3. Tyler
3
TYLER
Disoriented isn’t a strong enough word to describe the way I'm feeling right now.
It's dark, only a sliver of light coming from the slightly cracked open door. I'm vaguely aware that I'm in someone else's bed. I'm assuming it must be Isaac's, because the last thing I remember is being in his truck, and then maybe a bathroom? I feel like I should be more panicked about that, but I'm too warm and comfortable, burrowed under covers that smell like soap and sawdust, with an underlying musk of clean sweat. Even better, the smell is on my skin, because he gave me his sweater. I have an odd desire to turn over and aggressively huff the scent into my lungs.
But that would be weird.
Being here right now is weird. I'm lying in a stranger's bed, staring at the one beam of light across a stained drop-down ceiling, smelling the bedsheets like a complete freak.
It figures that the one time I wake up in a stranger's bed, it’s because I have a concussion and not because I did anything fun.
Why can't I be that guy? I'm twenty-three years old, for fuck's sake. This shouldn't be my life. I should have friends and hookups, go to parties, have fun like normal people. Not live a solitary life, devoting all my time to a double major, and only going on dates that my father sets up.
Flashes of my date gone wrong bombard me. His face, the hateful sneer, his fist coming down on me…
I burrow back into the blankets, wishing for unconsciousness to pull me under again.
Then a deep voice cuts through the haze of pain and panic, distracting me. The voice is murmuring low enough that I can't make out any words, but it’s strangely comforting.
My eyes adjust to the dim light, and I examine more of my surroundings. The room is bare, with no furniture or wall hangings. There's only the bed, which doesn't have a headboard, and a small table with what I think is a lamp. Gingerly, because my head still aches, I sit up and try to get my bearings. The voice is coming from just outside the door. Curious, I stand from the bed and make my way to the door, peeking through the crack.
Isaac is sitting back against a worn brown sofa, holding a phone against his ear with one hand, the other massaging his eyes. He looks tired.
He also looks very… something.
How can my mind go from drowning in panic, to thinking about how beautiful this not-so random stranger is? Am I allowed to think he's the sexiest man I've ever seen? Is trauma not supposed to overpower attraction? I thought he was hot the first time I saw him, enough so that I thought it necessary to cool him off with the contents of my iced beverage, but right now he's sprawled out, wearing a black tank top and dark grey sweatpants, looking like something out of my deepest fantasies. His long body is both leaner and more muscular than I thought it'd be, and I'd give anything to trail my fingers over every tendril of ink climbing up his biceps. Or my tongue. Or hell, even just my eyes, but I'd like to have my contacts or glasses back first.
He rolls his neck and stretches as he listens to whoever he's speaking to, wincing and rubbing the back of his shoulder. Did he sleep on that little couch? His giant body on that sofa, while my skinny ass was star fishing in his bed?
"I saw that coming. Does she have any pain pills? Yeah, I know she doesn't like to take them, but she'll be miserable if she doesn't," he says, standing up and walking out of sight. "I'll call Van and see if he can drop something off, but in the meantime, use those hot and cold packs and see if you can get her to do the stretches. I know you know, sorry. I can't help it. I'm not used to being so far away, and I know you have to get to work." He makes a few sounds of acknowledgement to whatever the other person is saying. "Alright, I'll check in later. Love you."
His voice is so soft, it’s clear he really cares about whoever he’s talking to, and I can't help but wonder who it is. Not that it's any of my business.
"I don't bite, you know."
Well, fuck.
Willing my face not to be several shades of red, I widen the opening of the door and take a tentative step out of the dark room. Isaac is leaning back against a counter, holding two bottles of water.
"Sorry," I whisper. "I didn't want to interrupt."
"You're not interrupting anything," he says, holding a bottle out to me. My parched mouth encourages me to leave the bedroom and pad toward him. His eyes trace me from head to toe, his lips curving up on one side. I'm sure I look horrific. I'm a rumpled mess, wearing clothes that aren't mine and don't fit. I can feel my hair sticking up in all directions, and I desperately need to shower and brush my teeth. At least one of us finds my disheveled appearance amusing.
