6. Tommy

Chapter six

Tommy

A fter retrieving the rental from San Onofre's parking lot and enduring the hour-long drive, I find myself ensconced in Tilly's living room, propped up by pillows on her couch, which is adorned with duct tape here and there. Tilly flits about, ensuring my comfort, her attentiveness unwavering though she remains silent about the state of her furniture. I don't press; it's not my style. When she's ready, she'll tell me. People don't give me enough credit; I might be a goofball, but I'm a patient goofball.

There's a faint lightheadedness lingering from the day's events, amplified perhaps by the sight of her fussing over me, her worried glances, and the instances I've managed to draw out her blushes.

It's become a game for me, seeing how quickly I can get her cheeks rosy. The first time was after she bought us tacos on the way home. I told her they were delicious and bam, her face turned bright red. Then when she told me we were going back to her place, I told her I always wondered where she ended up and again, her face lit up like a tomato.

It feels almost surreal, like stepping into a fantasy. And yes, the throbbing in my forehead probably adds a layer to that sensation.

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.

I close my eyes again, repeating the word 'friend' in my mind like a mantra. It does nothing. My entire body is begging me to touch her and my brain is completely on board, stupid impulsive thing that it is.

Unable to resist any longer, I place my hand on her calf, letting my fingertips trace gentle paths up and down. The immediate response from my body sends my mind reeling. With a single touch, I'm harder than steel. Jesus. I've never been so affected by any other woman. One simple brush of her skin and I'm ready to dive dick first into her sacred ocean. But touching her feels right, as instinctive as swimming to the surface for air after a wipeout.

I half expect her to recoil or chastise me. But instead, she shifts, extending her leg across my lap in a silent offer of more.

The realization that she wants this too sends a thrill through me, yet I'm momentarily frozen in surprise. I can't do anything but stare at her beautiful toes tantalizingly close to my cock. I'm not a foot guy, but it's Tilly . Every inch of her is utter perfection. "That felt nice," she says after a moment of my gawking, breaking the spell.

My eyebrows lift as I try to gauge her expression. But the stubborn woman won't look at me. Holding in my smirk, I sit up a little straighter, my chest puffing out. "Yeah? I can keep going," I offer, and she nods, her attention seemingly fixed on the TV as I resume my caresses. Her sigh of contentment as my fingers glide over her skin sets my heart racing.

Eventually, a soft knock at the door signals the arrival of our food. Tilly gets up to retrieve it. The moment she's gone, I shiver. At least I get to see the sway of her delicious hips as she walks to the door. My eyes are glued to her ass as she picks the plastic bag full of takeout off the mat.

As she comes back, I pull her coffee table closer to the couch. It wobbles as I do, and I huff out an irritated sigh. Everything in her place is like that. On its last legs or duct taped together like her couch.

"Til, you got to get some new stuff."

Her jaw drops, and she lets the bag fall onto the coffee table with a loud thump. "I do not!"

I don't allow her objection to deter me. "What I don't get is how you can afford a three thousand dollar drum set, but not a forty dollar table." I gesture to the pathetic thing. "This is begging to be put out of its misery." To emphasize my point, I use one finger to coax the wood to sway.

"Stop that! You'll hurt its feelings," she plops onto the couch next to me and whips open one of the boxes. The smell of cheesy, greasy goodness wafts into the air, and my stomach roars. Reaching for the second box, Tilly slides it just out of my reach. "Hey!" I snip out.

"Apologize," she says, lifting her burger to her mouth. Her plump lips wrap around the bun, and she bites off a third of it. All I can do is stare. What is it with her and food? She's not even trying and its the sexiest thing I've seen, watching her eat.

Swallowing hard, I try to push thoughts of her lips out of my mind. "Tilly, I am very sorry I insulted your gross furniture," I say, reaching for the box again.

She pushes it out further away. "Not to me, to it."

"What?" I chuckle out. She only arches an eyebrow. I flop back and let my arms cross. "I'd rather starve." She shrugs and shoves more of her burger into her mouth. A roar gurgles in my belly, and I glance down at it. With how hard it's protesting, I almost expect to see my shirt moving.

