14. Enya
ENYA
The door closes behind them, and silence hits me like a wall.
I stand in the hallway for a long moment, staring at the empty space where Warren and Mam just were.
They're off to Auntie Siobhan's for a few nights.
Warren was excited. Mam was trying not to look too pleased about having him to herself.
But we both agreed it would be the safest place for the both of them to be.
And I'm here. Alone.
The flat feels too big suddenly. Too quiet. Every creak of the floorboards, every hum of the refrigerator, every sound from the street seems amplified.
I move to the sitting room and turn on the telly to some cookery show I'm not interested in watching. I just need the noise, something to fill the space.
But it doesn't help.
I try cleaning. Wiping down surfaces that I’ve already cleaned. Reorganizing the cupboards. Folding laundry that's already folded.
It still doesn't help.
I take a shower, standing under the hot water until my skin's pink and the bathroom's full of steam. But when I step out and wrap myself in a towel, the silence is still there. Waiting.
And so are my thoughts.
Tank.
His voice. The way he said my name. The way he held me when I finally broke and couldn't hold it together anymore.
The way he promised Declan wouldn't touch me again.
And I believed him.
That's the terrifying part. I believed him.
I pull on leggings and an oversized jumper, towel-dry my hair, and stare at my phone on the bed.
I shouldn't text him. I should give him space. Give myself space to process everything that's happened over the last few days.
But I don't want space.
I want...
I don't even know what I want. I just know that the thought of him makes my chest feel less tight. Makes the fear feel less suffocating.
I pick up the phone. Type: Are you around?
Delete it.
Type: Can we talk?
Delete that too.
Finally, I just send it.
Are you around?
I hit send before I can over-think it.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Yeah. You okay?
My chest tightens.
Can you come over? Mam and Warren are out for the night.
Another immediate reply.
Be there in ten.
I stare at the message for a long moment. Then panic sets in.
He's coming here. To my flat. Where we'll be alone. And I just... asked him to.
What am I doing?
I rush around the flat, straightening cushions that are already straight, wiping down the kitchen counter again, checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
I look pale, tired, hair still damp and wavy from the shower. No makeup.
I consider changing my shirt, then stop myself.
This is ridiculous. He's seen me at my worst. Seen me cry. Seen me terrified and shaking. Why am I worried about what shirt I'm wearing?
But I change it anyway. Something fitted. Black. Then immediately feel stupid for caring.
The knock comes exactly ten minutes later. Soft and gentle.
I open the door and there he is. Leather jacket, dark jeans, that careful stillness he carries. But his eyes are worried, searching my face.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
The question nearly undoes me. Because no one asks me that. Not really. Not with the kind of genuine concern that's written all over his face.
"Yeah. I just..." I step aside. "I didn't want to be alone tonight."
He comes inside, and I close the door behind him. Lock it.
He stays near the entrance, hands in his pockets, giving me space. "Where did your mam and Warren go?"
"To his auntie's. They'll be gone for a few nights. I thought it would be safer."
He nods, still not moving closer. Waiting for me to set the pace.
I gesture toward the sitting room. "Do you want tea? Or..."
"I'm grand. Just wanted to make sure you're alright."
We move to the couch. I sit at one end, curled into the corner. He sits at the other, giving me distance but close enough that I can feel his presence.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
Then I say quietly, "I've been thinking about what you said. About Declan. About... everything."
"Yeah?"
"I need you to understand what he's like. Really understand." I pull my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. "He doesn't just hurt you and walk away. He's methodical. Patient. He watches. Learns what you're afraid of. Then uses it."
Tank's jaw tightens, but he doesn't interrupt.
"When I was with him, it started small. Comments about what I wore, who I talked to, where I went. Then it was checking my phone. Showing up places I didn't expect him to. Making sure I knew he was always watching."
My voice is steady, detached, like I'm telling someone else's story.
"Then it got worse. He'd block the door when we argued. Stand too close. He never hit me where anyone could see. Always places I could hide. My ribs. My thighs. Just enough to leave me sore and shaken. Just enough to make me know he could.”
"Enya..." Tank's voice is rough.
"I'm not telling you this for sympathy. I'm telling you because you need to know what you're getting into. Declan doesn't stop. He doesn't give up. And if he thinks you're..." I stop, swallow hard. "If he thinks you're something to me, he'll come after you too."
"Let him."
"You don't understand—"
"No, you don't understand." Tank leans forward slightly, eyes locked on mine. "I'm not scared of him. And I'm not going anywhere. Whatever he throws at me, I can handle. What I can't handle is you going through this alone."
My throat tightens. "Why do you care so much?"
"Because you matter."
"You barely know me."
"I know enough."
The words hang between us, heavy and true.
"You make me feel safe," I whisper. "I don't know what to do with that."
His expression softens. "You don't have to do anything with it. Just... let yourself have it. For once."