"Was that your girlfriend?"
Did I really just say that out loud?
Luckily, he doesn't seem irritated. He chuckles and shakes his head, but doesn't give a definitive answer.
“You should probably take your meds, too. But maybe you want to eat first?”
My head is pounding, but the mere mention of food makes my stomach roll. I don’t remember how long it’s been since I last ate or drank anything. How long have I been here?
About halfway through my bottle of water, I'm able to pull myself together a bit more, but I still can't find it in me to look him in the eye. Instead, I look around at yet another bare space.
"Did you just move in?" I ask awkwardly.
He huffs. "You could say that." I cock my head. "I'm renovating the building."
"Oh," I say simply, because I'm too dumb to come up with a better response. "But you also live here?"
"Yeah. There's an apartment upstairs, but it's worse than down here. I figured it was best to get things down here in working order and get my business going before worrying about fixing things up there."
"Your business?"
He nods. "I'm opening a MMA training gym."
I'm racking my brain to remember what MMA is. “That’s not the guys in funny costumes that wrestle, right?”
“That would be WWE,” he says, looking amused.
“Ah yeah, that’s basically drag for straight people, right?”
Isaac barks out a laugh. “I guess so.”
“Yeah, you don’t really seem the type.”
“MMA is mixed martial arts. It’s real fighting, not staged.”
“Wait. Is that, like, cage fighting?"
"It's usually in a cage, yeah."
My expression must give away my thoughts. He seems amused, though, and laughs again. I can't tell which of us he's laughing at. Me, probably, for being a nerd to whom the idea of people pummeling each other for sport seems horrific.He grins, and it transforms his face into something equally beautiful and terrifying.
"This would just be a training gym, though. No cage here."
"That sounds… cool." God, I'm such a loser .
"I plan on teaching some self-defense classes, too." My spine stiffens as his words sink in. Self-defense. Because I'm defenseless. Because I didn't defend myself—not effectively, at least.
"Hey," Isaac says, stepping forward and touching my chin, angling my face to look back at him. "I didn't mean anything by that."
I shrug. "I could clearly use the help."
"I've come away from a fight looking worse." I cock an eyebrow. "It's true, I swear."
"I have a feeling the other guy came out looking even worse," I say sardonically.
"I haven't won every fight I've been in, just most of them."
Then he winks— WINKS! —before allowing me to pull away. And now I really need some space to get my head straight.
"Can I, uh—can I use your restroom?"
"Of course," he says, tossing his empty bottle in a blue bin and leading me out. I follow him through a short hallway and out into the main room. One wall is floor to ceiling windows that face what I recognize as Main Street. I think The Nook isn’t far from here. It's light out, but the light is beginning to fade, meaning it must be late evening by now.
"What time is it?" What day is it?
He checks his phone. "Nearly six. I was going to order in for dinner. Want anything specific?"
"Uh, no," I say, confused by his hospitality. Not that he hasn't been anything but accommodating—he let me sleep in his bed, for fuck's sake. But he doesn't know me. I must be really pitiful for him to feel the need to baby me like this. I don’t want to put him out anymore, so it’s probably best if I don’t stay. I’ll just use the bathroom, try to get cleaned up as best I can, and ask to borrow his phone to call a ride home. Or… somewhere. I’m still not sure I’m ready to be somewhere he could find me.
He leads me into a large tiled room. " Everything is kind of a mess right now, but this is eventually going to be a locker room with stalls and stuff." I get the impression he might be embarrassed, but I don't understand why. It’s impressive that he’s fixing this place up himself.
The silence between us grows awkward. I don't want to ask him to leave his own space, but I don't really want to have to use the toilet in front of him. He seems to realize that I'm waiting and starts moving.
