2. Enya
ENYA
The door slams behind him and I sit there, frozen, sheets clutched to my chest like they can protect me from what just happened.
Emma.
He called me Emma.
My hands are shaking. The whole room feels like it's tilting, spinning, and I can't get enough air. My lungs are tight, squeezing, and there's this ringing in my ears that won't stop.
I knew better.
I fucking knew better.
Don't let them close. Don't let them in. Don't give them anything they can use to hurt you.
And what did I do? I brought him home. Let him touch me. Let myself want him. God, I wanted him so badly it scared me. That rough voice, those careful hands, the way he looked at me like he was seeing something worth seeing...
Lies. All of it.
I wasn't even me to him. I was someone else. Someone named Emma who he was thinking about while his hands were on my body, while his mouth was—
A sob catches in my throat. I swallow it down, jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache.
I will not cry over this man.
I won't.
But my eyes are burning and my chest is heaving and I can still feel him, his weight, his warmth, the way he groaned my name. Except it wasn't my name, was it? It was hers. Emma. Whoever the fuck she is.
Was.
The sadness in his voice tells me everything I need to know.
I push off the bed, legs unsteady, and grab my clothes from where they're scattered across the floor. My shirt's inside out. I yank it on anyway, not caring, just needing to be covered. To not be bare.
My flat feels too small suddenly. Too quiet. The walls are closing in and I need…I need…
I don't know what I need.
Air. Space. To rewind the last two hours and tell myself to keep my distance, to serve him his pint and nothing else, to not let those dark eyes and that careful attention make me think he was different.
They're all the same.
Every single one of them.
My ex, Declan, used to do this too. Not call me the wrong name—Christ, that would've required him to be thinking about someone other than himself for five seconds—but make me feel like I was nothing. Like I was interchangeable. A warm body. A convenience.
And I swore when I left him, when I packed Warren up in the middle of the night and ran, that I'd never let another man make me feel small again.
But here I am. Small. Humiliated. Stupid.
So fucking stupid.
I pace to the window and press my forehead against the cold glass. Rain's still coming down, hammering against the pane, and somewhere out there Tank is probably halfway across the city, not thinking about me at all. Back to whoever Emma is in his head. Back to his life, where I don't exist.
Good.
That's good.
Except it doesn't feel good. It feels like my chest is caving in.
I hate this. Hate that I care. Hate that for a few hours I let myself believe…
What? That I could have something? That I deserved something?
I should know better by now.
Panic is crawling up my throat now, familiar and vicious. I know this feeling. Know it too well. It starts in my stomach, cold and hollow, then spreads through my limbs until I can't feel my fingers, can't catch my breath, can't think straight.
Declan used to trigger it. When he'd come home drunk and angry, when his voice would go low and dangerous, when I'd see that look in his eyes that meant I needed to be small, quiet, invisible.
I thought I was done with this. I thought I'd healed enough that a man couldn't do this to me anymore.
Wrong again, Enya.
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. I press my hand to my chest, trying to slow it, trying to ground myself the way the therapist taught me. Five things I can see. Four things I can touch. Three things I can hear.
But all I can see is Tank's face when he realized what he'd said. The horror. The shame.
At least he had the decency to look ashamed.
Doesn't make it better.
Doesn't make me feel less like shite.
I need to move. I need to do something before I spiral completely. The shower. I'll take a shower. Wash him off me. Wash this whole night off me.
I stumble into the bathroom, turn the water on as hot as it'll go, and strip off my clothes. I don't look in the mirror. I can't look at myself right now.
The water's scalding when I step under it, but I don't adjust the temperature. Let it burn. Let it hurt. Anything to focus on something other than the ache in my chest.
I press my hands against the tile, head bowed, letting the water pour over me.
And then I'm crying.
Gasping, ugly sobs that shake my whole body. I slide down until I'm sitting on the shower floor, arms wrapped around my knees, and I let it out. All of it. The humiliation, the anger, the bone-deep exhaustion of trying so fucking hard to keep it together all the time.
