The next morning, I woke up with my wrist pulsing lightly under the brace and my head full of Ryan.
That was the worst part.
Not the pain. Not the discomfort. Not having to figure out how to button my pants with one hand or make coffee without cursing under my breath. The worst part was the memory of his hand. Warm, steady, calm. The way he had told me I didn't have to do anything, because he would take care of it.
And he really did take care of it.
I lay in bed for a while longer, staring at the ceiling, feeling my body react to the mere memory. I tried to convince myself that it was a one-time fluke. A practical favor. A silly moment between roommates that neither of us would ever mention again.
But when I went out to the kitchen, Ryan was already there.
Shirtless, of course. He was leaning his hip against the counter, drinking coffee, and looking way too relaxed for someone who'd made me come with his own hand just the day before.
He looked at my wrist, then at my face.
"How's it going?" he asked.
"Fine."
"So the treatment's working."
I felt myself getting hot, but Ryan just smiled briefly and went back to his coffee, as if we were really talking about painkillers.
Dylan was sitting at the table, quiet, with a mug of tea between his hands. He didn't say anything in front of Ryan, but I could tell he was watching. His gaze moved over me calmly, from my braced wrist to the tension in my jaw.
Ryan left first, calling over his shoulder that he was going to take a shower. When the bathroom door closed, silence fell over the kitchen.
Dylan set his mug down.
His gaze shifted briefly toward the hallway Ryan had disappeared into, then back to me.
"Did Ryan help you yesterday?"
I froze at the counter.
"With what?"
Dylan didn't smile. He wasn't joking. He looked first at my wrist, then straight at me.
"With what you don't want to talk about."
For a moment, I didn't know what to say. With Ryan, everything was direct, almost brazen. With Dylan, it was worse, because he didn't need to push. All he had to do was look at me calmly, and I felt as if he could see exactly what I was trying to hide.
"He helped," I admitted quietly.
Dylan nodded.
"Was it easier for you?"
"Yes."
"But you're still tense."
I didn't ask how he knew. It would have been pointless.
Dylan leaned slightly over the table, keeping his voice low and calm.
"Maybe a hand isn't the best way to relax."
I looked at him.
And I knew right away that this conversation wouldn't end with just coffee.
For a moment, I stared at Dylan, trying to figure out if he'd really said what I'd heard.
Maybe a hand wasn't the best way.
It sounded innocent only if someone was really trying to pretend. And I no longer had the strength to pretend I didn't understand the subtext in my own apartment.
"And what method would be better?" I finally asked.
Dylan didn't answer right away.
That was typical of him, too. Ryan would have said something cheeky, smiled, and turned it into a challenge. Dylan sat quietly, his hands clasped around his mug, but I could tell the words were costing him more than he wanted to show.
"One where you don't have to use either hand," he said quietly.
My heart skipped a beat.
Ryan turned on the water in the bathroom. The sound of the shower filled the hallway, as if the apartment itself wanted to drown out what was happening between Dylan and me in the kitchen.
"Dylan..."
He stood up from the table and stepped closer. Not too close. Not so close that I'd feel pinned against the countertop. He simply closed the distance enough for me to see that he wasn't joking.
"I can do it with my mouth," he said. "If you want."
I slowly let out the breath I'd been holding.
There was none of Ryan's confidence in it. There was no provocation. Dylan said it so calmly, as if he were genuinely offering something protective. Something meant to relieve me, not just turn me on. And that's exactly why my body reacted immediately.
"Are you serious?" I asked.
Dylan nodded.
"Yes. But only if you want to. If it feels weird, I'll stop."
For a second, all I could hear was the water from the bathroom and my own breathing.
"I want to," I said quietly.
Dylan didn't smile widely. His gaze only softened, as if my trust meant more to him than the act itself.
"Come on."
He led me to my room. He told me to sit on the bed, adjusted the pillow under my wrist so my hand was comfortable, and then knelt down in front of me.
The sight of him almost disarmed me.
Dylan, calm and protective, kneeling between my legs, as if he were truly about to take care of me better than anyone ever had before.
"Relax," he said, placing his hands on my thighs. "I'll take good care of you."
And this time, I believed him without a second thought.