“I’m going to stand outside in case you need help. If you want to shower or anything, you can. There are clean washcloths and towels in that basket over there, dirty stuff can just be tossed in that corner and I'll take care of them later.”
I must be looking at the showers with longing, because he walks over to them and shows me how the faucets work.
“The showers can be temperamental. You have to give it a moment before the water heats up, but then it's hot enough to boil your skin, so be careful. There's a new toothbrush on the counter for you, and you can use anything you need. Once you’re good, I’ll order something to eat and find you something clean to wear. Sound good?"
"Um. Okay. Thanks," I say, unable to think of anything more.
This is all overwhelming. Everything hurts, I’m lightheaded, I just woke up in a strange place after spending the night in the hospital. Now the guy I’ve been daydreaming about for weeks but have been too afraid to even make eye contact with is taking care of me like he knows me.
What am I doing here? I should leave. I should go home, or somewhere else. Anywhere else. I should call for a ride to pick me up and get out of this guy’s house, but I don't have my phone. Where is my phone?
I left it, and my coat, at The Nook. I wasn't anticipating leaving. Oh shit, did they think I walked out without paying?
One thing at a time, Tyler. You can only overthink one thing at a time in your current condition.
And my current condition is a hot mess of epic proportions. One glance in the mirror when I'm washing my hands and brushing my teeth is enough to convince me that I definitely need to shower. A cab driver would probably keep driving if they came to pick me up and saw me in this state. I know I'll have to be careful about my stitches, but they said I could shower after twenty-four hours as long as I don't submerge the stitches for a prolonged period. I'm dead on my feet despite sleeping all day, but I'm desperate to get clean, and I know a hot shower will soothe some of the aches and pains. There's a little voice that says I should still go home, shower there. The truth is, I don't want to go home. I don't want to be alone. And I don't want to be somewhere he can find me. And since my only other option is to continue taking advantage of a hot stranger's kindness, that's what I'll do for now. Because I love torturing myself.
I turn the water on before I get undressed, remembering that he said it takes a while to heat up. I feel a bit exposed in such a large room, but I start to strip out of the oversized clothes I'm wearing. I try to move slowly, my head and body sore and protesting every movement. When I bend down to take off my socks, the blood rushes to my head and my already limited vision goes fuzzy. I over-correct and end up straightening too fast, making the dizziness worse. My knees buckle, and I fall forward on the counter, narrowly avoiding another head injury. I manage to right myself, but knock over several items next to the sink. A glass jar of cotton swabs smashes on the tile.
Isaac steps out from around the corner, startling me enough that I almost reel again. Wincing, I hold a hand up to my head.
"Shit, are you okay?" He's at my side in a second, strong arms steadying me. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you alone. I just wanted to give you some privacy."
"I'm okay," I assure him. "I just stood up too fast and got a little dizzy." I try to take a step away, but I'm no longer thinking a shower is a good idea, unless there's a chair I can sit in to clean myself.
"Here, let me help you. Hold on to me."
My entire body freezes when Isaac kneels down in front of me to remove my socks. I'm not sure I breathe at all, forgetting how to do more than just stand there with my mouth gaping open like a fish. When he stands again, his body is close enough to radiate body heat, reminding me that I'm shirtless in front of him. I swallow, raking my eyes over his tattooed arms, tracing the patterns of dark ink to the hem of his tank top. Through the thin black fabric, I can tell his chest is curved with hard muscle. Next to him, I'm positively scrawny. My arms are like fleshy toothpicks, and he could probably fit his hands almost entirely around my waist. Would it be too awkward to put my shirt back on?
Realizing I'm gawking at his body, I tear my eyes away from his chest, not sure where to look. I make the mistake of looking up. With the way I'm leaning on the counter, and his proximity, I have to crane my neck to look straight up at him. Even this close, his eyes are too dark to discern what color they really are, or maybe they really are just that black. I get caught in his dark gaze, my fingers digging into the edge of the counter. The rising steam in the room does nothing to help how heavy the air feels, making it near impossible to draw a full breath.
