Chapter Text
You aren’t expecting much when you arrive for the documentary shoot, but hell, for a thousand bucks and probably a decent credit for your new resume? It’s not important who this guy is or what the content might be about.
Part of you is cautiously excited in case it turns out to be awesome, part of you is a debbie downer reminding you that every time you get your stupid, pollyanna hopes up, someone always dashes them into the dirt.
Like a lot of days, you end up caught in between your natural optimism and recently self-imposed new mindset of pessimism, and not feeling very prepared for anything, good or bad. But you keep going, following the long road through the mountain-bordering countryside to the secluded, but lovely rustic house on a hill.
You reflect with a smirk that this Jeep was the only useful result of the would-be ex-boyfriend you took it from when you left him bleeding. His eyes were still as wide open, as clueless in death as they had been when you stabbed him with a butcher’s knife in the kitchen.
But it was his dumb idea to wait until you were actively cooking him dinner one night (albeit as “friends,” but with the clear implication you guys were on a trajectory of “friends to lovers”) to ask if your Chem lab partner Libby was single.
Libby, really?! You were almost as infuriated by the insult of being rejected in favor of a girl who had Courteney Cox’s bangs from Scream 3, but without her delicate facial structure and striking eyes, as by the goddamn meatloaf you were slicing up red onions for.
You let someone into your private world, go through all the emotional labor of priming yourself for intimacy, and this is the thanks you get? You make a man meatloaf on a Tuesday night during finals week no less, and your only reward is humiliating rejection? Uh-uh. No. No way.
On that woeful Tuesday evening, you choked back sobs which he foolishly mistook for onion-cutting tears, and yes, some of them were (onions are bitches as we all know) but the rest were pure, horrified heartbreak.
No doubt, Harrison had regretted telling you of his little crush on Libby when he suddenly discovered himself bleeding out on the floor of the ugly-ass apartment his daddy paid for, but he still didn’t seem to fully grasp what the issue was.
Did you truly have to waste your precious time spelling out for this idiot that you don’t lead an attractive and compatible person on like that and then reveal mid-meatloaf-cookery how you were using them to get to some lame, unworthy girl you happened to be Chem lab partners with the whole time?
Curse those fucking gen-ed courses.
No. You were under no obligation to explain the fundamentals of sensitivity and basic consideration for other people to that bloody, ungrateful disappointment of a man. Instead, you shoved the heel of your kitten boot on the hilt of the knife until it went even deeper into his organs and his eyes blanked out. The satisfying “schlink” sound was one of the evening’s few rewards.
The whole experience at that not-quite-an-Ivy university had been a let-down anyway, with Harrison being the only bright spot that kept you sticking around in the hopes of the curriculum improving as you advanced towards a film-making Bachelor’s. But the professors were dull and demanding while the work was rote and beneath you.
Post-Harry (he hated being called Harry, so you decided that in the unlikely event he ever crossed your mind again, you’d call him that and only that), you had nothing to lose and no reason to stick it out.
Some things were gonna have to change. Like your name and origin story, and a few key details about your physical appearance.
Sure, the stolen identity of your original college roommate from your first go-round of Freshman year back North at an actual Ivy had been useful for a while there.
Transferring to a new state and climate felt like a perfectly fresh start, for a little bit. You always wanted to move to Los Angeles; it was just the ideal place for filmmakers and it was what ingenues always did in movies and tv shows. Hollywood had to be your end destination, so why not dive in sooner than expected?
Your roommate Riley could’ve gotten into any school they pointed at, but you chose this one because it looked solid (mistake) but it was also far away and obscure enough that Riley’s family and friends wouldn’t come looking for you. Not until sufficient time had passed for you to fully integrate yourself into the identity, using the resemblance between yourself and Riley to con even those nearest to the dead Harvard star student that you were their perfect little sweetheart.
It had been quite the risky gambit, and hadn’t exactly paid off, although in retrospect, it was a lesson well-learned. You need to set your sights on more realistic long-games or they might just fall apart. You need to make better damn decisions about who to trust and get close to.
Harry was a more devastating blow to your fragile and exhausted heart than Riley had been in the weeks leading up to your roommate’s “tragic” demise. There was a certain, almost satisfying irony of him bleating out the name “Riley” while dying, not realizing he was only saying the name of your first murder victim while becoming your second, and that he had never really known you at all.
That scene was even movie-worthy. You tuck it into your mind for later, as writing it down now would be incriminating in the unlikely chance anyone suspected you and actually managed to hunt you down, then make charges stick for either crime.
For now, you had to cut and run, but it felt liberating. Just to salt and burn the whole experience and start anew. Fuck L.A. Who needs it? The best filmmakers are the edgy, indie ones who started out in desolate, wintry, super-artsy places. When you sell your first script and get the greenlight to direct the gritty, low-budget debut that is destined to earn you your first Oscar, you will make the whole thing on a shoestring out in the sticks.
So much more integrity that way.