Dylan took his time.
That immediately set him apart from Ryan. There was something practical and confident about Ryan, as if he knew from the very first second that he could take control. Dylan did everything more quietly. More slowly. As if every decision he made was meant first to calm me down, and only then to push me to the limit.
His hands glided over my thighs, warm and calm.
"Don't move that hand," he said softly. "I'll do it."
I nodded, though my throat was too dry to speak.
Dylan carefully helped me slide down my shorts and underwear, making sure I didn't have to use my injured hand. When my cock sprang free, hard and taut, he only looked at it for a moment. He didn't laugh. He didn't make a joke. There was a focus in his gaze that made me feel more exposed than Ryan's cockiness ever had.
"Okay…" he said quietly. "So you really still need help."
I gave him a shy, embarrassed smile.
Dylan leaned in closer.
First, I felt his breath. Warm, gentle, right at the tip. That alone was enough to make me clench my good hand against the sheet.
Then he touched me with his tongue.
Lightly.
Slowly.
He ran it over the very tip, gathering the first bit of moisture, as if testing the taste and my reaction at the same time. I sucked in a breath through my teeth, and Dylan immediately stopped for a second and looked up.
"Okay?"
"Very good," I managed to say.
Only then did he return.
He slowly ran his tongue along my length, from the base all the way to the head, without rushing, as if he were truly getting to know my body. Then he took me shallowly into his mouth. The warmth of his mouth was soft, precise, different from anything I'd expected. He didn't try to take me deep right away. He'd pause at the tip, work his tongue, pull back, return, listening to my every breath.
His hands remained on my thighs, holding me gently in place.
I didn't have to do anything.
All I could do was sit there with my wrist resting on the pillow, my head tilted slightly back, and let Dylan guide me steadily toward the release I already needed.
And the worst part was that he was doing it so well, as if he already understood exactly how much I needed his lips right then.
Dylan grew more confident with every reaction of mine.
At first, he was cautious, almost exploratory, as if he were really testing what felt best for me. But now his movements had a rhythm. Soft, slow, precise. He'd take me in with his lips, pull back to the tip, linger there with his tongue for a second longer, and then take me deeper again, calmly, without rushing.
I was breathing harder and harder.
My injured wrist rested safely on the pillow, but the rest of my body was working for it. My thighs tensed under Dylan’s hands, my stomach trembled, and my good hand gripped the sheets so tightly it was as if I needed to hold on to something to keep from falling apart too quickly.
Dylan looked up.
That finished me.
He didn't have Ryan's brazenness. There was a quiet confidence in his eyes. Protective, calm, but completely aware of what he was doing to me. As if he were telling me with his eyes: don't worry, I know what I'm doing.
"Dylan…" I gasped. "I'm about to…"
He didn't pull away.
He simply slid one hand higher up my thigh in a soothing gesture and held my hip steady with the other. Then he gave a slight nod without taking his mouth off me.
That gesture broke me more than anything else.
I came in his mouth with a deep, ragged moan, my whole body tensed on the bed, then went limp all at once. Dylan took it without hesitation. He didn't pull back, didn't stop, but stayed with me through the whole orgasm, just as patient as he'd been from the beginning. I felt his lips, his tongue, his hands on my thighs, and that quiet, focused devotion that made sure there wasn't a single second of shame in it.
When he finally pulled away, I sank onto the bed, breathing heavily, sprawled out on the bed as if I'd just been through something much bigger than just a little "help."
Dylan wiped his mouth with his thumb.
For a moment, he looked at me calmly, almost tenderly.
"I think that was a better way," he said.
I gave a weak laugh, still boneless from the release.
"Much better."
Dylan smiled slightly, but instead of getting up right away, he adjusted the pillow under my wrist. He did it so gently, as if he really had never forgotten why he'd started in the first place.
"If you ever need help with something more… practical," he said quietly, "you can let me know."
I was left alone a few minutes later, my body still relaxed, my mind blank, and my wrist resting comfortably exactly where Dylan had left it.
After Ryan, I thought it was just a one-time fling.
After Dylan, I realized something else.
My roommates weren't just willing to help me.
They were starting to find their own ways to take care of every need I couldn't handle myself.
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