"Stop staring, freak." Her tongue flicks out to lick some ketchup off her finger. Fuck me. If I don't eat the burger soon, something else is suddenly sounding very tasty.

As discreetly as possible, I adjust my hospital sweatpants so my cock isn't making the perfect little embarrassing tent. By the time I'm settled back again, her burger is gone. She grabs the cup of fries and leans back, popping a handful into her mouth. It's so unladylike but so unapologetically Tilly, that I laugh.

"Something funny?"

Shrugging, I let my leg sway back and forth. "Guess I see why you don't like dates, eating like that. It's…animalistic."

She glares at me, then clutches a huge fistful of fries, her eyes never leaving mine. She shoves every single one into her mouth then tilts her head back and lets out an over-the-top moan.

And I'm hard again. The little minx is seriously punishing me and not in the way she thinks. The sound was so erotic that I know I'll explode in my sweats if I don't do something rash. I jump to my feet, surprised at the anger not being able to touch her like I want to has caused. "Goddamn it, Tilly! Let me eat!" I yell. She stands up too and juts a finger at her coffee table. "Apologize!"

Moving around her, huffing and puffing the entire way, I drop to my knees. "Oh Great One!" I start, bellowing as I shut my eyes. "Please forgive my sharp tongue over your stability. You are the master of tables, and deserve an everlasting life in this palace of a one-bedroom apartment."

Opening my eyes, I see her standing over the table, the grin on her lips unmistakably victorious. "Oh, fuck off," I say before snatching my Styrofoam container.

Since my food is inhaled in no less than three-point-five minutes, we don't speak. But after I'm done and she clears our trash, she immediately places both her legs on my lap again as she lies down. I struggle to suppress a smirk, continuing to draw patterns on her skin as we watch the movie. My hand eventually finds a rhythm that feels as normal as breathing, as if this closeness, this intimacy with her, is the most natural thing in the world.

Halfway through the movie, fatigue starts to claim me. It's been a long day, and the ache in my head is a constant reminder.

I allow my eyes to close, my hand still maintaining its gentle rubbing. This moment is strangely reminiscent of how we used to be, comfortably entwined in each other's presence. I smile at the memory. We spent countless nights like this back in Costa Rica, minus the TV or the physical contact, of course. That's new for us, but I fucking love it.

This feels like a return to those simpler times, yet something between us has shifted, deepening into a connection I'm only beginning to understand. I've never ventured as far as to touch her, other than that awesome night of dancing.

When I next glance at Tilly, her eyes are closed, the peaceful rise and fall of her chest signaling her rest. A smile crosses my face, and I lay my head back, feeling like this is the perfect ending to a tumultuous day.

Later, unable to ignore the pounding headache any longer, I gently move Tilly's legs and head to the bathroom for some ibuprofen. After swallowing the pills, I catch a glimpse of Tilly moving towards the bedroom. A sigh escapes me, disappointment settling in at the thought of spending the rest of the night apart. I glance at myself in the mirror and chuckle out, "You really thought she wanted you like that? Fucking idiot." Splashing some cold water on my cheeks, careful to avoid the stitches on my forehead, I sigh. It was fun while it lasted, I guess.

Then, her voice, soft and close, breaks the silence. "You okay?" Turning around, I see her in the hallway, arms laden with blankets. "Sorry, I got cold."

"Yeah, my head was bugging me."

She gestures back towards the couch with a questioning look. "You wanna...?"

Following her lead, I return to the couch, expecting her to claim a separate space as before. But instead, she snuggles against me, resting her head on my shoulder.

"This okay?" she asks. I lift my arm, wrapping it around her, pulling her close so her head nestles against my chest. My heart is tapping out a little staccato beat in my chest and I hope she doesn't hear it. I'm supposed to be this chill dude, not someone that gets all sorts of butterflies from snuggling.

"Erm, yeah," I manage to say, a smile playing on my lips as I pull the blanket over us. Beneath it, I let my fingers gently dance across her bare shoulder, feeling her skin pebble under my touch. With a contented sigh, I close my eyes, embracing her the way I've always dreamed.