"Is this okay?" He asks, his voice soft and low.
Is what okay? My head is too fuzzy to work out what he’s talking about. I’m not quite out of my mind enough to tell him he could do anything he wants to me and?—
Wait.
Oh my God.
He doesn’t take his eyes off mine, watching me like I might bolt. Which, to be fair, I probably would if I could trust myself not to keel over again. His fingers find the drawstring of the scrubs I'm wearing. They’re so large on me, the drawstring is the only thing holding them around my waist. It only takes a slight tug on one side of the strings, and they're falling down my legs to the floor.
A choking sound escapes my throat. That really should not have been the hottest thing ever to have happened to me. And that really shouldn’t be the first thought in my head. I'm basically an invalid that he is helping out of pity. Nothing about that little move was meant to be sexy. And the already embarrassing half chub that was growing at his mere proximity now has a mind of its own and is rapidly working towards becoming a visible distraction.
This is not good. Not good, not good, not good.
I release my white-knuckled grip from the edge of the counter and bring my hands in front of me. If I'm lucky, he won't notice I'm hiding anything and he'll just think I'm modest. And the heat rising in my face could just be from the humidity in the room. Everything is fine here. It's fine. I'm fine. Everything. Is. Fine.
Jesus, it's really hot in here.
"Tyler?"
"Hmm?"
"I asked if you're good?"
"Good? Uh—yeah. Yup," I say, popping the p and looking anywhere but directly at him. "All good now. Thanks."
And then, because there is no God and I must have strangled kittens for a living in a past life, my feet get caught in the pants on the floor around my ankles. I trip, then overcorrect, and almost fall ass over head. Isaac, my knight in grey sweatpants, swoops in and catches me before I fall face first on the shiny tile floor and need more stitches. Or, you know, break my dick. My dick that is very obviously trying to escape through the front of my Calvins and is no longer hidden behind my hands. Hands that are now gripping the strongest set of shoulders I've ever touched. The only thing distracting me from my mortification is the spasm of pain that shoots through my entire body. My bruised ribs feel like I've been kicked all over again, the stitches on the back of my thigh pull sharply, and the motion of the fall and subsequent save rattled my already aching brain.
I suck in a sharp breath, and he pulls me against him.
Despite the agony I'm in, my first concern is that he's going to notice my boner and drop me on the tile floor. But, if he does notice, he doesn't say anything, just stands me upright and holds onto me. I shuffle to put space between us even as I lean into him for stability.
Fuck, that really hurts.
"Shit, your stitches are bleeding. Are you okay if I take a look?"
Sure, why not. It's not like this could get any more embarrassing.
He chuckles, and I take it back. Nervously chattering my inside thoughts out loud definitely makes it worse.
After walking me closer to the shower, he has me lean on the wall while he adjusts the temperature of the water. The amount of steam in the room is proof enough he wasn't kidding about the water getting hot. He grabs a washcloth and holds it under the spray, then moves into my space again.
"Turn around for me?"
Grateful that I'll at least be turned away from him, I do as he asks, holding my breath as he lowers himself behind me. You have to be fucking kidding me. Seriously, is he doing this on purpose? I almost hope he's getting some kind of sick thrill out of my abject terror and mortification that he might see my very involuntary reaction to his proximity, because otherwise my karmic punishment is wasted.
He gently touches the wound on the back of my thigh. The line of stitches is jagged and about two and a half inches long, starting just under the crease of my right buttock. It's tender, and luckily for me, the pain distracts me from my situation a little.
"I don't think you tore anything, just stretched the wound a bit," he tells me, standing up again.
I turn around, but keep my back to the tile, feeling like I've hit a wall, literally and figuratively. I'm just so tired.
"You're all wet now," I observe. Isaac's tank is plastered to his chest and flat abs, and there are wet spots bleeding into the knees of his sweats.
"No biggie, come here."