I cry for the girl I used to be, before Declan. Before I learned that love meant pain.
I cry for the woman I am now, raising a kid alone, working shit jobs, pretending I'm fine when I'm barely holding on.
I cry because for one night, for a few hours, I thought maybe I could have something for myself. Something that wasn't about Warren or bills or survival.
And it was ripped away before I even had a chance to hold it.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Eventually the tears stop. Run dry. I sit there in the cooling water, numb and hollow, until my skin's pruned and the water's gone lukewarm.
Then I drag myself up, turn off the tap, and wrap myself in a towel that's seen better days.
I avoid the mirror again. I don't need to see the red eyes, the blotchy face, the evidence of my breakdown.
I just need to sleep.
I need to forget.
I'm pulling on an old shirt, one of Declan's I should've thrown out years ago but kept because it's comfortable, when I hear it.
A whimper.
Soft. Scared.
Warren.
My heart clenches, panic of a different kind flooding through me.
I cross the flat in three strides and push open his bedroom door.
Mam’s door is closed. She’s fast asleep and won’t wake now until morning.
When I fled from Declan, I came home to mam.
She’s been a godsend. She lives with me and Warren, and she takes care of him for me when I’m working.
I owe her so much, so giving her a roof over her head is the least I could do for her, especially when she helps me with Warren.
He's sitting up in bed, small body shaking, tears streaming down his face.
"Mam," he chokes out.
"I'm here, love." I'm beside him in an instant, pulling him into my arms. He's so small. Five years old and already carrying fears he shouldn't have to. "I'm here. You're alright."
"Bad dream," he whispers against my shoulder. His hands fist in my shirt, holding on like I'm the only solid thing in the world.
Maybe I am.
"I know, baby. I know." I rock him gently, one hand rubbing circles on his back. "It was just a dream. You're safe now."
"He was here," Warren says, voice muffled. "Da was here. He was angry."
My blood runs cold.
Declan.
Warren still has nightmares about Declan, even though we left three years ago. Even though we've built a life far away from him. The fear is still there, woven into my son's bones, and I hate it. I hate that I couldn't protect him from it. I hate that I stayed as long as I did.
"Your da's not here," I say firmly. "He doesn't know where we are. And I won't let him near you. Ever. I promise."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He sniffles, pressing closer, and I hold him tighter. This is what matters. Not Tank. Not my bruised ego or broken pride. Warren. Keeping him safe. Keeping him whole.
"Can I sleep in your bed?" he asks.
"Course you can."
I carry him to my room. He's getting too big for this, but tonight I don't care and tuck him into my bed. He burrows under the covers, still shaking slightly, and I lie down beside him, pulling him close.
"Tell me a story?" he whispers.
"What kind?"
"The one about the knight."
I smile despite everything. He loves this story. The brave knight who fights dragons and saves the kingdom. Simple. Heroic. Nothing like the real world.
So I tell it, watching as his breathing evens out, as his body relaxes against mine. By the time I reach the part where the knight defeats the dragon, he's asleep, mouth slightly open, one hand curled under his chin.
I brush the hair back from his forehead, pressing a kiss there.
This is why I don't let men in.
This is why I can't.
Because Warren needs me to be steady. Needs me whole. And every time I let someone close, they take pieces of me I can't afford to lose.
Declan took almost everything. My confidence. My safety. My belief that I deserved good things.
I've spent three years clawing it back, building walls, learning to be enough on my own.
And tonight I let a biker with sad eyes and careful hands slip through my defenses like they were nothing.
Won't happen again.
Can't happen again.
I extricate myself carefully from Warren's grip, making sure he's still asleep before I slip out of bed. The flat's quiet now, just the sound of rain against the windows and my son's soft breathing.
I move to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Tea. That's what I need. Something warm and normal and routine.
While the water boils, I lean against the counter and close my eyes.
