Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Reader discretion advised. Everything is fictional!!
Tyler
I was dozing off, sprawled across my bed, the room dim and sticky with the faint smell of beer and gasoline. Lexi had come by earlier—probably looking to drag me into whatever stupid celebration she'd cooked up after the race—but I wasn't in the mood. I'd already spent the evening chasing adrenaline, drinking too much, laughing too loud with Cole and the guys, and the last thing I needed was her hovering over me. I'd sent her off, gentle-ish but firm, and finally drifted toward sleep.
Then came the knock.
Hard, impatient. Like the world was about to end if I didn't respond.
I groaned, rolling onto my side. Of course it was late. Of course someone had to ruin the peace.
I pull myself up, rubbing at my temple. "Who the hell—?"
I open the door.
And there he is. Aaron. Standing there, battered, bruised, blood drying at the corner of his nose, swelling already forming under one eye.
My first reaction isn't surprise. It's irritation. And then a spike of... concern I immediately shove down.
"What the—Aaron? What the fuck happened to you?"
He doesn't answer. Doesn't even acknowledge me. He barges in, practically shoving past, heading straight for where he thinks Lexi might be.
"Wait, hold up—" I start, but he's ignoring me completely.
"I know she's here," he snaps. "I'm not leaving without her."
"She's not," I say, my voice low, trying to mask both frustration and the tiniest edge of worry. "She left hours ago. Go home."
He freezes, jaw tight, eyes narrowing. "You're fucking my sister again? Why? Just to piss me off or something?"
I bristle. "Jesus Christ, Aaron. Calm your shit—"
"I don't need calm! I need her!" His voice is cracking, and I see it now. He's hurt. Not just bruised. But something inside him is screaming.
He stumbles slightly, and I move instinctively to steady him. But he jerks away, scowling, until he collapses onto the couch. He's pale, white around the lips, one hand clutching his arm, the other holding his ribs.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath.
He glares up at me, but the fire is fading, replaced by sharp, hollow pain. "Don't... don't fucking ask."
I raise an eyebrow, leaning against the doorway. "Not gonna ask. You look like hell anyway. Race? Fight? Whatever it was, you're a mess."
He doesn't answer. Just scowls harder, grinding his teeth. His silence is loud.
I smirk, though it's half irritation, half... something I can't name. "Didn't expect you to show up here tonight, bleeding like a fucking idiot."
He flinches slightly at the smirk, muttering under his breath. "Yeah? Well... didn't expect you to be hungover either. Smells like shit in here."
I shrug. "Celebration. Cole. A few drinks. You know how it is."
That makes his scowl deepen. Not at the alcohol. Something else. I don't give a shit what it is.
"You're in no position to lecture me," he snaps, his voice rough. "So save it."
I step closer, crouching slightly to get a better view of the bruises forming on his ribs. I shouldn't care. I don't care. But maybe... I kind of do. Doesn't mean I say it.
"Either you leave, or take a damn shower before you start bleeding all over my couch," I say finally, masking the sharp edge with a mockingly casual tone.
He glares, lips tight. "I'm not going anywhere."
I tilt my head, studying him. "Really? You'd rather sit here, wrecked, than go home?"
He hesitates for a second. And I catch it. The unspoken. His dad. The drunk. The shitstorm waiting at the trailer. His jaw tightens.
He grits out, almost to himself, "Yeah... I'd rather deal with you than go back there."
I snort softly, shaking my head. "Lucky me."
He doesn't answer, just shifts on the couch, wincing. I stay put, leaning against the wall. The tension is thick. Neither of us wants to give an inch, and yet... he's here. Alone, hurt, and apparently trusting me not to kick him out.
"Move a little," I say finally, pointing toward the small space on the sofa. "You're bleeding like a moron, and I'm not cleaning it."
He mutters something under his breath, but complies, shifting slightly. My eyes flick to his ribs, and his arm, the darkening bruises spreading. A reminder of today's race and everything neither of us wants to admit we're thinking about.
I don't ask. I don't offer sympathy. I just stand there, annoyed, but my brain is stuck on him—the mess, the stubbornness, the anger.
