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I breathed deep and drifted as my dick came down from its high. This felt like a dream, all of it. A few hours ago I’d been spinning bottle caps in my living room, scheming some stupid plan to get a guy I didn’t give a shit about to make out with me, and now I was cozied up in his apartment like some… stray dog? Toy? Was this a pity thing or a sex thing? If there was even a difference.
Or was it actually something else.
What if he really did fucking want me?
I wasn’t sure how he could say he felt all these things when he didn’t even know me, except… didn’t I feel things? When I mocked and tore up his stupid flashcards but still looked forward to study hall every day? When he followed me into the bathroom and grabbed me by the face? When he brought me breakfast and basically put me down for a nap right there in the study room?
Hadn’t I been loving the attention no matter how much I pretended not to be? Leaning into being babied by him while I kept telling myself he was an asshole and a freak? Did I want to be anywhere else right now? The answer was a loud, embarrassingfuck no. Because I felt things too.
Because I wanted him to wrap me up in his arms and promise again and again that he was going to take care of me. That no one was ever going to hurt me.
God, what the fuck was wrong with me that suddenlynow, a whole grown adult, I wanted all that baby-ass shitso much.
“Hey.” Caleb nudged me on the knee, and I struggled a little to open my eyes and focus, shaking myself fully awake with effort, not sure if I’d been wandering around in my head for seconds or minutes or weeks. “You can sleep after dinner,” he told me. “But you need to eat something first. Ready for a bath?”
I blinked and slogged through the words. Sleep. Eat. Bath. I nodded and sat up, yanking my shorts back on and following him into the bathroom.
It was nice, like the rest of the place, and so fucking clean. The tile on the walls was an annoyingly happy color, kind of greenish and oceany, and the sink and the toilet and the tub and the floor were all brand new, bleach white, so bright it hurt my teeth. The bathtub was already half full with water so hot it was steaming and fogging up the mirrors, and my eyes watered it looked so fucking good. My bar was low, but fuck, he was digging up parts of me that had been living underground.
“Sit a minute,” he told me, pointing at the toilet lid, and when I did, he knelt down in front of me with what I thought was a pencil case but turned out was actually first aid.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna clean up your forehead.”
I winced. “Fuck you, it’s clean.”
“You’re gonna let me do this,” he told me, soft and firm and bossy, and I just fucking sat there. Watched him rip open an alcohol wipe that smelled so strong I knew it was going to sting, and sat still while he reached for me. Until the very last second when I jerked away.
“Don’t. I told you, I’m fine.”
He grabbed my chin in his other hand, which I guess was what I wanted him to do, and pulled my face even with his. “You’re going to let me do this,” he repeated. “This is an ugly cut, and it needs to be taken care of. I’m going to clean it off and it might sting a little. Then I’m going to put antibiotic cream on it and a little bandage and we’re both going to feel better about it. Do you understand?”
He talked slowly and maybe it was a little condescending, but I preferred over-explaining to surprises. I swallowed and nodded, and he let go of my chin.
“Good boy. Ready?”
I nodded again, and he reached out with the alcohol wipe, so close to my eyes and nose that my sinuses burned and tears rolled down my face when I blinked. I cringed and sucked in a breath when he touched the cut. He was gentle, but it hurt, and he was right— except for rinsing it off in the shower I hadn’t been doing anything much to it except picking at the scabby edges, and there was a lot of blood on the wipe when he pulled it away, fresh red and dried black. The second one wasn’t so bad— still stinging, but not as red— and I exhaled hard and slow.
“Okay, that’s better,” he said quietly, tossing the wipe in the trash and catching the tears still clinging to my chin with his knuckles before he ripped open another little packet and spread some gel out on his fingertip. “You want to tell me how this happened?”
“No.” I tested the word to see if it worked. I didn’t want to. I would, I guess, if he decided he wanted to make me. Maybe some part of me evenwantedhim to make me. But mostly I didn’t.
He just nodded. “Alright.” He held up his finger to show me. “Antibiotic cream now, okay? This will help it heal and not get infected. It’s not going to hurt.”
I felt like telling him I wasn’t a moron, I knew basic drug store first aid, but he was being so soft, so patient, I couldn’t dig up the energy to be an asshole. “Okay.”
He held my face in his hand again as he swiped the cream on with his opposite finger, and it was totally worth it, even though it did hurt a little. He was so careful though, dabbing so gently, and then he tore open a little square band-aid and stuck it on top.
“No more picking at that,” he told me sternly. “It needs to heal.”
“Yeah. I’ll try.”
He smirked at me a little and bent and kissed me on the forehead before I realized what he was doing. I hated it. Hated it so much I leaned forward so he’d do it again.
His lips brushed against me, and then he slipped his fingers under my chin and tilted my head back up. “I’ve been wanting to do that all week,” he said softly, and his voice sounded a little busted, like this was an emotional moment or something instead of just nurse shit.
I shook my head, not sure why. “You shouldn’t,” I told him.
