Orla
I woke with a pounding in my skull and the distinct, stone-cold sense that I was not in my own bed.
My eyes cracked open to soft morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains, the brightness slicing straight into my brain like a hot poker.
The room was wrong. The bed was on the opposite wall, the mattress too firm, and the air smelled faintly of something warm, clean, and dangerously familiar.
Shit.
I sat up slowly, every motion sending a fresh pulse of agony behind my eyes. My mouth was dry as sandpaper; my tongue felt like a foreign object that no longer fit inside my jaw. The room swam for a dizzying second before it steadied into a reality I wasn't prepared for.
Definitely not my room.
There was a neatly folded T-shirt draped over the chair in the corner—heavy cotton, obviously a man’s. A pair of trainers I recognized sat by the wall. And the smell... it was unmistakable. Woodsmoke, laundry powder, and Tyler fucking Reed.
My stomach twisted into a solid knot of dread. Oh God.
The bed beside me was empty but the sheets remained perfectly tucked like it hadn’t been slept in. On the nightstand next to me sat some sort of survival kit that included a bottle of water and a packet of ibuprofen. My phone was nowhere in sight.
Panic fluttered through me as I shoved back the covers, patting the mattress furiously and uselessly. Please, please, please…where the fuck…
There. Half-buried under the duvet.
I snatched it up, squinting at the screen with one eye. One text lit up the screen waiting for me. I swiped my thumb across the screen, my stomach lodged somewhere near my throat.
Tyler:
In case last night is all a blur You’re in my bed. Meds on the nightstand. Drink the water. No, we didn’t fuck. I slept on the sofa.
Already asked Cara to cover you for my match today.
My stomach dropped again, but for an entirely different reason. Shit. He knew. He’d known exactly how I’d spiral, exactly which dark corners my mind would rush to the moment I opened my eyes. He’d had the foresight to lay out the facts before the shame-mode could fully settle in.
I fell back against the pillows, letting out a long, ragged exhale.
Fragments of the previous night began to flicker like a broken film reel. My knees giving way by the door; Tyler’s large, powerful hands catching me; the humiliating slur in my voice as I told him he was prettier than my ex.
And then…oh, fuck.
The crying. So much crying. And the bloody confession. Me spilling my guts about the breakup and the baby scan. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
The embarrassment was almost too much to bear. I was cringing so hard my bones hurt. Heat climbed up my throat, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t just the alcohol.
I dragged a pillow over my face wanting to vanish into the mattress.
“You’re really pretty, you know that.”
“Prettier than my ex.”
“Emotionally unhinged woman who just wants a kid and to be loved.”
Jesus Christ, Orla.
Those words looped in my skull like some deranged playlist of humiliation.
Oh god.
I’d shoved my tongue down his throat.
Fuuuuuck.
Oh my God! It had been hard, and messy and completely desperate. A complete car crash of lust and bourbon that should’ve come with traffic cones and hazard tape.
How mortifying was that? How clinically tragic did I look? But he’d kissed me back, right? I definitely hadn’t hallucinated that. I couldn’t have imagined the devastating tenderness of his mouth or the way it had sparked a vivid, pulsing heat in my lower stomach that I could still feel now.
Then the words in his text cut through it.
No, we didn’t fuck. I slept on the sofa.
I went still. We could have. Easily. And I’d have let him. A few months ago, I would have assumed he’d take exactly what was offered. That was the Tyler everyone warned me about, reckless, selfish, living on impulse.
But we didn’t.
Tyler fucking Reed, didn’t.
I sat up again, slowly, the dress from last night sliding off my shoulders, a silent reminder of how far gone I’d been. I reached for the water, swallowing the pills, the taste of metal and regret mixing on my tongue.
That one simple message, clear and surprisingly kind, drew the line I hadn’t been able to last night. He’d given me what I needed when I didn’t have the sense to think straight.
The ache that rose in my chest was deep and heavy.
Tyler had seen me at my worst—a drunk, mascara streaked mess—and he hadn’t run. Hadn’t judged. Hadn’t even taken advantage.
He’d just…stayed.
I looked toward the empty sofa, the blanket folded neatly and a small dent in the cushion where he must’ve slept. He was probably already at the courts, stretching out that hamstring I hadn’t treated.
And here I was. Hungover. Humiliated. In his bloody bed.
I should have been mortified—I was.
But beneath the pounding in my head and the acid reflux of shame, was a feeling I couldn’t shake.
Because Tyler Reed hadn’t just proved me wrong, he’d made me feel safe. That, somehow, was worse because it reinforced my want to trust him. And I wasn’t sure my heart could survive that.