And he sits there, grinding his teeth, probably hating me as much as ever, and I can't tell if the fact that he's here makes me more irritated... or a little unsettled.
Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy, like the air itself is holding its breath. Finally, Aaron mutters, "I'll... take a shower."
I snort under my breath. I point toward the bathroom. "Down the hall. First door on the right."
He just grunts and disappears inside, leaving me alone in the living room.
I flop back onto the sofa, running a hand through my hair, muttering curses under my breath. This is ridiculous. I hate him. I hate how he shows up here, bleeding and pissed off, and I can't even kick him out. And that idiot dad of his—Christ, the things he puts that kid through. I don't like Aaron, not really, but I know enough about families like his. Most people in this neighborhood know. Dysfunction everywhere. Pain everywhere. Still, seeing it up close makes me want to punch something.
I stand, wandering toward my room, thinking over the night, over the race, over Aaron's stupid face and stubborn attitude. My hands land on a pile of clothes. Sweatpants, T-shirts, hoodies. All for him. All except underwear. Absolutely not letting that dick of his touch the same spot mine ever has. The thought alone sparks something unpleasant in my chest, something I shove down fast.
I toss the clothes onto the arm of the sofa and take a seat, cracking open a beer.
The bathroom door opens a few minutes later. Aaron steps out, a towel wrapped around his waist.
Holy shit.
He's taller than me by a few inches. Muscles toned, not as carved as mine, but strong. Broad shoulders, defined arms, scars and bruises—some old, some fresh—from races and fights and everything in between. The V-line is sharp, hair trailing down toward his bellybutton, just enough to make me glance and then immediately look away.
He raises an eyebrow at the clothes on the sofa, a look of disgust on his face.
I sip my beer and roll my eyes, leaning back comfortably. "Burn them after, I don't care. I'm definitely not wearing them again."
His jaw tightens, and he mutters something under his breath, but I don't care. I just watch him for a moment, noting how tense he is, how stubborn, how... infuriatingly human. Pain, pride, anger, and a body that says he's survived way too much to back down now.
I take another sip of beer and settle in, letting him take the space he needs
Aaron finally dresses, pulling the clothes I'd left out onto his body. My clothes. T-shirt over bruised shoulders, jeans over sore legs. He flops onto the sofa afterward, careful to leave a wide space between us. Safe zone. Obvious line drawn in the air.
I keep my beer in hand, watching him settle, eyes narrowing slightly at how deliberately he avoids me. He looks exhausted. Pain etched into every line of his body. And yet... stubborn as hell.
A few minutes pass in silence. Then, before I even realize what's happening, he reaches over and grabs the beer from my hand.
"What the fuck—" I start, but he just smirks, finishing half the bottle in two long pulls.
I roll my eyes, push myself off the sofa, and head to the kitchen. Another beer in hand. Back on the sofa, I sit down again, taking a sip.
"You know," I say casually, trying to fill the silence, "Cole and I—after the race—we went to celebrate. After that I went home and your sister tried to.. you know. But I sent her home. I wasn't in the mood." Fuck, why the heck am I explaining myself to this idiot?
Aaron doesn't respond, just shifts, jaw tight. I take another sip, pretending not to notice the tension simmering between us. Pretending.
He glances at me briefly, then away. I catch it. That tiny flicker of something—anger? Confusion? Doesn't matter. Neither of us wants to acknowledge it, and yet it's there, hovering.
Time drifts. The soft hum of the street outside. The faint smell of oil and old gasoline still lingering.
Aaron closes his eyes. Breathing slows. His body relaxes finally, even if just a little. Soon, he's asleep.
I stay seated, watching him. His chest rises and falls, bruises catching the dim light, lips still swollen from the race and fight. For a moment, I just study him, curious, irritated, maybe even... annoyed at myself for caring.
The quiet doesn't last. My jaw tightens. The anger, the resentment—built up from the race, the fights, the way he hates me and yet I can't stop noticing him—rushes back in.
I set my beer aside, stand, stretch, and mutter under my breath, "Fuck it."
I head to my room. The door clicks shut behind me, leaving him alone on the sofa, sprawled across it like a king of a territory he shouldn't own, the air between us still thick with unspoken war.