5. Tank #2
Enya's still watching me, and I can see the war playing out on her face. Part of her wants to walk away. Part of her wants to believe me.
"It doesn't matter," she says finally, but her voice is softer now. Less certain. "Even if that's true, and I'm not saying I believe you, it doesn't change anything."
"Why not?"
"Because I can't do this." She glances around, checking if anyone's listening, then drops her voice lower. "I can't let someone in who's still carrying someone else around in their head. It won't end well. I’ve been on the receiving end of being someone’s second choice. I won’t do it again."
There's pain underneath those words. Real pain. Someone hurt her; made her feel like she wasn't enough.
And I did the same fucking thing.
"I'm not asking you to let me in," I say. "I'm just asking you to let me apologize properly. Hear me out. That's it."
"And then what?"
"Then nothing. If you want me gone, I'm gone. But you deserve better than what I gave you that night."
She's quiet, considering. I can see her turning it over in her mind, weighing options, building and rebuilding walls.
Then she says, "Five minutes. That's it."
Relief floods through me so hard I nearly sag. "That's all I need."
She glances around the crowded clubhouse. "Not here."
"Where?"
"Outside."
I nod. She turns and walks toward the back exit, and I follow, my heart pounding like it's trying to break through my ribs.
This might be my only shot. My only chance to make this right.
I can't fuck it up again.
We make it outside and Enya stops near the wall, arms crossed, waiting.
I take a breath. "Emma was my ex, from before the club. We ended badly. She left because I was destroying myself and she couldn't watch anymore. She moved on quickly. Not even a week later she was dating my brother."
Enya's expression doesn't change, but she's listening. Really listening.
"That night with you," I continue, the words coming easier now, "I wasn't thinking about her. I swear to Christ I wasn't. You were…" I stop, searching for the right words. "You were real. More real than anyone I've been with in... I don't know how long, and that scared the shite out of me."
Her arms tighten across her chest, but I see something flicker in her eyes. Understanding, maybe.
"So somewhere in my fucked-up head," I explain, "I think I self-sabotaged. Said her name because it was safe. Because it meant you'd kick me out and I wouldn't have to deal with whatever the fuck I was feeling."
Silence stretches between us. The distant sound of traffic. Music thumping from inside. My own heartbeat is loud in my ears.
"But that doesn't make it okay," I add quickly. "It doesn't excuse it. You didn't deserve that. Didn't deserve to feel like you were a second choice or a replacement or…" I shake my head. "You deserved better. And I'm sorry I couldn't give it to you."
More silence. She's just watching me, face unreadable, and I'm dying here. Dying to know what she's thinking.
Finally, she speaks. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you deserve to know the truth."
"Do I? Or do you just feel guilty?"
"Both," I admit. No point lying now. "But mostly because I can't stop thinking about you and I needed you to know it wasn't about you. It was about me and my shite."
She laughs, but it’s short and bitter. "You know what the fucked-up part is? I believe you. I actually believe that you weren't thinking about her."
Hope flares in my chest.
"But it doesn't matter, Tank." Her voice cracks slightly on my name. "Because you still said it. You still made me feel like I was nothing."
The words gut me. "I know, and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
She's quiet again, looking down at the gravel. When she speaks, her voice is softer. Vulnerable. "I have a kid, a five-year-old son who depends on me, and I can't bring someone into our lives who's still working through their own damage. I've done that before. It nearly destroyed us both."
A kid.
The information lands heavily, shifts everything into focus. She's not just protecting herself. She's protecting him.
"I'm not asking to be in your life," I say carefully. "Or his. I just... I needed to say this. Needed you to know the truth. That's all."
She nods slowly then looks up at me, and Christ, the look in her eyes... It's not quite forgiveness, but it's not hate either.
"Okay," she says softly. "I heard you. I appreciate it, I do."
"But it doesn't change anything," I finish for her.
"No." She uncrosses her arms, lets them fall to her sides. "It doesn't."
We stand there, just looking at each other. The space between us feels charged, heavy with things unsaid.
"For what it's worth," she says finally, "that night, before you fucked it up, it was good. Really good."