Any producers, et cetera, who want to meet with you about the progress of the movie will probably agree to video calls or moving out there for the duration of the shoot. You know your work is going to be that damn good. You’ll be like if Jennifer Lawrence’s Winter’s Bone mojo married Gus Van Sandt’s early indie energy: unstoppable. A true visionary.
Buuut, you were gonna need a new name; Riley Marshall was not gonna cut it, so to speak (not-sorry, Harry), anymore, obviously so that you can properly disappear. And you also don’t want the awful memories which the name now evokes two times over.
You drove far enough to know it was safe and stopped at a massive storage rental facility where you used some of Riley’s remaining trust fund cash (you were so grateful at having the foresight to tuck a sizable nest egg away in case of emergencies) to purchase a large space.
There, with the tools you easily picked up between the hardware store down the road and a neighboring auto shop, you stripped the Jeep down, removed and replaced all trackable features, and repainted it. Cherry-red would’ve been sweet, but too flashy, so you settled for maroon.
Your dad might’ve been useless for most things, but he had instilled in you an automotive mechanics knowledge you would actually feel grateful for, if not for his otherwise despicable nature.
It took a few days of staying in a motel to finish work on the Jeep, then you drove another whole state on from there and got a room at a mid-level hotel. As usual, you were careful not to leave evidence of a predictable pattern in anything you did.
Then, it was time to give yourself another makeover. This time, instead of being stuck with your mom’s ugly-ass, plain hair that you unfairly inherited, or Riley’s pretentious purple streaks, you got to create yourself just…however you wanted.
And once you were done? Even if you did say so yourself, you looked…hot. Maybe hot was too far. Okay, you looked super-cute, though, bare minimum. You looked very studious but with a rebellious glimmer, side-stepping “hipster” or “goth” to cultivate a mysterious look by combining a few elements of both aesthetics, with a dash of Secret History for good measure.
Examining yourself from all angles in the mirror over the hotel room bureau, you liked what you saw. You climbed on the bed and got a look at the bottom half of your body, since the mirror cut off at waist level when you were standing on the floor.
And heeeyy…the whole silk shirt, suspenders, tweed shorts over black tights with chunky, burgundy oxfords was really working for you. You had to dye your hair one solid, dark color and take off several inches to most expediently de-Riley yourself, but hey.
Shoulder-length, layered raven locks were making you wink in the mirror with a whispered “hey sexy,” but you didn’t make the little cat-claw-swipe gesture because that would make it way too ridiculous.
You were blessed with a glowing, healthy complexion, too bad the family it came from were the worst of all time, but fuck them, the memories of those assholes weren’t gonna hold you back now when you were finally getting into a good mood again. In fact…a great mood!
Still, having naturally good skin came in handy. The look you were so carefully cultivating required that your makeup should be fairly simple. The most notable aspects were the light brush of eyeshadow, a thoughtful but effortless-looking blend of brown and gold, and a tasteful matte lipstick in rose-brown.
You were lounging on the bed, savoring a room service breakfast at ten pm and waiting for your french manicure to dry when you came across the mysterious, but enticing Craigslist ad looking for a filmmaker.
A thousand dollars for one day’s work? Well, Riley’s leftover funds weren’t gonna last much longer at this rate, but that had been inevitable. Taking care of Harry unfortunately meant losing access to Riley’s most redeeming feature, their bank account.
Since you left home at eighteen, you’ve always paid your own way in life, from the scholarship that kicked off your higher education (earned through your own hard work!) to the scheming and quick thinking that had extricated you from some unfortunate little disappointments since then.
This will be no exception. You’ll find new people, places and experiences, new opportunities, and that’s how you will get somewhere to live, earn your way, and kick off your career without the now clearly unnecessary shackle of college education. Another three years of that might’ve killed you.
And this ad? Just proves your instincts were right, like always. This was meant to be.
You texted the number from your brand new phone and got an enthusiastic reply within only a few minutes, giving you an address a couple towns away.
More driving. Ughh…but you know you can do this. Not just because you can’t afford not to; it’s also ‘cause you have a good feeling about this job.
This guy Tyler seemed utterly delighted that you were interested, after reading the fake credits you sent. Did the adorable new profile pic you included on the resume help, too? You don’t know if it matters yet, depending on how interesting or boring this guy turns out to be.
A little twinge of guilt and wounded pride in your stomach hates that you can’t share your real and exemplary filmmaking work with Tyler, but you have to begin all the way over from scratch this time, including no longer taking credit for the short films you’d made over the last year. It’s worth it to get this new lease on life. You are gonna prove yourself to everyone in your path and nothing can hold you back.
It is the first day of the rest of your life. Your whole entire past may as well not even exist. No looking back.
***
You ascend a long, curving set of wooden steps to get from the gravel driveway to the huge, looming marvel of a house that awaits. The fresh, piney scent in the air is nice but you’re not really thrilled about being a little out of breath at the top.
Seems almost like this Tyler guy planned to throw you off for this first meeting. Putting you at a slight disadvantage right away, knowing you might well be tired after the climb.
But Tyler probably did no such thing. That’s more the kind of thing you’d do in his position. And you can use the steep, uphill workout after the admittedly indulgent room service you had ordered the night before, nursing the last remains of your hurt feelings over Harry (Who?).
