7. Tank
TANK
I'm awake when she leaves.
I’ve been awake for the last ten minutes, lying still with my arm draped over her waist, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing. Trying to memorize the weight of her against me, the warmth of her skin, the way she fits perfectly in the space between my chest and the mattress.
Trying to hold on to it before it slips away.
Because I know it's going to slip away. I can feel it in the tension creeping back into her body as dawn light filters through the blinds. I can hear it in the subtle change in her breathing; no longer the deep, even rhythm of sleep but something shallower. Conscious.
Awake and thinking.
And when Enya thinks too much, she runs.
So I lie still. Keep my breathing steady. Pretend I'm asleep even though every muscle in my body is coiled tight, waiting.
She moves carefully, slowly, easing out from under my arm like she's afraid of waking me. I feel the mattress shift as she sits up, hear the quiet rustle of fabric as she searches for her clothes in the gray morning light.
Everything in me wants to reach for her. Pull her back. Ask her to stay. Tell her last night meant something, means something, and we should at least talk about it before she disappears.
But I don't.
Because grabbing her, pushing her, demanding anything right now would only prove I'm exactly what she's afraid of: another man who takes without asking. Another man who doesn't respect boundaries.
So I keep my eyes closed and my breathing even and I let her go.
Even though it's killing me.
I hear her pull on her jeans; the soft sound of her shirt sliding over her head; her quiet exhale that sounds like relief or regret or maybe both.
Her footsteps move toward the door. Pause.
My heart pounds so hard I'm surprised she can't hear it.
"Enya?" The word slips out before I can stop it. Rough with sleep and something else. Something desperate.
Silence stretches. I open my eyes and see her silhouette against the door, hand frozen on the handle.
"Don't go," I say quietly. "Please. We can talk. We can—"
"I can't." Her voice cracks, and Christ, that sound guts me. "I'm sorry. I just... I can't."
Then she's gone, the door closing softly behind her, footsteps fading down the corridor.
Gone.
I lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, feeling the absence of her like a physical wound.
"Enya," I whisper to the empty room.
But she's already gone.
I don't move for a long time. I just lie there in the gray morning light, sheets still warm from her body, her scent lingering on the pillow beside me.
My chest aches. Not the sharp pain of anger or betrayal, just a dull, hollow feeling that settles deep in my bones.
She ran.
Of course she ran.
I scared her. Not with anything I did last night—Christ, I was so fucking careful, so deliberate about showing her she mattered—but with how much it meant. How deep it went. How real it felt.
She felt it too. I know she did. I could see it in her eyes, hear it in the way she said my name, feel it in the way she held on to me after like she was afraid to let go.
And that's exactly why she left.
Because feeling something real is more terrifying than feeling nothing at all.
I sit up slowly and run my hands through my hair, trying to make sense of the mess in my head. Part of me wants to go after her. Find her. Make her listen. Make her understand that last night wasn't just sex, it was something else. Something that matters.
But I can't.
I can't chase her. Can't push. Can't demand she give me something she's not ready to give.
She has a kid. A life. Scars from someone who hurt her badly enough that she's still carrying the weight of it.
And I just added to that weight by saying another woman's name in her bed.
No wonder she ran.
I stand and pull on jeans, leaving the shirt off. The room feels too small suddenly. Too quiet. The sheets are still rumpled from where she laid, and I have to resist the urge to press my face into the pillow just to smell her again.
Fucking pathetic.
I strip the bed instead, bundle the sheets, throw them in the corner. I can't sleep in them tonight knowing she was here and now she's not. I can't torture myself with the ghost of her.
My phone's on the dresser. I check it, no messages. Not that I expected any. She doesn't have my number. And even if she did, she wouldn't text.
She made her choice clear when she walked out that door.
I just wish her choice didn't feel like a punch to the gut.
* * *
The clubhouse is quiet when I emerge from my room. It’s too early for most of the brothers, too late for the ones who crashed here last night. It’s just me and the silence and the stale smell of beer and smoke.
I head to the kitchen and put coffee on. I stand there watching it drip, not thinking, just existing in the gray space between exhausted and wired.
Footsteps approach from behind me. I don't turn.
"Rough night?" Cowboy's voice, careful and knowing.
"Something like that."
