When I returned to the apartment with my wrist in a brace, I tried to act like it was no big deal.
At least, that was what I kept telling myself. A minor strain, a few days of resting my hand, no lifting, no overdoing it, no sudden movements. It sounded reasonable, until I closed the apartment door behind me and realized just how many things I normally did with that hand.
Cooking. Showering. Buttoning my pants. Moving a mug from one side of the desk to the other.
And one more thing I definitely wasn't going to say out loud.
"Well, well," Ryan said from the living room as soon as he saw me. "Our Matt needs some care."
He was sprawled out on the couch shirtless, as if the whole apartment were naturally his private gym after a workout. Ryan always looked like he'd just finished a set of push-ups: broad chest, strong arms, a hard, flat stomach, slightly tousled hair, and a smile that was a bit too confident. He was the kind of guy who knew he looked good and didn't pretend otherwise.
Dylan sat at the table, calmer, in a gray T-shirt that clung to his shoulders. He didn't have Ryan's brash energy, but that made him seem different. Darker eyes, a quieter voice, a body just as well-built, only less on display. Dylan watched more closely. As if he saw more than he said.
"Does it hurt?" he asked right away.
"A little," I said, lifting my braced wrist. "The doctor says I need to rest it for a few days."
Ryan whistled softly.
"So much for being self-sufficient."
I laughed briefly, but his words had already hit exactly where they shouldn't have.
Dylan set down his mug.
"Do you need anything? Dinner? Ice? Help with the shower?"
"It's fine," I said quickly. "It's just my wrist. I'll manage."
Ryan tilted his head, looking at me with that provocative smile of his.
"Sure. Everyone says that on the first day."
I rolled my eyes and headed for my room, but I could feel their eyes on me. Ryan amused, Dylan more concerned. Two well-built roommates, ready to help me with things I couldn't do on my own.
At first, I thought the pain would be the biggest problem.
It wasn't until later that I realized the real problem would start when my body remembered what I couldn't do on my own.
I closed the door to my room, and only then did I allow myself to breathe.
I sat down on the bed, resting my injured wrist on a pillow the way the doctor had told me to. For a moment, I genuinely tried to treat it like it was nothing unusual. A few days. No big deal. A little rest, a little caution, no stupid movements.
Except my body had a mind of its own.
The longer I sat there alone, the more tension I felt. Not just in my hand. In my stomach, my thighs, lower down. Maybe it was the stress from the doctor's visit. Maybe it was Ryan sitting shirtless on the couch. Maybe it was Dylan looking at me so calmly, as if he really wanted to know exactly where I needed help.
I tried to ignore it.
I lay on my back, closed my eyes, and took deep breaths. But it only took a few seconds for my thoughts to drift back to where they shouldn't be. To Ryan's broad chest. To his shoulders. To that stupid phrase: "So much for being self-sufficient."
My cock started to get hard under my shorts.
"Great," I muttered to myself. "Perfect timing."
I tried using my good hand, but it felt awkward. Wrong angle, wrong rhythm, everything was off. I tried moving my injured hand, instinctively, carefully, but the pain in my wrist stopped me right away.
I hissed and pulled my hand back.
That just frustrated me even more.
I sat up more abruptly, covering my hips with a pillow, as if that would solve the problem. I was tense, irritated, and embarrassed that a minor injury could so quickly rob me of control over my own body.
Then someone knocked.
"Are you alive?" I heard Ryan's voice.
I froze.
"Yeah," I replied too quickly.
The door opened a crack before I could adjust my position. Ryan peeked inside, still shirtless, with a towel slung over his shoulder. His gaze immediately swept over me: my face, my tense shoulders, the pillow on my hips, my overly stiff posture.
The smile vanished from his face for just a second.
Then it returned, but it was different. Less playful.
"Is it just about the hand… or something else?"
I felt myself getting hot.
"Never mind."
Ryan walked into the room and closed the door behind him. He didn't come too close right away. He just leaned against the wall and looked at me calmly, as if giving me a chance to tell the truth without forcing me to.
"Dude," he said more quietly. "We live together. I can tell when a guy's hurting."
I looked at him, then looked away.
I didn't have to say anything.
Ryan already knew.
He just looked at me for a moment.
He didn't laugh. He didn't make some stupid comment. And that was the worst part, because if he had joked about it, I could have defended myself. I could have rolled my eyes, told him to get lost, pretended I was sitting on the bed with a pillow over my hips simply because it was comfortable.
But he was calm.
"You don't have to be embarrassed," he said finally.
"Ryan..."
"Your wrists's injured. You're tense. And you clearly need some relief."
I felt my face grow hot.
"That's none of your business."