No one’s waiting on the impressively large, pristine front porch, and no one answers the door when you ring the bell, at least not for the first few minutes.
You shrug; Tyler wouldn’t have invited you to be here at 2pm sharp if he wasn’t planning to be here, too, what’d be the point? He would be here, any minute.
This project sounded important to him, and with his urgent emphasis on timeliness, you know damn well he’s not fucking around here.
Good! You don’t want to fuck around either, you want this to be a real challenge that you can sink your teeth into.
Left to yourself for another five minutes or so, you use the time to simply rest your elbows on the front porch rail and gaze at hauntingly scenic views from this high vantage point.
It’s like you’re suspended in a wondrous, wintry white realm amidst mountains and clouds, otherwise isolated from the doldrums of the world below. Wow, what must it be like to live here? You’d be inspired all the time.
And now you’re gonna get to film here? This is already amazing.
That’s why you’re grinning when you finally encounter your new employer-for-a day.
He tries to sneak up behind you, but as an expert at sneaking up on people yourself, you turn and see him creeping around as soon as he’s in close range. The slight, soft rustle of clothes was the only indication of his presence, though, which is pretty damn impressive.
When you spin around, still smiling in sort of a dorky way, having been involuntarily dragged back to optimism-land by the new setting, you lock eyes with him. The cutest, most immediately endearing, big brown eyes you’ve ever seen.
He looks taken aback by your easy discovery of his approach, and it takes him a few secs to recover, to your amusement. With a dazzling smile (you hope!), you extend your hand, and it’s only trembling a little due to his ruffled silvery hair and the stubble along his chiseled jaw. He’s taller than you by about nine or ten inches, but then you’re short, though you’ve never enjoyed your own petite stature so much as in this very moment.
Your height difference comes more into focus as he straightens up fully from the hunched little way he’d been sneaking up on you. He notices you noticing that he has to look down and you have to look up, and there’s another moment of slight adjustment to accommodate it that makes his expression change.
At first, his mouth fell open a bit in surprise when you turned around and caught him, but now it quirks in the beginnings of a nervous smile that takes your breath away.
“Hi!” You blurt, feeling like you said it too loud, or maybe the silence seems silenter because you’re up in the mountains.
On the other hand, it could just be him. Your professional confidence seems to be battling a serious case of the jitters all of a sudden. Because…
He’s really, unusually, spine-tinglingly good-looking. That glimmer of wickedness in his eyes isn’t hurting, either.
“Hi yourself,” he answers, finally remembering what’s actually going on, it seems, as he clasps your smaller hand in his large, capable one.
He must have been inside for a while because his skin is so wonderfully warm. His handshake is encompassing and it’s the handshake of a man who genuinely wants to get to know you.
“Uh, you must be Y/N,” he says with a gorgeous smile that’s still a tinge anxious for reasons that mystify you.
He couldn’t be feeling instant, distracting infatuation like you are. That never happens. You can curse your hopeless romantic nature later, you’ve got better things to pay attention to right now.
As he scratches the back of his neck, you admire how handsome and strong it is, like the rest of him. He looks lanky at a glance, but you immediately zero in on the tell-tale signs of firm muscles under his simple black attire.
“Yes! Yes, I…ahem, am,” you clarify, still getting used to your new self-dubbed name, and now getting used to Tyler’s presence.
“And you must be Tyler.” That’s when you both realize you’re still holding hands, no longer shaking, just continuing the grip for no good reason.
You both drop each other’s hand at the same time; you giggle like a schoolgirl as he chuckles self-consciously.
“That’s me, alright. You– you know, Y/N, you kinda have the advantage on me here. I know it might sound a little quirky, but I was planning to sneak up behind and surprise you.”
“Oh, I know that,” you laugh brightly. “I heard you. And really, I would've just let you do it anyway, but my curiosity got the better of my manners, I guess.”
“Er. I.” Tyler looks unsteady for a split second before his expression shifts to a more determined one. “Hey, what are we doin’, anyway, standing out here? It’s freezing, we need to get you inside, c’mon.”
You blush at the gentlemanly suggestion and follow his lead, already fighting a wave of sexual fantasies about doing just that in a more erotic context.
How can you help it? Look at him! He’s so gorgeous and intriguingly worried about something you can’t fathom, and there’s this intelligent but very weird aura that’s got you mesmerized.
“This is a beautiful place you have here, Tyler, my god…” You walk in and catch your breath at the sight of an interior to rival the outdoor splendor of the residence.
It’s a vast-seeming and mostly open-plan house, full of wooden features, and while the decor is plainer than you’d expect from a guy who would sneak up on someone he hired as a way to introduce himself, it kind of doesn't even matter because the place looks like a mini ski lodge. And it’s toasty inside, so comfortable and inviting. Maybe the latter has more to do with the way Tyler is pausing in front of you and making too big a thing out of offering to take your coat.
To help him over the social hump, you start slipping it off yourself, but he stops you halfway and takes you gently by the arms from behind. “No, please,” he says, and you’re surprised to find his voice breathy, so warm on your ear and neck while he lingers. “Let me.”