He comes to stand beside me and leans against the counter. He doesn't push. Just waits.
"She left," I say finally. "This morning. Before I could…" I stop. Before I could what? Convince her to stay? Promise her things I'm not sure I can deliver? "Just left."
"You let her go."
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Because chasing her would've made it worse." I pour coffee into two mugs and slide one toward him. "She's scared. And I can't fix that by pushing."
Cowboy nods slowly. "So what are you gonna do?"
"Give her space. Give her time." I take a sip, burning my tongue. "Show her I'm not going anywhere."
"How?"
"I don't know yet."
We stand there in silence, drinking coffee that's too hot and too bitter, both of us lost in our own thoughts.
"For what it's worth," Cowboy says eventually, "I think you're doing the right thing in giving her space. Not everyone would."
"Yeah, well," I set my mug down, "not everyone fucked it up as badly as I did."
"You apologized. You made it right. What happened last night, that was her choice too, Tank. She came to your room. She stayed. You didn't force anything."
"I know." But it doesn't make me feel better. Doesn't ease the knot in my chest or the sick feeling in my stomach. "But it doesn't change the fact that she left looking like she regretted every second of it."
Cowboy doesn't have an answer for that. Neither do I.
I finish my coffee, rinse the mug, and head back to my room. I need a shower. Need to wash the night off me and try to figure out what the fuck I'm supposed to do now.
But even under scalding water, I can't stop thinking about her. The way she looked at me. The way she said my name. The way her body felt pressed against mine.
The way she walked out without looking back.
By midday, I can't take it anymore.
The sitting. The waiting. The not knowing if she's okay or if she's spiraling or if she hates me or if she's just scared.
I need to see her. I need to know she's alright.
Not to talk. Not to push. Just to see.
I grab my keys and swing by Cowboy's room. He's on the couch with Saoirse, reading her some book about dinosaurs. He looks up when I knock.
"Heading out?" he asks.
"Yeah. Won't be long."
He studies me for a second, then nods. "Be careful."
I don't ask what he means. I just leave.
The ride into the city clears my head slightly. Wind in my face, engine rumbling beneath me, the familiar rhythm of the road. By the time I pull up outside O’Hara's, I've got my head on straighter.
I'm not here to confront her. Not here to demand explanations.
I'm here because I need to see her, to make sure she's okay. And maybe... maybe if she sees me being calm, being respectful, giving her space, she'll start to believe I'm not a threat.
The pub's moderately busy. Lunch crowd, mostly. I slip inside and take a seat at the far end of the bar, where I can see the whole room but stay out of the way.
And there she is.
Enya. Hair pulled back, black shirt on, moving behind the bar with practiced efficiency. She looks tired, with shadows under her eyes and tension in her shoulders, but she's here. She's okay.
The knot in my chest loosens slightly.
She hasn't seen me yet, too focused on pouring pints, taking orders, and wiping down the bar. I watch her work, memorizing the way she moves, the curve of her neck when she tilts her head, the small line that appears between her brows when she's concentrating.
Beautiful.
Even exhausted and guarded and probably pissed at me, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
A younger bartender approaches my end of the bar, not Ciara, someone else. "What can I get you?"
"Guinness."
She nods and pulls the pint then sets it in front of me. I pay, leaving a decent tip, then settle in to wait.
Enya glances down the bar, sees me and freezes.
Our eyes meet for half a second before she looks away, jaw tight, shoulders going rigid.
She's pissed. Or scared. Or both.
But she doesn't ask me to leave, doesn't cause a scene. She just turns back to her work and pretends I don't exist.
Fair enough.
I sip my pint slowly, not rushing, not staring at her directly but always aware of where she is. She moves down the bar, serves customers, laughs at something an old regular says, but the tension never leaves her shoulders. She never fully relaxes.
She knows I'm here. Knows I'm watching.
And she's not okay with it.
But I stay anyway, because leaving would mean not knowing if she's alright. And I can't do that. I can't walk away when everything in me is screaming to make sure she's safe.
An hour passes, maybe more. My pint sits half-finished in front of me. Enya still hasn't looked at me again, but I can feel her awareness like a live wire between us.
Then she reaches for her phone on the back counter and checks it while wiping down the bar.
And everything changes.