When I wake up the next morning, it takes me a few seconds to remember where I am. Right. Tank’s place. Or I should say, Peter’s place. God, that sounds ten kinds of wrong. That name does not fit him at all.

He actually let me sleep in his bed, claiming his couch was lumpy, and I needed the sleep. I have to admit I slept well, better than I have in a few weeks, probably. It’s not easy getting enough sleep between two jobs and classes. Plus, Tank’s bed was super comfortable, and he even made it with fresh sheets that smelled like lavender. I was out like a light as soon as my sore face hit the pillow.

I do vaguely remember Tank waking me twice to ask me some stupid shit. Guess he paid attention when I explained the concussion protocol I have to follow. I know I answered and then fell right back asleep.

My face hurts and so does my head, so I should probably pop another painkiller. It’s not like I’m working today. Yesterday’s shoot was a bust, obviously, so we have to reschedule that, and I have classes this morning that I’ll have to miss. There’s no way I’m well enough to drive just yet. Maggie, the ER nurse, already contacted the scheduling supervisor for me to let her know I won’t be coming in for my late shift, so all bases are covered.

I drag myself out of bed, moaning softly when a wave of nauseating pain hits me as soon as I’m vertical. Hot damn, Tank hit me hard. Asshole. Shit, the pain is even overriding my usual morning wood, which proves once again that I may like a rough fuck and some hair pulling, but pain in general really doesn’t turn me on.

After I take a leak—wincing when I spot my purple cheek in the mirror as I wash my hands—I carefully put on some clothes and stumble into the living room where Tank is sitting at a dining table, holding a cup of coffee and reading something on his laptop.

“Morning,” I grunt.

Tank immediately looks up. “How are you feeling?”

“You applying for a job in my hospital?”

His eyes narrow. “I was concerned, fuckboy, but I see you’re yourself again.”

I sigh. “Actually, it hurts.”

He slowly rises, then to my surprise, grips my chin and turns my head a little to study my cheek. “It looks painful. I really hit you hard.”

There’s a sense of something in his voice I can’t quite place. “You did.”

“I’m sorry.”

That’s so unexpected that I’m lost for words.

He lets go of my face and jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I shouldn’t have told Rebel I could pull this off. I should’ve known you’d duck.”

“Wouldn’t you have?” I fire back, thinking he’s still blaming me.

He cringes ever so slightly. “That’s what I’m saying. We don’t have the level of trust required to do this.”

“Oh.” I cock my head, wincing as pain flashes through my head. I hope those painkillers work quickly, because a whole day of this is not fun.

Tank sighs. “I’ll make you some breakfast.”

“I’m fine with whatever granola bar you have lying around.”

He shakes his head. “Those painkillers are hell on an empty stomach. I’ll make you some real food.”

He doesn’t wait for my response but walks into his kitchen. Was he actually apologizing? I didn’t see that coming. It has to be a temporary guilt attack, inspired by my bruises.

I lower myself on a chair at his dining table, sniffing when delicious smells waft in from the kitchen. Bacon. Fuck, that smells good. I’m usually not much of a breakfast person, but I’m not gonna say no to that. Apparently, Tank is handy in the kitchen. Another unexpected thing about him.

I look around his apartment again. It’s bigger than mine with a living room, half-open kitchen, two bedrooms and even two bathrooms. The latter is something I would kill for, considering my roommate likes to hog the shower. I’ve run out the door without a shower more than once because the asshole couldn’t be bothered to put a rush on so I could get my morning grooming routine in as well. But considering it’s his apartment and I’m merely renting a room, there’s not a hell of a lot I can do.

Tank walks in with two steaming plates and puts one down on the table in front of me. He’s made crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast. Not just any toast, but perfect golden-brown toast cut neatly into four triangles. “Thank you,” I say out of habit.

We eat our breakfast in silence. The food is delicious, and I’m happy to notice the painkillers kicking in, numbing the stabs of pain every time I chew.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” I say. “And after that, you can drive me home.”

“Can I now?” Tank says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“What, you want me to say please and thank you?”

“Manners never were your strong point, so it’s not like I was expecting anything else from you.”

He is such a tight-assed fucker, I think for the tenth time as I’m in the shower. Every time I entertain the idea that underneath that grizzly exterior he’s not so bad, he says something judgmental as shit again and I’m reminded that yes, he really is that much of an ass.

I do wonder why it bothers me so much. I come across judgmental people all the time, but they rarely get to me. Even more, I’m the type of guy who rarely has a beef with other people. I may not have a ton of close friends, which is probably caused by how little spare time I have left between my two jobs and classes, but I have few enemies.

Paul, my roommate, and I aren’t exactly friends, for example, but he doesn’t hate me. We annoy the fuck out of each other because we have opposing views on small details like, for example, hygiene. He was offended when I refused to eat soup he’d left sitting on the counter for two days, even after I explained to him that soup is the ideal environment for bacteria to grow. We’ve had similar differences on cleaning the kitchen and the bathroom. But it’s just that, annoyance.

Come to think of it, Tank is the only person I can think of who actually hates me. And I have to say, the feeling is mutual. What is it about him that rubs me the wrong way? Why is it that I can easily shake off other people’s disapproval, but not his? His stings, for some reason. The only people with a similar effect on me are…

When it hits me, I almost poke myself in the eye with a soapy finger. I cannot believe I never realized it before. Tank makes me feel the same way my mother does. That constant sense of being judged, of disapproval, of guilt she triggers in me, he has that same effect on me.

Guilt for being happy.

Guilt for having fun.

Guilt for enjoying life.

Guilt for being alive.

That’s it; that’s why I can’t stand to be around Tank. He constantly makes me feel like I should apologize for who I am. I get enough of that from my parents, and it’s the reason why I stay away from them as much as I can get away with. All the more reason to do the exact same with him. We’ll fuck our way through those nine extra shoots and that’s it.