So you do, trying to conceal the very aroused state he’s quickly getting you into, without seeming to realize it at all. Or does he? This guy has layers, you can already tell.
“I’m acting like such an amateur, here, good grief!” Tyler laughs at himself awkwardly, holding your coat and shuffling his feet as if he forgot where to put said coat. “Jeez, what’s going on with me, it’s like I never saw someone pretty in my life before. Sorry, you must get this all the time.”
“Me?” You ask with an honestly surprised tone, “Uh, no, not really. But thank you so much, that’s sweet of you!”
It’s so sweet, you want to faint because he’s just way too cute to be that sweet.
“Oh, I know why,” Tyler says, more archly, as if your positive reaction to his comments have encouraged him and lessened his nerves a little. “You’re one of those people who are so attractive that they don’t even realize how many people are admiring them from a distance and daring themselves, or having their friends tell them to go ask you to dance, or to coffee, or a drink, or a movie or whatever. Because those admirers always get so damn intimidated by the sheer radiance you give off that they can’t bring themselves to approach you.”
You freeze momentarily in a state of helplessly besotted excitement, flattered beyond what you can even put into words.
“Uh, if you don’t mind my saying,” Tyler hastens to add as he bustles around and finds a couch to carefully lay your coat over. He stares down at your camel-colored coat on the pale creme fabric of the suede couch and swallows hard.
With growing admiration, you take the chance to stare at the way his big hands frame his slender hips, and then you allow your wide eyes to trail almost wantonly from his work boots up his dark-wash, well-fitting jeans. You enjoy observing how the jeans are just a smidge loose around his hips, which makes your mouth water. The shape of his belly, which is fit but has a little adorable roundness to it, is clear beneath the soft, thin fabric of his black, long-sleeved t-shirt. You can see strong pecs and the subtle shift of bitable biceps as he changes position, leaning on the couch, transfixed and wordless, staring at you.
“I’m being inappropriate, aren’t I? God, what’s wrong with me, you must think I’m this gross old guy or something–”
You get snapped out of your lovestruck haze by the absurd suggestion.
“What? Of course not, don’t be silly. If I seemed a little quiet and at a loss for words, I think it’s because nobody ever said anything that kind to me before. That’s all. You seem…truly fantastic.”
He struggles to fully process your words, and you wonder what makes him get stuck. Is he experiencing an overwhelmed confusion to mirror your own, is that too much to hope for?
Almost like he’s trying to warn you, he adds, “But trust me, I’m well-aware how it looks to hire someone of your age to come here, and it’s isolated, I’m, you know…old enough to…”
“Be my father?” You get a little boost of flirtatious energy because he’s too delightful to resist. “Maybe. But I’d say you must’ve been an unusually young father when you had me, if so.”
He blushes and you bite your lip; his eyes dart down to your lips, and then back to your eyes. Every time you two gaze at each other, you seem to stick like glue; it’s almost impossible to look away. Life seems to go into slow motion.
“R-really? I mean maybe…You look like you’re barely old enough to be finished with college.”
“I’m not,” you laugh. “Old enough to have finished college.”
You come a little closer and hover just outside his personal space. He smells fucking good. Like pine needles and cedar burning. You want to bury your nose in his neck while his hands wander down to your —
“But you’re at least in your twenties,” Tyler guesses, gulping at your new proximity. His eyes have gone huge, but he still can’t seem to look away from yours.
It’s really flattering, and it’s doing things to your whole body. You feel a rush of pleasure spreading warm and tightening at your core.
“I am,” you truthfully confirm, “However, your ad didn’t specify a college graduate or ask for proof of a degree, just work experience. Is this going to be a problem?”
He sighs, “N-no, it’s not a problem. I trust that you are absolutely amazing at what you do, Y/N. It’s just that I can be a bit hasty and I get super excited about meeting new people, you know, and I was worried for a moment there I might have given you the wrong impression.”
“You were also worried I might be seventeen or something,” You tease, eyes sparkling.
“A little, and it was making me feel guilty, well, not fully but pre-guilty. Just in case. Because that really would be inappropriate and not at all what I intended. I have my flaws as a new acquaintance and as a friend, which I hope you – won’t – I mean, I hope you’ll get to be my friend but not get turned off– I mean, away by me because I get a bit overenthusiastic, just every now and then. When I’m really jazzed about a new project, like I am for this one. And I realize that the idea of asking a twentysomething to come to my house in the middle of nowhere when I’m definitely a–”
“Forty-something, am I right?”
Your breezy tone surprises him. He nods. “Well, yeah…you don’t think I’m. Like. ‘Ew, too old, luring young people into his web of documentary-making, who knows what his true intentions are…’”
“I don’t think you’re ‘ew, too old.’” You emphasize the phrase with finger quotes. “I like that you’re older than me. Our age difference is just right, like the difference in our height. I think our rapport is off to a wonderful start already. I do think that you lured me here, but you seem to have made an ad with overly vague qualifications and now you’re kicking yourself for not establishing that you wanted a college grad with probably more real world experience?”
