"Hey, Ollie, got a question for you," Kayla's voice called from her tattoo room down the hall.

It was Wednesday afternoon and his second week at Open Wounds. Ollie had finished with his third walk-in tattoo of the day, some script set over the muscular oblique of one of the gym regulars. The man hadn't seemed to mind Ollie's hands on him at all, and Ollie mused that, if he were looking, he'd landed himself smack in the middle of eye-candy central. He hadn't really spent any time in the gym, but a few quick glances through the glass door emblazoned with Rourke MMA that led from the lobby of the tattoo shop into the gym told him it was glorious, half-naked, muscular heaven.

Ollie rolled his eyes at himself. Not looking, remember? He wasn't willing to let himself get entangled with someone right now. Maybe never again or at least not while the marks from his last "relationship" hadn't completely faded from his body.

The memory of the gentle glide of Dagen's hands over his mistreated skin stole through his mind, and he barely suppressed a shiver. Every night that first week, Dagen had tended to his bruises, checking to make sure none were darkening or spreading, and applying his mom's homemade bruise remedy. Ollie admitted it did make his skin feel nice, and he liked the clean scent.

That night in the kitchen, Ollie had hit a low point, hurting and frustrated, and he hadn't wanted to trust Dagen. He barely knew him, but even though Dagen could probably crush him with one hand, the giant of a man had been so gentle, applying the salve and wrapping his torso. After that, he'd brought him one of the king-sized pillows from his own bed and told Ollie to sleep spooning the pillow while lying on his uninjured side. It had worked.

Maybe he was just that exhausted, but he hadn't slept as well as he had the past two weeks in years. He refused to believe it had anything to do with his nose being tucked against soft fabric saturated in Dagen's scent or the sleeping giant’s presence right down the hall.

Liar.

It certainly wasn't because of the way Dagen stopped by a couple of times a day just to say hello and ask if Ollie had eaten lunch. Apparently, doing the kind of weight lifting Dagen did meant he had to eat five or six meals a day, and he thought he needed to offer Ollie sustenance just as often.

Ollie rolled his eyes at himself. He needed to keep his head out of the clouds and off his gorgeous and stupidly caring roommate. But that was the real problem, wasn't it? Dagen was beautiful, unequivocally so, yet Ollie didn't lump him in with the other beefcake sauntering around the shop and gym.

Because even though Ollie’s dick woke up and took notice every time Dagen walked into a room, that wasn't what kept Ollie's thoughts hostage, and it absolutely wasn't the reason that after less than a month, Ollie was beginning to trust the man. It was because he felt cared for. Like Dagen genuinely cared about him. Maybe that was stupid, but nobody had really cared about Ollie for anything other than what he could do for them in such a long time that he was having trouble defending against it. And if he was being honest with himself, he knew the real problem was that he just didn't want to.

Dagen may be faking it. He may have an ulterior motive, and perhaps Ollie was too tired to give it the kind of fear it deserved, but his gut was telling him that he didn't have to. That with Dagen, there wasn't anything to fear. And that... that was the most terrifying bit of all.

"Ollie?"

"Yeah, I'm coming. Sorry." He snapped himself out of his thoughts and tossed the sanitizing towel he'd been using to wipe down his tattoo chair into the trash before walking the short distance down the hall to Kayla's room.

"What's up?"

Kayla looked up from the phone in her hand. "I just got off the phone with a potential customer. He's some kind of Ancient Japan enthusiast and is looking for someone to sketch him a custom samurai tattoo. You've done some work like that, haven't you?"

"Yeah, I've actually got some sketched if we want to send him some examples. I haven't unpacked all my sketchbooks, so it may take me a minute to find them, but they're right upstairs.”

"That would be great, Ollie, thanks." She shot him a grin, and he grinned back. Even if things were weird with Dagen, it was nice to finally feel like maybe there was someplace he belonged.

It was awkward.

There was no other way to describe it. It had been almost two weeks and other than those first few nights, they'd barely spent any time together at all. Dagen had tried inviting Oliver to eat with him. To watch a movie. Anything to make the obviously uncomfortable man feel more at ease. He'd been racking his brain trying to figure out what he said when they met that Oliver had taken to mean Dagen didn't want him there.

Admittedly, Dagen hadn't wanted him there, but, one look at Oliver had changed that. And not just because the man was gorgeous. Which he was. Smooth tan skin, coal black hair, and chocolate eyes that Dagen was prepared to drown in given half the chance. No, it was the dark circles under those eyes that had first pinged some protective instinct in Dagen.

Oliver was exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that came from more than lack of sleep. There was a wariness in his eyes and posture that would have had Dagen concerned even if he hadn't seen the busted knuckles or bruised torso.

When he'd lifted Oliver's shirt in the kitchen that night, Dagen's blood had boiled seeing the mottled splotches of purple and red covering his side. Now, he wanted to know what the hell had happened to the quiet man he was sharing space with.

