Chapter 21 Campfires And Confessions #2
Instead of finding it paranoid or unsettling, I find it... reassuring. Here is a man who knows how to keep people safe. Who has built his life around protecting things—and people—he cares about. Who never takes security for granted because he's seen firsthand what happens when it fails.
"I like it," I say softly, and I mean it. "The whole place. It feels... safe."
Something shifts in Tank's expression—a softening around his eyes that tells me I said exactly the right thing. "That's the idea."
We spend the next hour settling in and gathering materials for a proper campfire outside.
I change into warmer clothes from the bag Elias packed—thick wool socks, lined leggings, a chunky sweater that smells faintly of cedar like Tank's house.
When I emerge from the small bedroom, Tank has already laid out everything we'll need: kindling, logs, matches, fire starters.
Tank explains his process as we work—the best kindling to use (dry pine needles and small twigs, nothing too damp), how to stack the logs for optimal burn (teepee style first, then log cabin once you've got good embers), the importance of reading wind direction before positioning yourself.
He shows me how to arrange the fire pit's stone circle, how to check for moisture in the wood by listening for the snap when you break it.
His voice takes on a different quality when he's teaching: patient, methodical, almost gentle in a way that contrasts sharply with his intimidating exterior.
He never gets frustrated when I ask questions, never makes me feel stupid for not knowing something.
Just explains, demonstrates, and waits for me to try.
He likes this. Sharing knowledge. Being useful. Having someone actually listen instead of just tolerating his presence. I can see it in the way his shoulders relax, the way his voice loses that guarded edge it sometimes carries. This is Tank without walls. Tank in his element.
I pay attention to everything he says, asking questions when I don't understand, genuinely interested in learning.
It's not that I expect to ever need survival skills—my life plan involves coffee shops and cozy interiors, not wilderness survival—but watching Tank in his element is fascinating.
This is where he's comfortable. This is where he makes sense to himself.
And honestly? There's something deeply attractive about a man who knows how to build things. Who can look at raw materials and see potential. Who can create warmth and safety from nothing but wood and skill and patience.
By the time the fire is properly blazing, the sun has set completely, and the stars are beginning to emerge in the velvet sky above us.
The clearing around the cabin is eerily quiet—no traffic noise, no neighbor sounds, no distant hum of civilization.
Just the crackle of flames, the whisper of wind through pine branches, the occasional hoot of an owl somewhere in the darkness, and our breathing.
It's the kind of silence that would feel lonely if I were alone. But with Tank beside me, solid and warm and present, it feels peaceful instead. Safe.
Tank produces a bag of marshmallows from somewhere—heart-shaped ones, pink and white, because apparently this is a Valentine's-themed survival date—and hands me a roasting stick.
The stick is clearly handmade, the end carved to a perfect point, probably by Tank himself during some quiet evening by this very fire.
We settle onto the log bench he's positioned perfectly near the fire, close enough to feel the warmth but far enough to avoid wayward sparks. Someone—Tank again, I'm sure—draped a thick wool blanket over the log, turning rough bark into a comfortable seat. Little details. Little thoughtfulnesses.
"Spiked hot cocoa?" he offers, pulling a thermos from the bag and raising an eyebrow.
"Is there any other kind?" I accept the cup he pours me, wrapping my hands around the warm metal and breathing in the rich chocolate aroma laced with something that smells like whiskey.
Or maybe bourbon. Something warm and smoky that promises to chase away any lingering chill.
The first sip confirms my suspicion—definitely bourbon, good quality, with just enough to warm without overwhelming.
We roast marshmallows in comfortable silence for a while, the heart shapes turning golden brown over the flames.
I watch the way the fire reflects in Tank's eyes, the way the light plays across his features and softens his usually harsh expression.
The chocolate warms me from the inside, and Tank's solid presence beside me warms me from the outside.
His arm brushes against mine every time he adjusts his roasting stick, and eventually I give up on maintaining any distance at all.