“No. I don’t want someone else who graduated and has more experience, I don’t want anyone except for you, Y/N. You’re perfect. Uh. For the job, I mean.”
“I hope so.” Shyly, you nod to the door. “I was wondering if you would help me carry in my camera equipment.”
“You stay right there, Y/N,” he says in a teasingly formal tone. “I haven’t been nearly as attentive a gentleman as you deserve, but that stops now. I’ll go bring all of it in, it’s just, uh, it’s out here on the porch?”
“Yes, thanks so much!” Calm down calm down calm—
But you were born without a calm-down button.
You smile until your cheeks hurt; you just can’t help it in the slightest. It feels good not to feel like he wants you to “take it down a notch,” stare at him less, be less flirty. Instead, he seems to have slid naturally into reciprocating your attention on both counts. You’ve known him for less than ten minutes and he’s driving you crazy.
The camera gear that you lugged up the steps with a few choice curse words at the sheer weight and slight struggle they required is nothing to Tyler. He carries it all in as if it’s a sack of feathers. You want him to pick you up right now, take you wherever the hell he wants, the nearest surface, whatever, and you want him to do wicked, terrible things to you.
He sets the equipment down on a chair near the door and then, with a pointed look, locks you both inside. The room starts feeling abnormally warm, and you know it’s nothing to do with the temperature settings.
Truth be told, his behavior suggests that he did get you here for an ulterior purpose. Maybe a nefarious one. Something about him is deeply off.
You don’t mind at all. He’s smart, eccentric, charming and definitely dangerous; he is sexy as fuck.
Being locked in with the best-looking and sexiest not-your-father daddy that you’ve ever had the pleasure to converse with is a very welcome development.
You’ve always been a “live in the moment” kind of person, and this is one hell of a moment.
His brow crinkles cutely, bottom lip slightly pushed out. You find it surprising how his face changes in just a second from nailing you to the wall with a searing, dangerous, challenging glare, and now, seeming totally innocent.
“Hey, uh what do you mean you do think I lured you here? I hope you believe me, I’m really not a creep or something, I swear. When I tell you about the movie I want to make, I’m hoping that’s gonna be maybe clearer.”
“Tyler, it’s okay if you’re a creep, I really don’t care.” You stand in his living room, having toed off your boots and placed them by the door right next to his. It feels so nice, as if you live there almost. “I like it.”
Tyler sinks into the couch and lets out a sigh. “You do?”
He looks beseeching, like he’d beg if he had to, to get you to explain yourself.
“Sure.” You come and sit by him happily, tucking one leg under the other and brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. “You hired me based on solid but limited credentials that don't match up to the amount you are offering to pay me for one day’s worth of shooting. That's a little unusual.”
“I…normally I pick filmmakers with more impressive resumes than yours, when I’m recruiting. I mean not that your resume is insubstantial or anything! But anyway, I really fucking love movies, Y/N, you know? I make a few a year.”
“Me, too! I mean, I love movies. More than almost anything. I don’t make a few a year, mind you, but I’d love to start. And…I think I can prove to you in a short amount of time that my skills make up for my relatively lower experience.”
Tyler pauses in some unknown thought that seems to perplex him.
“Y/N, I don’t mean to be overly forward but just wow, holy fuck. You are…so different. I want to confide in you somehow. Maybe that’s what drew me in when we connected online. Can I tell you something embarrassing?”
“Please,” You grin.
“I liked your face, in your profile picture, that’s really why I chose you out of the applicants. I got a few obviously bogus replies and a couple from more seasoned filmmakers. But they were all so…so damn boring once I saw your eyes and your smile. I did think you were a little older than you are, mind you. And I promise it’s not my intention to objectify you…” He goes on a bit longer, damn is he good at talking!
“Mind you.” He’s mirroring some of your speech patterns, which is more than a little weird. Aww! Couple things, already!
You remain as calm as you can but you’re glowing at his praise.
“So did you lure me here to issue an impromptu request for a date? Or even…to try and trap me into something like that? An amorous encounter?” You bat your lashes.
“No! Not. That I.” He stares at you as if he’s doing equations in his head that don’t add up. “You don’t seem offended by that idea.”
“Why should I be? It’s so flattering. And honestly the potential of danger is a turn-on to me, more than anything else.” You turn crimson a second later. “Shit, I shouldn’t have said that out loud. Jesus Christ. Why did I–”
Your head is in your hands just as quickly. He slides over on the couch until you’re hip to hip and then he wraps an arm around your shoulder.
Tyler moves his hand gently up and down your arm, almost like he’s never even done this before. Although that seems too insane to be possible, given that he looks…like that. God.
“Y/N, I gotta tell you, I wanted to hug you so bad right when we met and I’m actually a big hugger in general but you — you make me feel… actually. Nervous. So what I mean is, you shouldn’t feel weird about saying or doing anything around me. You are not gonna make me any less ecstatic to be spending the day with you.”
“I’m mortified,” You insist, hiding your face in your hands, feeling your cheeks flame as you melt helplessly against his sturdy warmth without a moment of resistance. “So embarrassing.”