My throat tightens. "Yeah. It was."
"Maybe in another life," she says, and there's something wistful in her voice. "When we're both less broken."
"Maybe."
She pushes off the wall, makes to walk past me toward the door. I should let her go. Should leave it here, clean break, both of us knowing where we stand.
But as she passes, I catch her wrist. Gentle. Light enough that she could pull away if she wanted.
She stops.
Doesn't pull away.
I can feel her pulse under my thumb, quick and fluttering. I can feel the heat of her skin.
"Enya," I say, and her name feels like a prayer.
She turns her head and looks at me over her shoulder, and fuck, the expression on her face... want and wariness tangled together.
"Don't," she whispers. But she still hasn't pulled away.
"Don't what?"
"Don't make this harder than it already is."
I should let go. Should step back. Should do the right thing for once in my fucking life.
Instead, I run my thumb across the inside of her wrist. Soft. Reverent.
She sucks in a breath.
"I'm not trying to make it harder," I say quietly. "I'm just…I don't want to let go yet."
"Tank—"
"I know. I know you can't do this. I know I fucked it up. I know." My voice is rough, raw. "But give me one more minute. Please."
She turns to face me fully now, and we're close. Too close. I can smell her; that citrus scent with something clean underneath. I can see the way her chest rises and falls with each breath.
"One minute," she says, but her voice has gone breathy.
I still haven't let go of her wrist. I can't seem to make myself. My thumb traces small circles there, and I watch her eyes darken, pupils blown wide.
"You're trouble," she says, echoing her words from that first night.
"Yeah."
"I should walk away right now."
"Probably."
"So why aren't I?"
"Same reason I can't let go, maybe."
She bites her bottom lip, and I track the movement, remembering the taste of her mouth. I remember everything.
"This is a bad idea," she whispers.
"Terrible idea," I agree.
But neither of us moves.
The air between us crackles, charged with the same electricity from that first night. Before I fucked it up. Before everything went sideways.
It's still there. Still burning.
"One minute's up," she says, but she doesn't pull away.
"Enya—"
"Don't." She closes her eyes. "Don't say whatever you're about to say. Because I can feel myself wanting to believe it, and I can't. I can't let myself."
I tighten my grip on her wrist, still gentle, still giving her the option to leave, and step closer. Close enough that I can feel her breath on my face.
"What if I'm not asking you to believe anything?" I say. "What if I'm just asking for right now?"
Her eyes open, blue and conflicted and wanting despite herself.
"Right now doesn't exist," she says. "There's only before and after. And after always ends badly."
"Not always."
"In my experience? Always."
She pulls her wrist free then, and the loss of contact feels like losing something vital. She steps back, putting distance between us, and I can see her rebuilding her walls in real time.
"I should get back inside," she says. "Ciara's probably wondering where I went."
"Yeah. Okay."
But neither of us moves. We just stand there, caught in the gravity of whatever this is between us.
"Tank?" Her voice is small, uncertain.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For being honest. For coming out here. For—" She stops. "Just thank you."
Then she turns and walks to the door, and this time I don't stop her.
I watch her go, watch the door close behind her, and stand there in the cool night air feeling like I just lost something I never really had.
But for a minute, for one perfect minute, she didn't pull away. She let me touch her. Let herself feel it.
That has to mean something.
Doesn't it?
I run my hand through my hair, trying to collect myself before going back inside. My heart's still racing, body still keyed up from being that close to her.
This isn't over.
I know it should be. I know she's right; we're both too broken for this to work. I know I should walk away, let her have her peace.
But I can't shake the feeling that I just touched something real. Something worth fighting for.
Even if she doesn't think so yet.
I head back inside eventually, the noise and heat hitting me like a wall. The party's in full swing, brothers drinking, women laughing, music loud enough to rattle my bones.
I scan the room and find her near the bar with Ciara. She's laughing at something Rush said, trying to look normal, but even from here I can see the tension in her shoulders and her eyes darting around like she's looking for something.
Or someone.
Our eyes meet across the room.
She looks away first, but not before I see it—the same want I'm feeling reflected back at me.
This isn't over.
Not by a long shot.