11. Tank
TANK
A week.
It's been a week since I watched Enya walk home shaking, since I sat outside her building until dawn making sure no one came near. A week of watching her fade, getting paler, jumpier, more exhausted with each passing day.
A week of keeping my distance like I promised. Respecting her space. Not pushing.
And it's fucking killing me.
I lean against my bike outside the clubhouse, cigarette burning between my fingers even though I quit months ago. I can't seem to shake the habit when I'm stressed. And I'm stressed as fuck.
I haven't slept properly in days. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. The terror when she read that message, the way her hands shook, the haunted look that's only gotten worse.
"You good?" Cowboy's voice cuts through my thoughts. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that concerned look on his face I'm getting tired of seeing.
"Grand."
"Liar." He moves closer, lowering his voice. "You've been off all week. At church yesterday, you looked like you wanted to murder someone. What's going on?"
I take a drag, blow smoke into the gray Dublin morning. "Just shite. Nothing I can't handle."
"Right." He doesn't believe me. I can see it written all over his face. "Well, if you need backup..."
"I know where to find you. Thanks."
He heads back inside, and I'm left alone with my cigarette and my thoughts. Both are toxic.
I stub out the cigarette, climb on my bike, and head toward the city. Same routine as every day this week. Check the pub. Watch for threats. Make sure she's safe.
Even if she doesn't want me to.
Even if she'd tell me to fuck off if she knew.
* * *
I park down the street from O'Hara's around noon, in the usual spot where I can see the entrance, the alley, anyone approaching.
And that's when I see him.
Same man from before. Hood up, hands in pockets, leaning against the building across the street. Just standing there. Watching.
My whole body goes tense. Blood pounds in my ears.
That's the same fucker I saw near her building. Same build, same posture, same alertness.
He's not here by accident. He's watching for her.
I'm off my bike before I think, crossing the street with long strides. The man sees me coming, sees the patch on my jacket, and bolts.
"Oi!"
I chase him. Down the street, around the corner, weaving through pedestrians who curse and jump out of the way. He's fast, but I'm faster, fueled by a week's worth of pent-up rage.
But then he ducks into a crowded shopping centre and I lose him. Too many people, too many exits. By the time I make it through, he's gone.
"Fuck!" I slam my fist against a nearby wall, ignoring the pain that shoots up my arm.
He was right there. Right fucking there. And now he's gone, and I still don't know who he is or what he wants with Enya.
But I know enough.
Someone is definitely watching her. Following her. And from the way she's been acting, she knows it too.
No more distance. No more respecting boundaries when her safety's at stake.
I need to talk to her. Now.
I head straight back to the pub, adrenaline still coursing through me. I force myself to breathe, to calm down. I can't storm in there looking like I'm about to start a war. That'll only scare her more.
Inside, O'Hara's is moderately busy. Lunch crowd. Normal chatter and clinking glasses. Everything looks fine on the surface.
But Enya's behind the bar, and one look at her tells me nothing's fine.
She's paler than last week, the dark circles under her eyes so pronounced they look like bruises. Her shoulders are hunched forward like she's trying to make herself smaller, movements mechanical and jerky, like she's running on fumes and fear.
Christ, she looks like she's about to shatter.
My chest aches. Not just concern. Actual physical pain at seeing her like this.
This ends now.
I don't take my usual seat at the far end. I don't give her space to ignore me. I walk straight down the bar to where she's working.
She sees me coming. Her whole body goes rigid.
"Enya."
She doesn't look at me. Just keeps wiping down the bar with sharp, aggressive movements. "I'm working."
"I know."
"Unless you want a drink—"
"We need to talk."
"No, we don't." Her voice is clipped. Defensive. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Yes, there fucking is." I keep my voice low, controlled. I don't want to make a scene. "Not here. Somewhere private."
"I told you, I'm working."
"Enya." I lean in slightly, making sure she hears me clearly. "Please. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."
She finally looks at me, and Christ, the fear in her eyes nearly undoes me. Not fear of me. Fear of everything else. Of being vulnerable. Of admitting she needs help.
"I can't..."
"You can. And you will." Still gentle, but firm this time. "Because we both know something's wrong, and I'm not walking away until we talk about it."
She opens her mouth to argue, but Ciara appears at her elbow. "Go ahead. I've got the bar."
Enya shoots her a betrayed look. Ciara just raises her eyebrows. "Go. Talk to him."
For a second, I think Enya's going to refuse. Going to tell us both to fuck off and keep pretending everything's grand.
But then her shoulders sag. "Fine. Five minutes."
She comes around the bar, and I follow her to a corner booth at the back, away from the main crowd. Private enough to talk but not so isolated that she'll feel trapped.
I make sure to sit across from her, not beside her. Give her space. Give her an easy exit if she needs it.
She sits with her arms crossed, defensive posture, jaw tight. Waiting.
I take a breath. "There was a man outside, watching the pub. Same one I've seen before, near your building. When he saw me, he ran."
Her face goes white. Whiter than it already was.
"I chased him but lost him in the crowd.
" I lean forward slightly, keeping my voice low.
"Enya, someone is watching you. And you know it.
I can see it. You're jumpy as fuck, you're not sleeping, you look like you're about to collapse, and you keep checking over your shoulder like you're expecting someone to grab you. "
"I'm fine." The words are automatic. Hollow.
"No, you're not. And you know you're not." I keep my tone even, not accusing. Just stating facts. "I'm not asking to own your problems. I'm not demanding you let me fix everything. I'm just asking you to stop pretending nothing's wrong."
"It's none of your business."
"Maybe not. But I'm making it my business."
"Why?" Her voice cracks slightly. "Why do you care? You don't even know me."
