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Tilly has always been a bit of a mystery, revealing little about her life before our time in Costa Rica. Last night's hint about her dad was a first, peeling back a layer I hadn't seen before. And my curiosity about it is only growing.
But she’ll tell me when she’s ready. I have a suspicion that the duct-taped couch and the message from her father are related.
The stitches in my forehead pulse with a dull ache, and I'm craving a beer, but Tilly insists on sticking to the doctor's orders. I nearly let out a chuckle at her furrowed brow; she's tending to me with a mix of care and urgency that's both comforting and unexpectedly arousing. The effort it takes not to pull her close is monumental. Fact is, holding her hand in the hospital was the most intimate action my body has had in a while. Must be why I can’t stop thinking about it.
Especially now as she’s in the shower, cleaning that beautiful body under warm water. I close my eyes and let my mind wander, just for a moment, while she’s gone.
My eyes snap open when I hear the door open. Very casually, I grab one of the half-deflated couch pillows to place over the raging hard-on I’m now sporting. "All right, the shower’s open. You need to get all that dried blood off you. But first," she says, brandishing a roll of plastic wrap, "they said your sutures can't get wet."
I flash her a wry grin. "You're going to plastic wrap my forehead?" She nods and I almost burst into laughter. "Uh, Til, why don't I just take a bath?" Her momentary pause, the look of sudden realization, sends my amusement spilling out. "You didn’t think of that, did you, smartie pants?"
She tosses the plastic wrap aside with a shrug, a blush creeping up her cheeks, clearly not having considered a bath as an option. Her embarrassment is utterly endearing, but I decide not to push her further. "Towels inside?"
She nods, trailing me to the bathroom. "If you need anything, let me know."
"Like a beer?" I tease, watching her close the door with a pursed-lip smile.
Through the shut door, I hear her cursing me very poetically. While filling the tub, I resist the urge to take my cock in my hand. Whacking one out while she’s a few feet away feels disrespectful, so I’m a good boy while getting all the nasty dried blood off my body.
Once clean, I change into sweats and return to find Tilly browsing streaming options. I've never been inside her place before, and the drum set has piqued my curiosity.
Instead of asking, I head over and sit at the drums, picking up a stick to twirl idly. "So…” I raise my brows at her and count another win as her cheeks pink up. “When do I get to hear you play?"
"Never," she shoots back instantly, almost too quick for me to catch.
"Then can I?" I ask, watching her for any sign of objection.
She offers a noncommittal shrug, which I take as silent permission. Flipping the switch on the drum set, I settle the headphones over my ears, diving into a rhythm of my own making.
I test each drum in turn, starting with a simple beat. It's been years, maybe even a decade, since I last did this, but slowly, it all starts to come back to me. I lose myself in the rhythm, pounding away until I start to feel fatigued. After smashing each plastic cymbal one last time, I remove the headphones.
Tilly's staring at me as I walk back to the couch, a look of pure amazement on her face. I smirk as I plop down, casually placing my feet on her coffee table. "Your face is gonna get stuck like that," I tease.
"Where in the hell did you learn to play?" she asks, still shocked.
"School," I reply casually. "And you?" I'm enjoying her expression of surprise, so cute with that skeptical brow and the slight crinkle. Tilly likes to pretend she’s unflappable and I’ve managed to surprise her. It’s a much better victory than getting her to blush.
"Um, well I started out with private piano lessons, but at the end of each one, my teacher let me mess around on the drums. Eventually, he gave up on piano, and that was that," she shares, a story so uniquely Tilly that it brings a smile to my face. She always has to do things her own way—defying expectations, making her path. It's so like her to choose drums over piano, fitting her rockstar persona perfectly.
Suddenly, my mind wanders to imagining Tilly playing the drums, getting all worked up and sweaty... I snap out of it, blurting out, "I'm starving. Can I order some burgers?" I need a distraction, anything to stop my thoughts from going where they shouldn't.
Tilly gives me a smug look but nods, turning her attention back to browsing shows. I pull out my phone and see a text from Sam. I quickly let her know I'm 'busy' tonight, hoping she'll give us some space. She texts back, asking about the tournament. I tell her I got second, which is true, and promise to talk more later.
Tilly hadn't mentioned to Sam that we were together, and I figure it's best to let them sort that out. Whatever's happening between Tilly and me, I'm eager to see it through. These past few days have felt like a reconnection, as if no time has passed between us.
Avoiding Tilly had been painful. More than painful actually. Excruciating. Every time our paths crossed in Costa Rica, her reluctance to meet my gaze or speak more than a few words killed me just a little bit more. But now, things are different. Her vulnerability, her willingness to open up—it's been healing, in a way.
And the way she looked at me earlier, while I was naked in the ambulance… hubba-hubba. Friends don't undress each other with their eyes. But after seeing her do it, multiple times today, I think that should change.
Taking a deep breath, I ask, "What's this?"
"Ghostbusters," she says, settling in. "Figured we needed something chill."
"Ghostbusters is chill?" I ask, amused.
"Yeah, like comfort food, but a movie," she explains, stretching out beside me, her bare leg brushing against mine. I close my eyes, trying to block out how much I crave her touch, remembering the warmth of her skin under my fingers from before.
"And real comfort food?" She shoots me a glare but pulls out her phone. After a few clicks, she announces that burgers are on the way. As she does, her leg stretches out, her foot casually brushing against my thigh.
