He rolls his head toward the elevator and then in the direction of my door. “Your place is closer.”

That one detail seems to be his tipping point. He tries to pull himself up. It’s an arduous task, based on the amount of grunting and moaning he does. He stays upright with the help of his crutches and the wall while I unlock my door and let him in. He heads directly for the couch, spins around with an impressive amount of grace, and lowers himself gingerly.

He manages to get the upper half of his body supine and on the cushions, but he can’t seem to do the same with his legs.

I’m still standing near the front door, unsure how bad an idea it is to have invited this guy into my space. I don’t know anything about him, other than the fact that he has a brother who apparently holds the womanizing title and that he’s been a jerk to me.

I watch him struggle for another minute before I finally offer him some assistance. He seems reluctant to take it but eventually acquiesces.

I start to lift one leg, but he shouts, “No!”

I drop it back to the floor, and his shoulders curl in on a groan.

“Shit. Sorry.”

He sucks in a bunch of deep breaths. I can’t decide if he’s being overdramatic or not. Or maybe he’s on drugs. Who the hell knows? I’ll be locking my bedroom door and sleeping with my phone under my pillow tonight, that’s for sure.

“Both legs at the same time,” he finally croaks.

“What’s the magic word?”

He cracks a lid and glares at me from a single eyeball. “Please.”

“Look at you, using manners and shit.” I manage to get the lower half of his body on the couch. He barely fits. As it is, his feet hang over the armrest. “I’m going to get you a glass of water and a painkiller, okay?”

“Just the water is good. Thanks.” His eyes fall closed, and he crosses his arms over his chest. Despite his red face and the fine sheen of sweat dotting his forehead, he’s still a good-looking asshole.

I leave him there, somewhat assuaged by the amount of pain it causes him to move. I grab him a pillow and blanket, then stop in the kitchen to pour him a glass of water. I make it a plastic tumbler, since his coordination seems questionable.

By the time I get back to the living room, where he’s sprawled across the couch, his breathing has evened out. I set the water on the coffee table and drape the blanket over his huge body. His feet still poke out, but at least he’s mostly covered. I gently slip a hand behind his head and lift enough to slide the pillow under his neck so he doesn’t wake up with a terrible crick. Well, no worse than the one he’ll probably already have, considering how I found him in the hallway.

He hums in his sleep and frees one of his hands from the blanket. His fingers wrap around my wrist, lapping each other. I suck in a breath at the unexpected contact. A zap of electricity pings through my arm, like static.

His eyes flip open, locking on mine. They’re hazy and glassy with pain and exhaustion. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” My voice is all breathy, like I’ve been running laps.

“I didn’t want you to be this nice.” He lets go of my wrist, and his eyes slide closed.

I don’t know if I misheard that, or misunderstood it, or if it’s supposed to make any kind of sense at all.

Regardless of how helpless he is, I lock my bedroom door before I go to sleep.

I get up at eight the next morning, impressed with how well I slept for having had a virtual stranger in my living room all night. The fact that he’s injured helps. I pad down the hall and peek into the living room.

There’s no longer a giant of a man sprawled out on the couch. The blanket has been tossed on the floor. Awesome manners this guy has.

I shake my head, annoyed, and continue on to the kitchen. Once the coffee is percolating, the drip, drip, drip inspires the need to pee, and I rush down the hall to the spare bathroom, the urge sudden and strong.

I wrench open the door and come to an abrupt halt when I find my neighbor, one hand braced on the vanity as he relieves himself with a loud, low groan. It sounds like part relief and part agony.

I can only attribute my knee-jerk response to surprise. And my reaction is to scream. Because that’s what a person does when they find a massive, very well built man unexpectedly relieving himself in their bathroom.

My piercing shriek startles him, and he twists in my direction.

I back out of the bathroom and slam the door shut, but it does not erase what I’ve seen. My jerkwad neighbor is well endowed. Not in a terrifying “Do you shoot porn?” kind of way but more of a “That would be a welcome stretch.” It also appears that he was trying to manage relieving himself while dealing with morning wood. I didn’t realize that was possible.

A bloodcurdling scream and a low thud follow as I slam the door. Since the noise didn’t come from me, it means it came from him. Obviously I scared him as much as he scared me.

“Shit. What the hell do I do?” I ask the wall as I press my ear to the door. I can hear groans and whimpers from the other side. “Are you okay?”

“No.” The single word is followed by more groaning.

“I’m coming back in,” I warn. It’s not like I can leave him in there anyway. I have to get ready for work.

I turn the knob and peek through the narrow gap. He’s still on the floor. I push the door open farther and cringe. He’s managed to pee all over the seat. And he may have sprayed the vanity. Gross. At least it doesn’t seem to be all over the floor too.

I notice a few more details now that I’m back in “feeling bad” mode instead of “panic and shock” mode. Once again he’s in only a pair of boxer briefs. These ones are bright yellow with CAUTION written all over them, like the tape they use at crime scenes. He was fully dressed when I left him on the couch last night.

From across the hall his body is a lot to handle visually, but this close, good God, this man is stacked. Muscles layer over muscles, everything tight and defined. He’s just . . . a lot. And he takes up a considerable amount of space in this bathroom.

Based on the way he’s breathing like an angry bull, he’s also in pain. That still doesn’t explain where the rest of his clothes went. I’ll come back to that, though.

“What do you need?” Apart from a shower, most likely.

“I can’t reach my crutches.” He motions to where they lean against the wall on the opposite side of the vanity. It’s not particularly far, but I’m assuming his level of pain makes him incapable of getting to them.

I reach over him and flip the toilet seat down first, then grab the crutches and position them on either side of him. It’s awkward, since he’s facing the toilet, and I’m forced to stand behind him. My feet are sort of touching his, which is weird, but there’s not much I can do about that. He braces on the handgrips and swears a blue streak as he slowly hoists himself up.

As someone who is trained in injury rehab and physical therapy, I should know what to do, but usually the people I’m treating are wearing more clothes and haven’t scared the shit out of me or insulted me on several occasions. Also, this guy probably weighs twice what I do. I slip my hands under his arms to . . . I don’t know . . . provide support?