I rest my head on his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath my cheek. He smells like woodsmoke now, mixed with that cedar and sandalwood that's becoming as familiar to me as my own scent.
"This is pretty nice," I murmur, watching the flames dance. The fire pops, sending a cascade of sparks spiraling into the darkness. "I never had one-on-one time with my Alphas. Not like this."
Tank's shoulder tenses slightly beneath me. "What good was you even being their Omega if you didn't get to eat with them? Didn't get special time with them?" His voice is rough with something that sounds like barely restrained anger. "Was it just sex and that's it?"
I think about it—really think about it, for the first time in a long time. What was my relationship with my ex-pack? What did we actually share beyond physical arrangements and contractual obligations?
"I don't really know what the relationship could be deemed," I admit slowly. "Because even this fake arrangement is clearly outdoing it. In less than two weeks, you three have given me more... more everything than they gave me in two years."
The fire crackles, sending sparks spiraling up into the starry sky.
"I never really saw anything wrong with it," I continue, the words coming easier now that I've started.
"Because who was telling me otherwise? My family certainly wasn't going to point out that I deserved better—they're the ones who put me there in the first place.
And I'm very closed off. I don't like to share pack business with other people.
" I pause, staring into the flames. "Until recently, anyway.
It's only now that I'm realizing there's no need to speak well of a group of men who only saw me as transactional.
Who never once thought of me as a being worth letting be free. "
Saying it out loud makes it real. Makes it impossible to pretend anymore that maybe they cared and just didn't know how to show it. They didn't care. Simple as that. They never cared, and I wasted two years of my life trying to earn affection from people who were incapable of giving it.
Tank is quiet for a long moment. The fire pops and crackles between us, sending another shower of sparks into the night sky. When he speaks, his voice is softer than I've ever heard it.
"I get it. More than you might think."
I lift my head from his shoulder, looking up at him. The firelight plays across his features, casting shadows that make him look both softer and more dangerous at once. His dark eyes are fixed on the flames, but I can tell his mind is somewhere far away. Somewhere painful.
"I was engaged once," he says quietly. "Before the pack. Before Elias and Julian. Before I knew what it meant to have people who actually give a damn."
Engaged. Tank was engaged. There was someone before—someone he chose, someone he planned a future with. Someone who looked at this strong, protective man and said yes, and then changed her mind.
I don't say anything, just wait for him to continue at his own pace.
"She was an Omega. Sweet. Kind. Everything you're supposed to want in a partner.
" He takes a long sip of his cocoa, and I notice his hand isn't quite steady.
"But she couldn't handle my PTSD episodes.
The nightmares that wake me up screaming.
The flashbacks that come out of nowhere.
The days when I couldn't get out of bed because my brain was convinced I was still in a war zone and every sound was a threat. "
His jaw tightens, and I can see the muscle ticking beneath his skin.
"She left. Said she didn't sign up for broken goods.
Said I wasn't the man she thought she was marrying.
" A humorless laugh escapes him, rough and bitter.
"Like I chose to come back wrong. Like I volunteered for the nightmares when I volunteered for service.
Like I woke up every day and decided to be traumatized on purpose just to inconvenience her. "
Broken goods. Someone called this man—this strong, protective, gentle man—broken goods. Someone looked at his trauma and saw defects instead of battle scars. Someone chose to leave rather than learn how to help him heal.
I want to find her and have words. Strong words. Possibly involving a very detailed explanation of what it means to actually love someone through the hard parts.
"The pack saved me," Tank continues, his voice steadier now.
"Elias and Julian. They found me in a pretty bad place after she left.
Rock bottom, honestly. Neither of them was going to accept an Omega who couldn't deal with something as humane as trauma that wasn't asked for.
" He finally looks at me, and there's something vulnerable in his eyes that makes my chest ache.
"They decided we didn't need to rush. That we'd find the right one when the time was right. If ever."
