7. Tank #2
Her face goes white. All the color drains out in an instant, leaving her pale and frozen. Her hand trembles, just slightly, but enough that I notice. Her shoulders hunch forward like she's bracing against a blow.
Fear.
Raw, visceral fear.
Every instinct I have roars to life. My fists curl on the bar. My jaw locks. Adrenaline spikes through me so hard I can taste it.
Who the fuck is texting her? What did they say?
She sets the phone down carefully, like it might explode, and says something to the other bartender, too quiet for me to hear, then disappears into the back.
I want to follow. I want to demand to know what's wrong, what I can do to fix it.
But I don't.
Because barging after her, getting in her face, demanding answers—that's not what she needs. That's not how I earn her trust.
So I sit. And I wait. And I plan.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, she emerges from the back. Still pale. Still tense. She says something to her coworker, grabs her jacket from a hook behind the bar, and heads for the door.
She doesn't look at me, doesn't acknowledge my presence at all.
But I see the fear still lingering in her eyes; see the way her hands shake slightly as she pulls on her jacket.
Something's wrong. Really wrong.
And I'm not letting her face it alone.
I wait until she's out the door, give her a minute's head start, then follow.
The streets are busy with the lunchtime crowd, tourists, and delivery vans blocking narrow lanes. I keep my distance, staying far enough back that she won't notice me but close enough to keep her in sight.
She walks fast, head down, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around herself like she's trying to disappear.
I scan the street behind her, around her, looking for… what? A threat? Someone following her?
There’s nothing obvious, just normal Dublin foot traffic.
But the fear in her eyes was real. And fear like that doesn't come from nothing.
She turns onto a quieter street. Residential. Terraced houses with peeling paint and small front gardens. I hang back further, ducking into doorways when she glances over her shoulder.
She's checking, looking to see if she's being followed.
Smart girl.
But it makes my chest tighten. It makes me wonder what, or who, she's running from.
She stops at a the red brick apartment building, that she lives in. She fumbles with her keys, glances around one more time, then disappears inside.
I wait. Watch the windows. Third floor, corner flat. I see the shadow of her moving a moment later.
She's home. She's inside. She's safe.
For now.
I stand across the street for a long time, just watching, making sure no one else approaches the building. Making sure she's really okay.
My phone buzzes with a text from Cowboy.
Are you good?
Yeah. Just checking on something.
Need backup?
I consider it. Then text back.
Not yet. I'll let you know.
The lights in her flat stay on. I imagine her inside, pacing maybe, or sitting on her couch trying to calm down. Maybe checking on her kid, making sure he's okay.
I want to be someone she can trust. I want to be someone who makes her life easier, not harder.
But how do I do that when she won't even look at me?
The answer comes quiet and certain: I show her. With actions, not words. With patience, not pressure.
I stay outside her building until the sun starts to set, painting the Dublin sky in shades of gray and orange. Until I'm certain no one's watching her. Until I'm certain she's safe.
Then I turn on my heel and move away.
But I'm not done.
Not even close.
* * *
Back at the clubhouse, I head straight for my room, where I strip off my jacket and sit on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands.
She's scared, really scared. And not just of me, of something else. Someone else.
The ex, probably. Is he back? Is he threatening her?
The thought makes my blood run cold, makes me want to find whoever put that look of fear on her face and make sure they never come near her again.
But I can't do that. I can't go all vigilante without knowing what I'm dealing with. I can't risk making things worse for her.
So I'll wait. I'll watch. I'll make sure she's safe from a distance.
And when she's ready, if she's ever ready, I'll be here.
My phone's on the nightstand. I pick it up and stare at the blank screen. No messages. No missed calls.
Nothing.
I could text Ciara, ask her what's going on with Enya. Find out if she's okay. But that feels like crossing a line, like going behind Enya's back instead of respecting her space.
So I set the phone down and just sit there in the quiet.
Last night, she was in this bed, in my arms, looking at me like maybe, just maybe, she could trust me.
And this morning she ran because trusting me is too terrifying.
I get it. I do. She's been burned before. Hurt badly. And I came into her life and immediately fucked up, gave her every reason to believe I'm just like the last guy who hurt her.
But I'm not.
And I'm going to prove it.
Not with grand gestures or declarations. Not by showing up at her flat demanding she listen. But by being steady. Reliable. Safe.
By giving her space when she needs it and being there when she's ready.
By showing her, slowly, carefully, that she can trust me not to hurt her again.
It might take weeks. Might take months. Might never happen at all.
But Christ above, I'm not done trying.
Because she matters. Her kid matters. And whatever fear I saw in her eyes today, that matters too.
So if she needs space, I'll give it.
If she needs quiet, she'll have it.
But I'm keeping an eye on her. Making sure she's safe. Making sure whatever scared her today doesn't get close enough to hurt her.
And when she's ready—if she's ever ready—I'll be here.
Waiting.
Because Enya's worth waiting for.
And I'm done running from things that matter.