I can still feel him. Tank. His hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. For those few minutes before everything went to shite, it felt…
Good. It felt good.
Better than good.
And that's the problem, isn't it? I wanted him. Really wanted him. Not just the physical release but the connection. The way he looked at me like I was more than just a body. But it was all in my head.
He wasn't seeing me. He was seeing her. Emma. Ghost girl. Dead girl, probably, based on the way he said her name, like it was being torn out of him.
The kettle whistles. I pour the water over a tea bag, watching the color bleed through, turning the water amber.
My hands are steadier now. The panic faded to a dull ache, manageable, familiar.
This is fine. I'm fine.
I'll go to work tomorrow, serve pints, smile at customers, and come home to Warren. Same as always. And if I see Tank again—which I won't, because why would I—I'll pretend I don't know him. Pretend nothing happened.
Easy.
Except when I close my eyes, I see his face. The horror when he realized. The shame.
The way he said sorry like it could fix anything.
"Stop," I mutter to myself. "Just stop."
I take my tea to the couch and curl up under the blanket that's always there. The flat's dark except for the streetlight glow coming through the windows. Everything's quiet. Peaceful.
But my mind won't shut off.
I keep thinking about the way he touched me. Gentle. Reverent, almost. Like I was something precious.
No one's touched me like that since…
Well. Since ever, probably.
Declan was rough. Demanding. He took what he wanted and didn't care if I wanted it too.
Tank was different.
He was careful. Made sure I was with him every step of the way.
Until he wasn't. Until he was somewhere else entirely, with someone else, and I was just…
There. A body. A replacement.
The tea burns my tongue but I drink it anyway. I need something to focus on besides the ache in my chest that won't go away.
I should hate him.
I want to hate him.
But underneath the anger and humiliation, there's something else. Something softer. Because I saw his face. I saw the genuine horror when he realized what he'd done.
He didn't mean to hurt me.
Doesn't mean it didn't hurt.
Doesn't mean I'll forgive it.
I won't.
I can't.
I finish my tea, set the mug on the floor, and pull the blanket tighter around myself. The rain's still falling, steady and relentless, and somewhere out there Tank's probably home by now. Back to his life. His club. His ghosts.
And I'm here. Alone. The way I should be. The way I need to be.
For Warren.
For myself.
I close my eyes, trying to will sleep to come, but all I see is Tank's face. Those dark eyes. That careful mouth. The way he looked at me like I was worth looking at.
"Stop," I whisper again.
But I can't.
I can't stop thinking about him. Can't stop feeling his hands on my skin. Can't stop wondering who Emma was and why she's still so present in his head that her name slipped out in the middle of—
No. I'm not doing this. I'm not torturing myself over a man I barely know.
I roll onto my side and pull the blanket over my head like I'm a child hiding from monsters.
But the monsters are in my head now. And they all have Tank's face.
I don't sleep.
Not really.
I drift in and out, caught in that gray space between consciousness and dreams where everything feels heavy and wrong. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back in that moment, his voice breaking on her name, my body going rigid, the sick drop in my stomach.
When pale light finally starts filtering through the windows, I give up and drag myself off the couch to check on Warren. He's still asleep, covers kicked off, sprawled across my bed like a starfish.
I pull the blanket back over him and press a kiss to his temple.
He's why I'll be fine.
Why I have to be fine.
I make coffee—strong, black—then stand at the kitchen window and watch the city wake up. Dublin looks gray and tired in the early morning light, streets still wet from the rain.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ciara, the other bartender from last night.
You alright? Saw you leave with Tank. He seemed intense.
I stare at the message for a long moment then delete it without responding.
I'm not talking about this. Not with Ciara, not with anyone.
It didn't happen.
Last night didn't happen.
Tank doesn't exist.
I repeat it to myself like a mantra, taking another sip of coffee, trying to believe it.
But when I close my eyes, I can still feel his hands.
I still hear his voice.
I still taste him on my lips.
And I hate that I want more.