If ever. Like they'd accepted the possibility of never finding someone. Like they'd made peace with being incomplete rather than risk another rejection.
And then I stumbled into their lives with my bounty hunters and my ex-pack drama and my temporary arrangement that's starting to feel less temporary by the day.
"Your experiences weren't meant to be bad or horrendous," I say softly, reaching over to take his free hand.
His fingers are rough and calloused, warm despite the winter chill.
They dwarf mine completely, but his grip is gentle.
Careful. Like he's afraid of holding on too tight.
"You didn't ask for what happened to you.
And anyone who can't understand that doesn't deserve you. "
He smirks—but it's a sad smirk, one that doesn't reach his eyes.
"That's what most people think when you do military.
That you volunteer for the trauma and then can't complain about it after.
It's stupid, if you ask me." His grip on my hand tightens slightly.
"They praise you when you're protecting what they deem valuable.
But the moment you become a commodity—the moment you're the one who needs help instead of giving it—suddenly you're the problem. Sad reality, if you ask me."
I nod, understanding exactly what he means.
It's not so different from being an Omega, really.
Praised and valued when you're useful—when you're fulfilling the role society assigned you.
But the moment you need something for yourself?
The moment you're inconvenient? Suddenly you're a problem to be solved rather than a person to be supported.
We're both damaged goods in our own ways. Both carrying scars that other people would rather not see. Both learning to trust again after being betrayed by people who should have protected us.
Maybe that's why this works. Maybe that's why I feel safe with him in a way I've never felt safe with anyone.
"If you have an episode," I say carefully, squeezing his hand, "I'll be there for you. I don't know if there are special actions I'm supposed to do—like with panic attacks—but anything that makes you comfortable. Whatever you need. I'll learn."
Tank is quiet for so long I start to wonder if I said something wrong.
The fire crackles, filling the silence between us.
Above our heads, the stars seem impossibly bright—millions of tiny pinpricks of light scattered across the infinite darkness.
A shooting star streaks across the sky, there and gone in an instant, and I make a wish without meaning to.
When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"Just a hug, Sweetness." He's staring at the fire pit, but I can see the vulnerability he's trying so hard to hide. "That's all I want. When it gets bad—when my brain convinces me I'm back there—I just need to know someone's there. Someone who won't run. Someone who'll hold on until it passes."
A hug. That's all he's asking for. Not someone who can fix him—because he's not broken, despite what that woman told him. Not someone who has all the answers. Just someone who will stay. Someone who will hold on.
I can do that. I can absolutely do that.
I lean back from his shoulder, shifting so I can look at him properly. The firelight catches the moisture in his eyes that he's blinking away, the tension in his jaw, the way his whole body is braced as if expecting rejection.
This man has been hurt. Badly. By people who should have loved him unconditionally. And he's still here—still trying, still opening up, still offering pieces of himself despite knowing how badly it can go wrong.
That's not weakness. That's the bravest thing I've ever seen. Letting someone see you at your most vulnerable after already being hurt for that vulnerability once before.
The fire crackles softly beside us. Somewhere in the darkness, an owl calls, and another answers.
The stars wheel slowly overhead, ancient and indifferent and beautiful.
And here, in this moment, in this clearing in the woods with this man who has shown me more of himself in one evening than most people show in a lifetime, I feel something shift.
This isn't fake anymore. This isn't just an arrangement. This is something real, something growing, something I didn't expect and am terrified to want.
But maybe that's okay. Maybe wanting things—real things, messy things, uncertain things—is allowed. Maybe I'm allowed to hope for more than survival.
I lean in and press a firm kiss to his cheek—not his lips, not pushing for anything more than this moment of connection.
Just a gentle press of my mouth against his stubbled skin, a promise sealed with warmth.
I feel him exhale slowly, feel some of the tension drain from his massive frame, feel him lean into the touch like he's been starving for exactly this.
"A hug it is."