Too tired to argue, or feel shy anymore, I comply and let him support me while leading me to the shower spray. He hands me a washcloth, squirts some body wash on it, then reaches for another bottle. I let out a little squeak of surprise when he starts gently massaging shampoo into my hair, but practically melt against him because it feels so damn good.
When he's done and I move my head under the spray to rinse, he takes the washcloth from me and washes my back, then down my legs to my feet. If he notices my dick straining through soaking wet white underwear that are sure to be see-through by now, he doesn't show it. He just keeps washing me, careful of my various cuts and bruises. When I'm finally clean, he turns off the water and wraps me in a towel before turning away from me and stripping out of his now drenched clothes. I'm not expecting it, and nearly gag out loud at the sight of his muscular back and butt. Holy hell that butt, it's like his cheeks were chiseled from stone.
No! Look away, Tyler!
Clenching my eyes shut tight, I face away from him to give him extra privacy.
"You alright?"
Instead of opening my mouth to speak, I just nod, peeking one eye open to make sure he's decent. Barely. He's wrapped a towel around his waist, but there's still entirely too much skin on display. Deep tan skin, with dark tendrils of ink across his chest and both arms. They accentuate the curve of his pecs and biceps. His tight muscles glisten with water droplets that follow the grooves of more abs than I knew a person could have. And as I suspected, a thick barbell through each nipple.
I pull my towel tighter around myself and try not to let it be too obvious that I'm staring. But seriously… Who has a body like that? It's unreal.
"What are you thinking about so hard over there?" He asks, picking up a stack of clothes.
"That maybe I should start working out."
Isaac barks out a laugh, the sound echoing off the walls. It makes me smile, even if the laugh is at my expense.
He holds up the stack of clothes for me to see. "These will probably be not much better than the scrubs as far as size, but they're super soft. They're my favorite pair, actually," he says, holding up a pair of light grey sweatpants. "And there's a t-shirt, socks, and boxers. They’re clean, but I totally understand if you don't want to wear those. They're probably too big, too."
Once again, I'm blinking at him like an absolute idiot. "Why are you doing all this?"
"All what?"
"Taking care of me. Being so nice… You don't even know me." Ugh, I hate that my voice sounds so broken and feeble.
"It seemed like you could use a little support," he says simply, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to take care of someone you don’t know like this.
My eyes burn with tears I didn't see coming and I look away, trying to hide my outburst. I never let myself show this much emotion. My father would never approve, but also I abhor being seen as weak. I've never been particularly athletic or had many interests outside of my computer, but being a pale, skinny nerd doesn't make me any less capable of taking care of myself.
Then again, this is someone who's seen proof otherwise.
"I'm a stranger."
"And yet you still came home with me," he says with a joking lilt, and winks at me again. He should really stop that. It's confusing. "Let's get you dressed, fed, and medicated. You'll feel better."
"Sorry I'm such a mess," I say, wiping away tears and snot with the corner of the towel.
"Don't be. I've had my share of concussions, and they fuck with your head. One time, I cried because I knocked over a box of donuts. My sister thought I was on drugs."That makes me laugh."They weren't even good donuts, they were the shitty grocery store kind that leave that weird texture in your mouth, like you licked wax."
I'm still smiling, but have no clue what he means. It sounds terrible, but I've never wanted to try something more, just to have a common experience with him.
He grins back at me. "You probably eat better donuts. Donuts that would actually be worth crying over, that don't leave a shitty film in your mouth."
I shrug, because I don't know what to say about that.
I'm not sure if it was his intention all along, but he's effectively distracted me enough that I relax my hold on the towel. He takes it from me and uses it to help dry my hair. It's not until he's about to step away that I remember my see-through underwear and confused dick that has a mind of its own. I pull the towel back in a panic, holding it in front of my crotch. He nods understandingly.
"How about you wrap the towel around your waist, and we'll go back to the bedroom so you can sit to get dressed? I'll throw your dirty and wet things in the wash."
Face burning, I nod in agreement. What else can I even do at this point?