“It’s not, Y/N,” and his voice has gone a little throaty now. It’s – so close. His lips, almost brushing your forehead, speak intimately. “I know exactly what you mean. I feel the same, and…I don’t want you to feel embarrassed or uncomfortable. I just think you’re terrific, god, that word isn’t enough, you’re fucking amazing. In every way.”
You find tears coming to your eyes because his kindness, his voice, and the sensuous, addictive nearness of his body are so overwhelming; he's hitting you on many different levels, massaging into all your broken, lonely, empty places.
Reminding yourself he simply must be too good to be true, you fight to regain composure – and not to climb into his lap and kiss him. Hard.
“Really?” You sniffle. “I just seem like a dumb kid, far as I can tell.”
“What? Y/N, come on. The only dumb thing you’ve said since you got here and I was lucky enough to meet you, is that you’re dumb.”
“You’re so kind, Tyler. But uhhh, about my little comment…I’m sure you didn’t really lure me here for some seduction scheme,” you say with an awkward laugh. “It just struck me as a fascinating idea in the moment, when you happened to mention it. Sorry. You hired me for a job, not to hear about my…weird kinks.”
“That’s what you think,” He grins, and his smile is pure sunshine.
He gives your shoulder a squeeze. His dark eyes are smoldering and then they suddenly soften.
“I’m getting you something to drink, Y/N, you name it. Coffee, tea, water, juice, wine?”
“I’d love a glass of wine,” You request. “It’s freezing out there, and without you next to me, I can use the extra warmth.”
“Hmm.” He moves back from you with the obvious effort of an actual gentleman who would love to take it further but won’t intrude on you like that, this soon. He’s honorable in that way. It doesn’t matter if he’s dishonorable in other ways, at least not to you.
He drums his hands on the thighs of his jeans, grinning at you.
“You sure know how to make a man feel downright tempted, Y/N. You’re something else, it’s like you’re this angel, but you’ve got a little bit of the devil in you. Staying right next to you would feel…really good.”
“It would?” You blush. Nobody ever called you an angel before and you feel in distinct danger of fainting. He’s too hot and too sweet, he’s killing you.
It is entirely possible he got you to come here specifically to kill you, you know that. And you like it. You’re intrigued to explore this and learn more about his motives. All those secrets brimming in his eyes, beaming in his smile.
“So good,” he nods enthusiastically. “But that wouldn’t make me a very good host. I’m already, let’s face it, off to a terrible start as a boss.”
You giggle. “I’d let you boss me around.”
Tyler pauses halfway through uncorking a bottle of wine. “You…would…? Wow, I need to stop asking that, but.”
He pauses, and fails to find a single other thing on his mind. “You would?”
His voice goes higher on the “would” and it’s hilarious.
It’s like you totally floored him just by basically being yourself and giving honest answers. That?? That is as insanely weird as anything else in the situation.
“Mmhmm. I sure would. Maybe later. I don’t mean to keep changing the subject. Please, tell me all about this film of yours.”
Tyler manages to get the wine open, although what for him is a brief and easy task has seemingly been made next to impossible, he’s so distracted by the implications you’ve dangled.
“Originally, well.” He pulls the cork out thoughtfully and pours two glasses of Merlot. “Sorry, do you like Merlot, I should’ve asked. I didn't even ask if you prefer red or white. Or I could find - a - For fuck’s – hey, If you like white, I have a Chardonnay–”
He can’t take his eyes off of you. It’s as if he physically cannot. But whenever your gazes meet, his sentences keep unraveling.
“Oh my God, Tyler, I’m so disappointed that you don’t have Pinot Grigio!” You dramatically lay a hand on your heart with an amused faux- disapproving face.
“Haha, nice try,” Tyler laughs, “I see what you did there.”
“You’re way too smart for me,” you smile as you take the glass he offers.
All you mean is, he’s too smart to miss the humor in your words.
He blushes and looks away, momentarily overcome by the simple compliment. This sweet man, hasn’t anyone told him about his amazing traits? He has too many of them to count, that’s obvious. Doesn’t anyone say lovely things to him? A thousand more compliments bubble up inside you at the mere idea.
“Not even close,” he says, seriously, choosing not to defer to another joke, opting instead to give you a small, but important truth.
Another fascinating reaction. How often does Tyler interact with someone as smart and passionate as he is? You are surprised, concerned, but overall very happy to notice that it seems unlikely.
You want to be so special to him. He needs to see that you’re the one.
You don’t want anyone else to see him the way you do right now, that’s suddenly all too clear.
If this tentative emotional intimacy has you so jealous over imaginary rivals, god help the fool who ever tries to get between you or steal his heart.
He blushes even deeper and clinks your glasses together. In a low tone, he proposes a toast. “To you.”
A tribute? Certainly. A threat? Almost definitely. Oh, God. You’re longing for him to wrap those gorgeous hands around your throat and squeeze…
“Really?” Your turn to turn red.
It’s truly wild, how bashfully aroused he gets you with a few words, a simple gesture or look. The way his voice sounds, those intense and all-consuming eyes, how his body looks…good lord.