"Because I see you." The words come out rougher than I intended. "I see how scared you are. I see you trying to hold it together. And I can't just..." I stop, jaw clenching. "I can't just watch you drown when I could help."
She's shaking now, hands trembling where they're pressed against the table. "You don't understand what he's like."
There it is. He.
My whole body goes still. "Who?"
She doesn't answer. She just stares at the table, breathing shallow and fast.
"Enya." I say her name softly. "Who?"
"My ex." The words come out barely above a whisper. "Declan. He... he used to watch me like this. Before. Before he..." She stops, swallows hard. "He's doing it again."
The name lands like a punch. Declan. I file it away, burn it into my memory.
"Tell me about him."
"Why? So you can... what? Go after him? Make it worse?"
"So I know what I'm dealing with."
She laughs, bitter and broken. "You're not dealing with anything. This isn't your problem."
"It is now."
"Tank..."
"Tell me." I keep my voice gentle but insistent. "Please."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, the words start coming.
"He doesn't shout. Never in public. Never where anyone can see.
He just... watches. Smiles. Waits." Her hands clench into fists.
"He's patient. Calculated. He'll follow me for weeks, let me see him just enough to know he's there, and then.
.." She stops, breath hitching. "And then when I'm scared enough, when I'm looking over my shoulder constantly, that's when he makes his move. "
My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. My hands curl into fists under the table. Every instinct I have is screaming to find this Declan fuck and end him.
But I can't. Not yet. Right now, Enya needs me calm. Needs me steady.
"How long?" I ask.
"How long what?"
"How long were you with him?"
"Two years. I left three years ago. Took Warren and ran in the middle of the night." Her voice is flat now, detached, like she's telling someone else's story. "I haven't seen him since. Until now."
"And Warren's his..."
"His son. Yeah." She looks up at me finally, eyes red-rimmed. "That's why I can't... I can't let you get involved. If Declan thinks you're... anything to me, if he sees you as a threat, he'll..." Her voice breaks. "He'll hurt you. Or worse, he'll use you to get to me."
"Let him fucking try."
"You don't understand—"
"No, you don't understand." I lean forward, making sure she hears every word. "I'm not someone he can intimidate. I'm not someone who scares easily. And I'm sure as fuck not going to stand by while he terrorizes you."
"Tank..."
"Declan's not touching you again." My voice is low, steady, but there's steel underneath. "He's not touching your son. He's not coming near this place without me knowing. And he's sure as fuck not going to keep watching you from the shadows like some fucking coward."
She stares at me, eyes wide, like she doesn't know whether to believe me or not.
"I'm not going anywhere, Enya," I say quietly. "Whether you want me here or not."
For a long moment, she doesn't move. Doesn't speak. She just sits there shaking, walls crumbling, exhaustion written all over her face.
Then, slowly, she reaches across the table. Her hand finds mine. Cold, trembling, small against my palm.
I close my fingers around hers. Gentle but firm. Holding on.
"I'm scared," she whispers.
"I know."
"I don't know what to do."
"You don't have to know. That's why I'm here."
A tear slips down her cheek, then another. She wipes them away angrily, like she's furious at herself for breaking.
"Come here," I say softly.
She hesitates, then she slides around to my side of the booth, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders. Pull her close. Not sexual. Not demanding. Just protective. Safe.
She doesn't pull away, just leans into me, face pressed against my chest, shaking silently.
I hold her, one hand on her back, the other still holding hers, letting her take what she needs.
"What's his name?" I ask quietly. "His full name."
She's quiet for a moment. Then, "Declan Fahy."
Declan Fahy.
I repeat it in my head, over and over. Burning it into memory.
Because Declan Fahy is a dead man. He just doesn't know it yet.
"He's not coming near you again," I murmur against her hair. "I promise."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me."
She pulls back slightly and looks up at me. Her eyes are red, face blotchy from crying, but there's something else there now. Not quite hope, but maybe the beginning of it.
"I should get back to work," she says quietly.
"Yeah. Okay."
But when I move to let her go, she stops me. Her hand grabs my wrist. Light touch, barely there, but it's enough.
"Don't... leave yet," she whispers. "Please."
My chest tightens. "I'm not going anywhere."
She nods and wipes her face, slides out of the booth, then heads back behind the bar where Ciara's covering for her.
I stay in the booth for a minute, just breathing. Processing.
Then I move back to my usual seat at the bar. Where she can see me. Where I can watch the door.
Where I can make sure Declan Fahy doesn't get within a hundred feet of her without going through me first.
* * *
The rest of the afternoon passes quietly. I nurse a pint. Watch Enya work. She's still tense, still exhausted, but there's something different now.
She glances at me occasionally. Not with fear or frustration, just... checking. Making sure I'm still there.
And I am. I will be. For as long as she needs.
Because she gave me his name. Told me what he's like. Let me hold her while she cried.
That's trust. Maybe not complete trust. Not yet. But it's a start.
And it's enough to start a war.
Declan Fahy wants to play games? Wants to watch and wait and terrorize the woman I—
I stop that thought before it finishes.
But the truth is already there, burning under my skin.
I care about her. More than I should. More than makes sense after such a short time.
And anyone who tries to hurt her is going to have to go through me first.
I pull out my phone and text Rush.
Need to talk. Got a name. Declan Fahy. Need everything you can find on him.
The response comes back almost immediately.
On it. You good?
Yeah. Just getting ready for war.
Let me know when you need backup.
Will do.
I pocket the phone and look up. Enya's watching me from behind the bar. Our eyes meet.
I nod once. A promise. A vow.
I've got you.
She doesn't smile. But she holds my gaze for a long moment before going back to work.
And I sit there, jaw tight, fists clenched, planning.
Declan Fahy made a mistake coming back into her life.
And I'm going to make sure he regrets it.