzy. I wasn't able to react. remember falling, but I don't remember what happen afterwards. 

When I regained consciousness, I found myself in a hospital room. It wasn't Braelin's room. I was in a hospital bed, myself. I looked up and saw Clint's face, he loomed over me. Concern etched into his features as he gently broke the news to me.