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https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 46 — The Call
Evening light spilled through the blinds, casting long shadows across my bedroom. I was flat on the floor, laser pointer in hand, laughing as Ghost launched himself after the red dot like a tiny, fluffy missile. For a kitten, he had the commitment of an Olympic sprinter and the coordination of… well, a drunk toddler—but that didn't stop him.
"Get it, Ghost," I said, sweeping the dot across the rug. He pounced, missed, and spun in a circle. "You're embarrassing the entire feline species."
His only response was a chirp and another leap.
Then my phone rang.
I ignored it at first. Ghost was mid-pounce and in rare form. But then I caught the name on the screen—Sam.
"Hang on, buddy," I said, clicking the laser off.
I answered the call, still smiling. "Hey, what's up? Miss me already?"
Silence.
No comeback. No sarcastic jab. No drawn-out "dork."
Just one quiet sentence:
"We need to talk."
That killed the smile.
I sat up straight, already putting on my shoes. "I'm coming."
She didn't say more. She didn't have to. I could hear it in her voice. That thin edge. That weight.
"Sorry, Ghost," I said, giving his head a gentle scratch. "Rain check on round two."
He blinked up at me, confused and mildly offended, then flopped over dramatically onto his side like the world had betrayed him.
I grabbed my keys, gave Ghost one last look, and headed for the door.
Whatever this was, it wasn't just a casual check-in.
I climbed into my car, turned the key, and pulled out of the driveway—toward Sam, and whatever storm was waiting on the other end.
Evening air slid in through the half-cracked window as I cruised down the familiar streets toward Sam's house. The streetlights blinked on one by one like a countdown. Each one made her voice echo louder in my head.
We need to talk.
Four words. Four syllables. Somehow more terrifying than an IRS letter or "your test results are in."
What did they mean, exactly? It's not like she said "I want to talk," or "we should talk,"—both have flexibility, room to breathe.
But "we need to talk"?
That's loaded.
That's nuclear launch code phrasing.
I checked the speedometer—ten over the limit. I eased up.
What did I do? Did I mess up the lunch somehow?
No, that had gone weirdly well. Jay didn't even grumble once. Ron laughed at one of Jay's jokes. That's a statistical miracle.
Was it the Lily incident?
No way—Cam and Mitchell didn't hear the swear word, and Lily calling Sam "Mommy" wasn't anyone's fault.
So what then?
My mind kept running through possible scenarios like a security camera searching for movement. Nothing. Just static and dead ends. No arguments. No weird texts. No forgotten anniversary—unless she'd invented one and forgot to tell me.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling.
I gripped the wheel tighter and took a breath.
Get a grip, Jon.
Sam's not just smart. She's kind. Grounded. Beautiful, sure—but more than that, she gets me in a way nobody else really does. If there's a problem, we'll solve it. That's what we do. Together.
The familiar turn onto her street appeared, and I made it without thinking. Her house came into view, porch light glowing softly like it was waiting for me.
Whatever it is, I thought, we'll get through it.
I pulled up to the curb, cut the engine, and stared ahead for one long second before stepping out.
Time to find out what those four words really mean.
The soft slam of my car door barely echoed before the porch light flickered brighter, and there she was—Sam, stepping out, her silhouette framed in the warm glow.
She must've heard the engine. Or maybe she'd been waiting.
She didn't smile.
Neither did I.
We stood like statues across the short stretch of gravel driveway, staring at each other. The kind of silence that wasn't empty—but thick. Electric. Loaded.
The wind barely moved. My heartbeat seemed to do all the motion.
I walked toward her, each step feeling like it weighed a little more than the last. We didn't say anything when I reached her. Just...stood there. A mutual refusal to be the first to shatter whatever this moment was. Her eyes scanned mine like they were searching for something—answers, courage, maybe a script for what was supposed to happen next.
Then finally, she exhaled and said softly, "Let's talk in my room."
I nodded. Didn't trust my voice to come out right. We both turned toward the stairs like we were climbing a mountain, side by side, but saying nothing.
Two steps up—
"Sam, and is that Jon." Diane's voice called from the kitchen.
Sam groans "Mom" as Diane walks out the kitchen.
Diane said. "Oh hush, I'm just saying hi. Hi, Jon. You two heading upstairs?"
"Uh, yeah, just for a bit—" Jon answers.
Diane replies "Mmm-hmm. Before you do that, how about you both come into the kitchen for a minute? I just made coffee—and there's cake."
And for the first time tonight, Sam and I exchanged a quick glance—and to my surprise, a breath of relief.
Saved by the beans.
Sam turned to me and whispered, "Strategic delay?"
I shrugged. "I'm not above it."
We stepped back down the stairs and headed toward the kitchen, the tension dissolving ever so slightly under the excuse of coffee and parental small talk. It wasn't an escape. Just a postponement.
But for now, it was enough.