“Y/N, let’s, uh, let’s sit and talk about the movie, I think? Or I’m a little worried I’ll forget there even is one. I’m sorry if that’s out of line for me to say.”
“It makes me really happy, actually. But yes, I’m dying to hear about your project! I can tell already you must be a brilliant documentarian.”
“Oh, now, I don’t know about that,” he waves you off as you sit on the couch again, almost as close as before.
He sips his wine and gives you a coy look, more complicated than his previous gazes; deeper.
Your body squeezes hotly at the sight and you have to take a substantial sip of your own wine to hide it before you actually moan out loud.
“Sometimes when people come here in answer to my ad, or they come wherever I’m living at the time, you know, but my procedure is usually the same. Sometimes I have a plan or even a script in place. Sometimes, it’s a little more of a loose plan? Like today, I was kinda feeling the idea of just riffing with you about friendship for a while. Does that sound so incredibly lame? Like who shoots for a whole day about that?”
“I get it. Friendship, there’s nothing more complicated, unless maybe it’s family. But let’s not talk about that,” you “joke,” all-too- serious.
“Yeah, let’s not, not right now, at least,” he laughs like he’s exactly on your black-sheep-of-the- family wavelength. This doesn’t surprise you; still, you love it about him. He doesn’t fit in and he’s just accepted it, has made a life for himself around the fact. He must be…so free.
“So you wouldn’t mind? Making a film about us, as first-time fellow filmmaker buddies, just talkin’ about our inspirations and ambitions, and the nature of making a friend in our line of work?”
“Blurred lines?” You say flirtatiously.
“Maybe.” His laugh is a little self-deriding. “In my dreams, maybe, I don’t know.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s that…” He’s frustrated, looking for words to describe something difficult.
You give him space to do so, you’d give him all the time he needs to speak. There’s never going to be a hurry for you to get him to talk or shut up. His silences, while rare, are intriguing and seem like something he doesn’t ever expect to happen to him.
Silence, for him, most definitely reveals vulnerability. Meanwhile, let’s face it, his tangents and babbling are fucking irresistibly cute. He’s just so charismatic, so full of life and vigor, and it makes you feel the same.
“It’s that I…for a lot of years now I’ve been a bit of a rolling stone, I go here and there, and a little bit of everywhere!” He throws his arms up in an attempt to lighten the conversation. You just smile attentively.
“That must be a fun life.”
“In a lot of ways, yeah, and I realize how lucky I am to be in the position to wander, to be on this sort of soul journey, looking for…I think mostly looking for a real friend in this crazy life is all. But the more I explore the whole realm of friendship, the worse I seem to get at initiating or maintaining a single one. I always mess it up, or, or they do. Sometimes they just don’t like me. They find me obnoxious and-or boring, and-or overbearing, whatever the case may be…”
You place a hand affectionately on his knee. “So, in other words they’re stupid and have terrible taste.”
“Y/N, my god, you’re gonna be the death of me.” He gazes at you, taking in your patient, eager smile and the sparkling enjoyment in your eyes. “This is unbelievable! I can tell you’re not just saying this stuff to be nice.”
“Oh, hell no,” you laugh. “If I didn’t like you, I would’ve left already.”
“Given the strange circumstances and my initial lack of giving you any solid information on what the job even is…”
“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I mean, the gorgeous yet secluded, kind of haunting location, and us being totally alone together? You’re Mr. Vague about who you are and what this is even really about, and your first reaction to my arrival was to sneak up on me and scare me?”
“I mean, I also locked you in.”
Tyler turns to face you directly, running a hand over his hair, eyes flitting around the room as if examining the walls and ceiling. You get a feeling in the pit of your stomach that screams he’s building suspense.
Finally, he returns a hard gaze to your curious one. In a low, harsh voice he adds, “What if you wanted to leave and I wouldn’t let you?”
Your blood is pumping so hot and you are getting wet, you’re fucking…pulsating for him, he’s so goddamn sexy.
These threats confirm the instinct in your heart that says he’s a monster like you, the kind of monster you never expected to meet, (much less find him to be gorgeous, adorable and sensuous). You are in danger of him being able to smell the state of need he’s put you in.
He is a much bigger and badder monster than you, of course. He has had not only the advantage of years to hone his monstrosity to the tool he wants it to be, but a slightly different modus operandi, too.
The methods you’ve seen him using thus far are indicative of “full-on serial killer.” There’s — not just premeditation, but ritual.
And yet. Fuck, for all the lies you are sure he can competently spin, he can’t hide that he isn’t responding to you like he responds to most people. You are not his typical pawn or victim.
But you still remain in that position. He is not ready to let you go yet, if ever.
That is the part which makes you catch fire completely, slowly licking your lips, not running from him or his iron gaze. The tension between you is unbelievable.
“Are you testing me, Tyler?” You ask softly, your innocence a clear and present tease destined to be his undoing, if you’ve got any say in the matter.