Planning to invite Oliver to eat dinner with him again and somehow talk him into accepting the invitation this time, Dagen took the stairs from the back room up to the apartment for a shower.

He'd need to go to the grocery store before he started dinner, and he didn't want to smell like he'd been sweating in a gym all morning. This had been the last hard lifting day before Saturday’s competition. His training was getting back to normal even though he was still struggling with his deadlift. Rory kept telling him to take it easy, to do what he could, but he felt the hooks of failure sinking in and trying to drag him back down to the depression he'd sunk into after his injury. Before he tore his hamstring, he hadn't had an episode that severe in several years and would do everything he could to keep it from getting that bad again.

He pushed open the apartment door and was surprised to hear noise coming from Oliver's room. The door was open which was strange by itself. Oliver almost always kept it closed whether he was in there or not. He just never seemed to be in the apartment during the day. Especially if he thought it was time for one of Dagen's strictly regimented meals.

"Oliver?" he called out, not wanting to startle him.

"Yeah?" came Oliver's muffled reply.

Dagen strolled to the open door of Oliver's room and peeked inside. The room hadn't been disturbed much by Oliver's arrival. He'd mostly left things as they were, even though Dagen had told him he could move whatever he liked. The only signs someone was even staying in the room were the phone charger cord laying over the nightstand and a stick of deodorant sitting on top of the dresser.

Oliver was on his knees in front of the open closet door. Notebooks of every shape and size were strewn all over the floor around him. Dagen tapped his knuckles on the door frame then settled one large shoulder against it, raising an eyebrow at the mess.

Oliver looked back over his shoulder, eyes doing a quick sweep of Dagen that should not have had his blood stirring, before turning back to his task. "What's up?"

"I, uh…" Dagen scratched at his beard. He'd planned out what he wanted to say while he'd been doing his last set of bench presses, but faced with Oliver's tempting backside and partial attention, he found his mind going blank. "Um...I'm heading to the grocery store this afternoon. If there's anything you need, I could pick it up for—"

"Fuck," Oliver breathed, sitting back on his heels in front of the still-open box and running a shaking hand over his face.

After a few moments of silence, Dagen shifted off the door frame and took a tentative step into the room. "Oliver?"

Oliver let the hand he'd still had covering his face fall to his lap and turned his head in Dagen's direction but didn't lift his eyes. "Sorry," he said quietly before giving his head a little shake. "I've just left something behind."

Curious, Dagen perched on the end of the bed so he wasn't completely towering over the other man. "What was it?"

Huffing out a huge breath, Oliver shifted backward and settled on the edge of the bed beside Dagen. "A sketchbook."

Dagen glanced around at the floor, covered in what he assumed were sketchbooks and wondered how Oliver could even tell them apart without opening them first. Most of the ones he could see had similar covers with no discernible outward differences at all. "You're sure it's not one of these?"

The look Oliver shot him was clearly a judgment on Dagen's intelligence, or lack thereof, and Dagen found himself smiling back regardless of its intent. From day one, it was obvious Oliver kept a tight rein on his emotions. He had a neutral face whether he was making coffee in the morning or speaking to a client. Not to say he never changed expressions—he frowned, he smiled—but this was the first time Dagen actually believed one of them. The are you stupid look shifted to curiosity before Dagen's eyes, even as Oliver's gaze dropped down to his mouth. Dagen automatically licked his lips, and Oliver’s eyes widened.

Clearing his throat, he turned his face away from Dagen. "I'm sure. It's...it's, uh, one that I've had since high school." Oliver sighed. "I'd been working on some of those sketches for years. In bits and pieces, you know?"

Dagen didn't know, given that he had zero artistic ability, but he could relate to losing results that you'd put years into building. He'd felt that loss so often after his injury that some days there was a constant pit of failure under his feet ready to swallow him whole. He was feeling much better lately, though the echo of those things still stayed with him. He hated that Oliver would have to face that now with something he obviously cared so much about. "I'm sorry, Oliver."

Oliver's eyes moved back to his. "Ollie. You can call me Ollie."

"Ollie," Dagen said the name gently, wanting to test the weight of it on his tongue and finding that he liked it. Maybe too much.

For a moment, their gazes held. Dagen was barely breathing, lungs seized up with the punch of want in his gut. There was something about this man that pushed all Dagen's buttons. Something in the way he guarded himself against giving away even the smallest secrets. Dagen knew he'd been granted a tiny glimpse inside just now, a drop of trust, and it was dangerous how badly he wanted more.

Ollie cleared his throat and the spell broke, letting air back in the room and leaving Dagen's head spinning. "You said something about groceries?"

Dagen had completely forgotten and he felt the heat rise in his face. "Yeah, I'm heading to the store in a bit." He paused. He'd originally planned to just offer to pick up anything Ollie might need, but he found himself wanting to push, just a little, and wanting more of this man, if only his company. "Want to go with me?"