"Maybe not," he admitted. "But I can help."
I looked at him sharply.
"Are you serious?"
Ryan shrugged, as if he were offering to hand me a glass of water.
"Yes. If you want."
Those three words hung heavily between us. It didn't sound like a joke. It didn't sound like pressure. It sounded like an open door, behind which stood something my body had already decided on long before I had a chance to think.
"You don't have to," I said, though I could hear for myself how weak it sounded.
Ryan smiled slightly.
"I know. But I can."
He sat down on the edge of the bed, leaving a little space between us. I was still covered with a pillow, tense, with my injured arm resting beside me. Ryan noticed this and snorted quietly.
"All right," he said, taking the towel off his shoulder and tossing it onto a chair. "Then I won't pretend this is completely normal either."
He ran his hand over his own chest, as if by reflex, and my eyes followed it automatically. Broad shoulders, a firm stomach, a defined line of muscles leading down to his shorts. Ryan could tell I was looking.
"Better?" he asked.
"Worse," I mumbled.
He laughed softly.
"So it's working."
He moved closer and sat down by my legs.
"Show me."
I hesitated.
Ryan looked me in the eyes.
"Matt. If you don't want me to, I'll leave. If you do, I'll help. Simple."
I breathed heavily for a few seconds before slowly pushing the pillow aside. My shorts were tight, giving away everything I'd been trying not to say. Ryan didn't laugh. He didn't make a face. He just looked at me with quiet, focused interest.
"Okay," he said in a low voice. "So you really do need help."
I swallowed hard.
"Yes."
That one word was enough.
Ryan leaned in and carefully helped me slide down my shorts and underwear, making sure I didn't have to use my injured hand. When my cock sprang out, hard and taut, the atmosphere in the room changed completely.
Ryan looked at me once more.
"So, I'll ask one last time. Do you want me to take care of this?"
I nodded.
"I do."
His hand slowly wrapped around my cock.
And suddenly, the injury wasn't just a problem anymore.
Ryan's hand was warm.
That was the first thing I felt really clearly. Not the strength, not the pace, not the technique. The warmth of someone else's hand wrapped around my cock so calmly, as if Ryan had known from the start that this was exactly how the conversation would end.
For the first few seconds, he barely moved. He just held me, feeling the way my body reacted to his touch. His grip tightened slightly at the base, then slowly moved upward. I hissed through my teeth before I could stop myself.
Ryan looked at my face.
"Oh, is that so?" he asked quietly. "Is that good?"
"It's just... it's been a long time since anyone..."
I trailed off.
I didn't have to finish.
Ryan understood. And that was what disarmed me the most, that he wasn't laughing, wasn't rushing me, wasn't turning it into some silly game. He was watching closely, as if he really wanted to get to know my body.
He began to move his hand more slowly, from the base to the tip, in a long, even motion. When he reached the head, his thumb glided over it carefully, gathering the first bit of moisture and spreading it across the skin. My hips twitched involuntarily.
"Relax," he said. "You don't have to do anything. I'll take care of it."
That sentence hit me harder than the touch itself.
Because I really couldn't do anything. My injured wrist lay beside me on the pillow, useless, and my body was completely at the mercy of his hand. Ryan guided me calmly, confidently, getting better and better at sensing when to speed up, when to slow down, when to tighten his fingers a little more.
I was breathing harder and harder.
So was he.
I could tell by his chest. By the way he leaned over me a little more. By the way his gaze kept shifting from my cock to my stomach, then back to my face, as if every reaction of mine was telling him something new.
"Fuck, Matt," he muttered. "You really are sensitive."
"Shut up..."
Ryan smiled under his breath.
His hand picked up the pace just a little. Not too hard. Not erratically. Just enough so that the tension began to build inside me faster, deeper, sharper. His fingers worked confidently, his thumb returning to the tip every time I moaned, and Ryan was reading my body better with every passing second.
I was embarrassed.
And completely on fire.
"Ryan..." I gasped. "I'm close…"
He didn't stop. He just leaned in closer.
"I know. Do it."
That broke me.
I came hard, with a broken moan, my thighs tensing as my good hand pressed into the sheets. Ryan didn't pull away right away. He guided me through the whole orgasm with calm, slower strokes, until my body stopped trembling and my breathing started to settle again.
We were both silent for a moment.
Then Ryan reached for a tissue, wiped his hand, and looked at me with a slight smile.
"Well," he said. "That's one need taken care of. If anything else comes up, you know where to find me."
I lay there, out of breath, my wrist still resting on the pillow and my head filled with a single thought.
At first, I was afraid this injury would be a problem.
But if this was how Ryan was going to help me, maybe the worst part of the injury was about to become the best.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
