Hardwood Creek 🏨 | Part 3: The Handyman (Patreon)

All characters are 18+ and this story is entirely fictional.Everything that happens is safe, sane, and consensual.

The knock came low and heavy, rattling the flimsy motel door like it had no business trying to stand between me and whoever was on the other side. I dragged myself off the bed, already damp with sweat from the broken air conditioner, and tugged my collar straighter out of habit. The last thing I needed was Milo’s so-called handyman tromping in and thinking I looked… approachable.

I cracked the door open.

And stopped breathing.

Noah filled the frame like a man built to do exactly that…fill space. His shoulders were broad enough to block the fading sunlight behind him, his tank top plastered to his chest with the kind of effortless sweat that spoke of work, not nerves. His forearms were dusted in dirt, veins running like cords beneath bronzed skin. His hair was a mess of damp curls, shoved back from his forehead, and his jaw carried a day’s worth of stubble that somehow looked intentional.

He shifted his weight, tool bag hanging from one thick hand, and gave me a smile that was too casual, too unbothered, for a man standing at my door.

Before I could find words, Milo appeared at his side, grinning like the devil had personally commissioned him.

“Julian,” Milo sang, leaning against the doorframe. “This is Noah. Noah, this is our illustrious new owner. His room is apparently too hot to handle.” He winked at me, then at Noah, then back again, as if the innuendo wasn’t already dripping through every syllable.

Noah’s eyes flicked over me quickly, politely though maybe not entirely. There was a pause at my clothes, the rings, the shoes that had no business being in this part of the world. His mouth twitched, a smile fighting its way up.

“Air conditioner?” he asked, his voice low, rough, the kind of voice that belonged in the dark.

“Yes,” I said, sharper than I meant. My throat felt dry. “It broke.”

Milo sighed dramatically. “Tragic. Lucky for you, Noah here knows how to handle things that get… overheated.”

I shot him a glare so sharp it could cut glass. He only batted his lashes in response, clearly thrilled with himself.

Noah shifted his tool bag higher on his shoulder, pretending not to hear or maybe used to Milo’s antics. “Mind if I come in?”

I stepped back before I realized I was doing it, and suddenly his bulk filled my space, the room shrinking with every inch he crossed. The scent hit first; clean sweat, sun, hay, and something that was entirely his. My chest tightened.

Milo lingered in the doorway, eyes sparkling. “I’ll leave you boys to it. Don’t break anything else, Jules, or you’ll start getting a reputation.” He said it lightly, but the way his grin curled suggested all sorts of reputations he had in mind.

“Milo…” I started, but he was already gone, his laughter trailing down the hall.

The door clicked shut, and I was left alone with Noah.

He set his bag down by the wall, crouching to unzip it. The muscles in his back shifted under the thin fabric of his shirt, his shoulders flexing as he pulled out tools. My eyes betrayed me, drinking it in before I could stop. Heat pooled low in my stomach, shame mixing with something far less polite.

He glanced up, catching me watching. Just for a second. Then he looked away, calm as ever, as though he hadn’t noticed. Or maybe as though he had and didn’t mind.

The air felt thicker, hotter, than before.

“So,” he said, turning his attention back to the window unit, his voice low and unhurried. “How you finding Hardwood Creek?”

I wet my lips, trying to find something clever, but what came out instead was a dry, “Hot.”

His head tilted slightly, and then he let out a soft laugh, warm and easy. “Yeah,” he said, eyes flicking toward me briefly. “It’s that time of year. Heat sticks to you out here.”

Something about the way he said it made my chest tighten, as though he meant more than just the weather. He pushed away from the wall and crossed the room in two strides, heading for the spare chair tucked near the far corner. He dragged it over with one hand, the scrape of wood against floor filling the silence, and positioned it beneath the humming unit.

“Guess I better see what we can do,” he murmured, climbing up onto the chair. His shirt stretched with the movement, the muscles of his back flexing beneath thin cotton. He raised his arms, tugging at the panel on the rattling machine, and said, almost idly, “You look like someone who isn’t used to things breaking.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

His mouth quirked, though he didn’t glance down. “Just an observation.” The panel clicked open under his grip. “City type, right? You don’t exactly look like you’ve held a wrench before.”

I bristled, which only seemed to amuse him more. “I can be handy when I need to be.”

“Mm,” he hummed, reaching inside the unit. “We’ll see.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Speaking of…mind passing me something?” He gestured loosely toward the tool bag he’d left open on the bed.I turned, staring at the mess of metal inside, each object gleaming faintly in the dim light. My stomach tightened. I had no idea what any of them were. “Which one?” I asked, praying my voice didn’t sound as helpless as I felt.

Noah chuckled, deep and rich, like the sound was meant to live low in his chest. “The screwdriver. Flathead. Long handle, yellow grip.”

I frowned at the pile until I found something that fit, holding it up uncertainly. “This?”

“Yeah,” he said, still laughing softly. “That’s the one.”

I crossed the room, the tool tight in my hand, each step echoing against the wooden floor. He stood tall above me on the chair, arms raised, tank top pulling against his chest. The closer I got, the smaller the room seemed to feel. His body radiated heat, a mix of sweat and sun and something male that pressed against my composure.

I stopped at the base of the chair, looking up at him. The angle gave me a view I hadn’t been prepared for: his jawline dripping with sweat, the hollow of his throat, the curve of muscle in his arms as he held the unit steady. My throat went dry.

“Here,” I said, lifting the tool.

He leaned down, reaching for it, and for one moment our bodies were dangerously close…his knees brushing my chest, the faint heat of his torso hovering inches from me. He took the tool from my hand, his fingers brushing my knuckles deliberately.