In a devastating purr, you go so far as to add, “There is a very, very particular rhythm to the way you play with your food, so to speak. If you want me scared, or you’re just testing my bravery, survival instincts, whatever, I can only assure you my survival instincts don’t give a damn right now, regardless of what you might do to me. I’m not scared, or…yes, I am scared, but in a good way…it feels delicious.” You press on before he can respond to that. “Furthermore, may I make a request?”
His breath had quickly turned to heated panting as you spoke, and now it stutters to a momentary halt. You look up at him with coquettish mischief and a more heartfelt feeling that just can’t be helped; he brings that out of you as much as everything else.
“You can ask me anything,” he says in a rasp, his gaze never faltering in its dominating deadlock on your own, yet there’s no hiding the worshipful expression on his face, the momentary flex of an incredulous smile full of wonder.
“Don’t make me any promises about keeping me here against my will unless you’re serious. Don't start something you don’t intend to finish. The idea of you chasing me and throwing me down, pinning me to your bed, is driving me wild. Can you feel it?”
Although your tone conveys the confidence he himself instilled in you by being so utterly perfect and making you feel so alive that you could burst into confetti, you can’t keep the tremble out of your voice and you don’t bother trying.
Words are just that, and you’re an expert liar. But you never realized that telling the truth would feel this way.
He has surely noticed your body shaking. But why shouldn’t he know the exact effect he has on you, beyond just words?
Tyler shivers, turns from you, stares straight ahead, fidgets with his hands, forgetting what they’re for, and probably losing sight of his whole vocabulary. It takes a few more moments to come back.
Finally, he says in a hush, “Lunch.”
You smile. “You’re a cannibal?”
Tyler cracks up, breaking the tension as he turns back into pure sunshine, for you. He slaps his knees and then playfully gives you a little shove. “No, you naughty little imp! A cannibal! I just…wanted to make you a sandwich, I want to take good care of you, oh my god, you’re something else, Y/N.”
He felt the same sparks when he pushed you, the ones still making you breathe in short, heavy, mini-dizzy spells of hunger that no damn sandwich is gonna help you with.
“In a good way?”
“Uhhm, yeah! In the best way ever!” He exclaims like a kid on Christmas morning. “Come on and have lunch with me, we’ll come up with a killer concept for this movie – pun most likely not intended or prophetic.”
Tyler gives you a wicked wink. This man…!
You stand up as he heads for the kitchen, moving so fast it’s like he’s having a hard time controlling some animal instinct you’re bringing out. There’s a half-evil, half-bashful aura to him that intensifies this fever he’s building at your core, the oceans roaring in your ears, lust tingling in your fingertips.
So you follow him, cheerful as a plucky kitten, watching intently as he goes into the big, fancy fridge which may or may not even belong to him, just as he may or may not be planning to kill you.
He’s gathering sandwich ingredients, trying not to let the packs of deli meat and sliced cheese slip through his fingers because he feels you watching. Sizing him up, liking what you see. Loving every bit of this.
“Can I help you make lunch?” You ask, getting close to him and pretending to only want to help, enjoying the audible hitch in his breath. He’s breathing in your soft, jasmine-vanilla scent like oxygen now.
It’s so much. You wait for his answer, hands reaching out for anything that you can maybe do to aid in this culinary endeavor. It’s the least you can do. You haven’t felt happy in ages, and you haven’t felt quite this happy ever.
“No, you’re my guest, and you are not going to lift one cute, pretty little finger, you hear? Just…sit with me while I try not to make a mess of it.” He glances up at you, almost reproving, as he opens the deli fixings and slides the bottle of mustard around on the counter for no other reason than nerves.
“I don’t mind messy,” You shrug. “Messy can be fun.”
He stops what he’s doing, elbow moving down the countertop until he’s hiding his handsome face in one arm, moaning loudly. Like you’re just torturing him, pulling him out of his shell, exposing him, and he doesn’t know how to say no to it because it’s you. God, you just hope you're reading him right and not only projecting your own feelings again.
If he doesn’t want you, there’s no guarantee you’ll make it back from this one, and he almost certainly won’t. The possibilities if this goes sideways don’t just frustrate you; if you really thought about them, they’d make you mad. No! You refuse to believe a bad outcome is in the cards. It’s not possible, not with him.
“Y/N, Y/N, oh my God.” He looks up, flushed, pupils dilated, and grins wolfishly at you. “Oh my God.”
“What?” You giggle, elbowing him and then comically prancing back a few paces, eyebrows raised.
He shakes his head, finally getting to the simple project of bread and filling. Grabbing a knife from the butcher block that’s bigger than what he needs, he gestures to you with it, like a king naming you his royal princess.
The undercurrent of erotic threat in the act ripples between you. Your chemistry is a physical entity destined to devour you both as soon as you get close enough.
And he’s still looking at you like you terrify him, he wants to be the big bad wolf that eats you up, and he can’t believe you really seem to want him.
Maybe that’s the thought that makes him shake his head again as a deep laugh rumbles in his chest, dark eyes shining with tears.
Tyler’s grin changes to a devilish smirk as his eyes swallow you whole. He lets out a dramatic sigh of pure glee. “It’s gonna be a good day.”