1. Tank #2
Her flat isn't far. Third floor of a Georgian building that's seen better days. Peeling paint on the door, stairs that creak under our boots. She fumbles with her keys, hands shaking slightly, and I wonder if she's nervous or if it's just the cold.
The door swings open. She pulls me inside.
The flat's small. Tidy. Books stacked on a shelf, a blanket thrown over a couch that's seen better days. It smells like her, that citrus scent with something herbal underneath. There's art on the walls, prints I don't recognize, and plants in the window that somehow haven't died.
She drops her keys on a table by the door and turns to face me.
For a second, we just stand there. Looking. The air between us is thick, charged, and my heart's hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Then she steps forward, reaches up, and kisses me.
It's not soft. Not tentative. It's hungry, desperate, her mouth hot and demanding against mine. I groan, wrapping my arms around her waist, pulling her flush against me. She's tall enough that I don't have to bend much, and Christ, she fits against me perfectly.
Her hands are in my hair, tugging, and I walk her backward toward what I hope is her bedroom.
We stumble through a doorway, mouths still locked, hands pulling at clothing.
My jacket hits the floor. Then hers. She yanks my shirt over my head, her palms sliding over my chest, my shoulders, mapping scars and ink with her fingertips.
"Bed," she breathes against my mouth.
"Where?"
"There."
I look to where she points and see it, unmade, sheets tangled, pillows thrown everywhere. Perfect.
We fall onto it together, her beneath me, blonde hair spread across the pillow like a fucking halo. She's beautiful like this, flushed, breathing hard, eyes dark with want. I kiss her again, slower this time, tasting her, feeling her arch up into me.
Her hands slide down my back, nails scraping lightly, and I shudder.
This is happening.
This is really fucking happening.
I kiss down her throat, feeling her pulse race under my lips. She gasps, tilting her head back, giving me access. Her skin tastes like salt and something sweet, and I want more. I want everything.
"Tank," she whispers, and hearing my name in her mouth does something to me. It makes me want to hear it again, louder, broken.
I look up at her. Her eyes are half-closed, lips swollen from kissing, and she's so fucking gorgeous it hurts.
"Yeah?" My voice comes out rough, wrecked.
"Don't stop."
"Wasn't planning on it."
I kiss her again, deeper this time, pouring everything I can't say into it. My hands slide under her shirt, feeling warm skin, the curve of her waist. She gasps into my mouth, hips lifting, and—
And suddenly I'm somewhere else.
Someone else.
Emma's face flashes through my mind, brown hair, brown eyes, that smile that used to make me believe in good things. Emma, who's been gone for three years. Emma, who I haven't let myself think about because thinking about her means remembering how I failed her.
No.
Not now.
I push the thought away and focus on the woman beneath me. Enya. Not Emma. Enya, who's alive and warm and here, who wants this, who chose this.
But the image won't leave.
Won't fucking leave.
Enya's hands are on my shoulders now, pulling me closer, and I lose myself in the sensation. The heat, the pressure, the way she moves beneath me like she knows exactly what she wants.
"Yes," she breathes. "God, yes—"
And I'm gone. Lost in it. Lost in her.
My control shatters.
"Emma," I groan.
The name slips out before I can stop it, raw and broken and wrong.
Everything stops.
Enya goes rigid beneath me. Her hands, which were clutching my shoulders, suddenly push hard against my chest.
"Get off," she says. Voice flat. Cold.
Fuck.
"Wait—"
"Get. Off."
I roll away immediately, heart sinking into my stomach. She sits up, yanking the covers around herself, and even in the dim light I can see the hurt and anger warring on her face.
"Who the fuck is Emma?" she demands.
My throat closes. I can't speak. Can't explain. Can't tell her that Emma was everything and I destroyed her, and I haven't said her name out loud in three years, and I don't know why it came out now, here, with someone who deserves better than my broken shit.
"Get out," Enya says quietly.
"Enya—"
"I said get out."
Her voice cracks on the last word, and that's what kills me. Not the anger. The hurt.
I grab my shirt, my jacket. I don't look at her. I can't look at her.
"I'm sorry," I manage. The words are useless. Pathetic.
"Just go."
I go.
Down the stairs and out into the rain, which is coming down in sheets now. I stand there for a second, letting it soak through me, feeling sick and hollow and furious with myself.
What the fuck did I just do?
I walk back toward O’Hara's, where my bike's waiting.
The streets are empty now, everyone smart enough to be inside, out of the weather.
My boots splash through puddles, and I can't stop replaying it: the way she looked at me, the way her body went rigid, the way her voice broke when she told me to leave.
I fucked up.
Fucked up bad.
Emma's ghost has been haunting me for three years, and I thought I'd learned to live with it. Thought I'd buried it deep enough that it couldn't hurt anyone else.
I was wrong.
By the time I reach my bike, I'm soaked through and shaking, from cold or shame, I don't know. Probably both. I swing my leg over the seat, kick her to life, and just sit there for a minute, engine rumbling beneath me.
I can still feel Enya's hands on my skin. Can still taste her on my lips.
Can still see the look on her face when I said someone else's name.
"Fuck," I mutter into the rain.
Then I twist the throttle and disappear into the night, carrying my ghosts with me like I always do.
And always will.