“Thanks,” he murmured, then looked down at me, his gaze steady. “Stay close, I might need your help again.”

I swallowed hard, nodding. My feet didn’t move. Instead I stayed planted in front of him, so near that his thighs framed me. He turned back to the unit, working the screwdriver against the metal with practiced ease.

As he stretched upward, his tank top lifted, baring a strip of skin that made my pulse kick wildly. Sweat gleamed faintly against the cut lines of his abs, the faint trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. The edge of his underwear peeked out, white against denim, damp from the heat.

I couldn’t look away.

The sound of the screwdriver twisting filled the silence, each turn slow and steady. My eyes followed the shift of his stomach, the subtle flex of his hips as he adjusted his stance. I tried to convince myself it was curiosity, just watching him work. But the ache low in my body told another truth.

“You’re quiet,” he said suddenly, his voice dropping low as if he knew exactly where my mind had wandered.

“I—” My throat caught. “I’m just… watching.”

“Mm.” He didn’t glance down, but his mouth curved slightly, visible from the angle where I stood. “You seem good at that.”

The words landed heavy, suggestive in ways I didn’t dare name. My face burned, and I tore my eyes upward, but it only made it worse. His arms stretched higher, tank top riding further up his torso, ribs sharp under sun-browned skin. The air conditioner rattled as he pried something loose.

The waistband of his jeans slipped just enough that when I lowered my gaze again, I could see the faint swell beneath denim, the fabric damp with sweat. My heart thudded in my chest, the proximity unbearable.

He caught me then. His eyes flicked down, sharp and deliberate, catching me mid-stare. For a second, neither of us moved.

“You okay down there?” he asked, his voice rougher now, as though something in him had shifted.

“Yes,” I said quickly, too quickly. “Perfectly fine.”

He hummed again, noncommittal, and bent back to his work. But I could feel the weight of his awareness, as if every second he knew exactly how close I stood, exactly what I saw.

The screwdriver scraped, the sound harsh against metal. He leaned forward slightly, shifting his balance, and his thigh brushed my shoulder…accidental, maybe, but it sent a jolt through me all the same.

I froze.

“Sorry,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real apology.

“It’s—” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat. “It’s fine.”

The air conditioner gave a low groan as he pried it further open, sweat dripping from his forehead down the side of his face. He blew a breath upward, trying to clear his damp curls from his eyes, and in that moment he looked both utterly ordinary and devastating.

“Can you hand me the pliers?” he asked, breaking the silence again.

My hands shook as I fumbled through the bag, finally pulling them free. I passed them up, brushing against his stomach in the process, my fingers grazing the hot skin just above his waistband.

He stilled. Just for a second.

Then he took the pliers, his knuckles brushing my wrist, his body leaning just slightly closer.

“Thanks,” he murmured again, lower this time.

The word buzzed down my spine, leaving me rooted in place, staring at the glint of sweat on his abs as his shirt rode up once more.I told myself to move, to step back, to breathe. But instead I stayed exactly where I was, heart hammering, drowning in the heat of him.

And when he finally glanced down again, meeting my eyes, there was no pretending left. He knew.

Noah didn’t smirk. He didn’t call me out. He just gave this little half-huff through his nose, like he’d caught me red-handed but wasn’t going to waste words on it. Then his arm flexed, the tool twisting, a click sounding overhead. The ancient unit shuddered, groaned, and at last blew a weak but blessed gust of cool air into the room.

He hopped down from the chair, landing with an easy weight. His tank had stuck slightly to his chest, pulling free as he moved. He tugged it down, swiping a hand across his forehead, smearing the sheen of sweat like it was nothing.

“There,” he said. “Not perfect, but it’ll hold. You won’t melt in your sleep.”

“I wasn’t melting,” I lied, far too quickly. My voice cracked just slightly on the last word.

He gave me a look, eyebrow arched, eyes sharp. “Really? ’Cause from where I was standing, you looked about ready to combust.”

My laugh came out brittle. “The heat,” I said, as if that excused anything. “It’s too hot.”

Noah chuckled low, tugging his tank straight again. “Yeah. Too hot.” He let the words hang there, heavy with suggestion, before reaching for the toolbox.

I was supposed to hand it over, but my hand stalled, still clutching the wrench I’d fetched for him earlier. My fingers tightened on the cool metal because I didn’t trust them not to shake. He reached forward, taking it gently from my grip, brushing my knuckles in the process. It was nothing. Or it should have been. But it burned like fire, sparking straight to my chest.

Our eyes locked again. He caught me looking…at the cut of his shoulders, the sweat darkening the edges of his shirt, the faint line of hair disappearing beneath his waistband. My throat closed.

“Careful,” he said softly, so soft I almost missed it. “You’ll overheat again.”

I swallowed hard, pulse deafening in my ears. I couldn’t decide if I wanted him to stop, or to keep going until I burned alive.

He packed up the tools with that same calm efficiency, hefting the box under one arm. “You’re good for now. Call if it acts up again.” His voice was casual, but the way his eyes lingered just a beat too long…betrayed something else.

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone in the faint hum of blessedly working air.

I stood there, still breathless, skin prickling, heart aching. I’d known him for less than an hour and already he’d undone me.

It wasn’t just the sweat on his abs or the rough stretch of his voice. It was the way he looked at me like he wasn’t fooled by the polished exterior, like he saw through every layer I’d built to keep people at arm’s length.

It unsettled me. It terrified me.

And God help me, it turned me on more than anything had in years.

────────────────Hardwood Creek 🏨 | Part 4: Sweat, Dirt, and First Impressions