I stare at him, this man who showed up when I didn't ask. Who held me when I broke. Who promised to stand between me and the thing I'm most afraid of.
And I realize, I don't want distance anymore.
I reach for his hand. Slowly. Giving him time to pull away.
He doesn't.
His fingers close around mine. Warm. Steady. His thumb strokes across my knuckles in a gentle rhythm.
I shift closer. Not much, just enough that our knees touch.
"I don't want to be alone tonight," I say quietly. "I know that's—"
"It's not anything. You don't have to explain."
I lean into him. Rest my head against his shoulder. Feel his arm come around me, careful and protective.
We sit like that for a long time. Just breathing. Just being.
Then I lift my head and look up at him, and the air between us shifts.
His eyes drop to my mouth. Back up. Asking permission without words.
I lean in.
The kiss is soft, tentative, like we're both afraid of breaking something fragile.
But then I press closer, and he responds, and suddenly it's not tentative anymore.
It's need. Want. Raw.
I pull back slightly, breathing hard. "I want this. I want you. Is that okay?"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Enya—"
"I'm sure."
I stand, holding out my hand. He takes it and follows me down the hallway to my bedroom.
My heart's pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. Every step is a choice. Every moment I could turn back.
But I don't want to turn back.
I want this. I want him.
Inside my room, I close the door even though we're alone. Just a habit. Creating a space that feels safe.
Tank stands near the bed, hands at his sides, watching me. Waiting.
"I'm nervous," I admit.
"We can stop. Any time."
"I don't want to stop. I'm just..." I take a breath. "It's been a long time since I felt safe enough to want this."
Understanding crosses his face. "We go as slow as you need."
I move closer, reach up, touch his jaw. Feel the scratch of stubble under my palm. He closes his eyes, leans into the touch.
"You're different," I whisper. "From him. From anyone."
"Good different?"
"Yeah. Good different."
I kiss him again, deeper this time, letting myself feel it. Letting myself want without fear.
His hands find my waist, gentle but sure. I pull at his jacket, and he shrugs it off. Then his shirt. I press my palms against his chest, feeling his heartbeat, fast and strong.
He reaches for the hem of my jumper. Stops. "Okay?"
"Yeah."
He lifts it slowly, giving me time to change my mind. I raise my arms and let him pull it over my head.
Standing there in just my bra and leggings, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Every scar and imperfection visible.
But Tank's looking at me like I'm something precious.
"You're beautiful," he says quietly.
"I'm not—"
"You are."
He steps closer, traces a finger along the strap of my bra, then down my arm. Gentle. Reverent.
"This okay?" he asks again.
"Yes."
We move to the bed. Every touch is deliberate. Every kiss is a question I answer with yes.
When he unhooks my bra, when he slides my leggings down, when he looks at me laid out beneath him, I expect fear. Expect the old panic to kick in.
But it doesn't come.
Just want. Just trust. Just this overwhelming need to be close to him.
"Okay?" he asks, positioned above me, eyes searching mine.
"Yes. Please."
He moves slow, so slow, watching my face the whole time, making sure I'm still with him. Still wanting this.
And I am. God, I am.
When he finally pushes inside, I gasp. Not from pain, but from the overwhelming rightness of it. The way he fills spaces I didn't know were empty.
“Okay?” His voice is wrecked, thick with restraint, like he’s hanging by a thread, barely holding himself back.
“Yes,” I breathe, voice trembling. “Don’t stop, Devin. Please.”
And he doesn’t.
He sinks into me again, slow and deep, and my mouth falls open with a sound I can’t hold in. He feels so good, thick and hot, stretching me, filling me so completely I feel it in my throat. Each thrust makes me shudder, my body tightening around him like it never wants to let go.
He moves with this aching control, like he’s savoring every second inside me. Like he wants to burn the memory of this into every inch of my skin. It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s something else entirely. Something intimate and raw and blindingly good.
His hips roll into me with a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic, grinding deep, hitting that perfect spot again and again until my toes curl and my breath catches in my chest. Every time he pulls out, it’s slow and torturous, just so he can push in again, harder, deeper, dragging another moan from me.
I can barely think. Barely speak. All I know is the way his body feels against mine, the heat of him, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress like I’m something fragile he’s holding down with reverence.
His chest is slick with sweat, brushing against mine as he leans in to kiss my neck, my jaw, the corner of my mouth.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice cracked. “You feel so fucking perfect.”
His words undo me. My fingers claw at his back, nails digging in, desperate to anchor myself. My thighs tremble around his waist as the pressure coils tighter, and tighter, and tighter.
He groans when I clench around him. “God, baby. Just like that.”
His hand finds mine, lacing our fingers together, pinning it to the pillow above my head. The other slides down my side, settling on my thigh, spreading me wider. He’s deep now. So deep I can barely breathe, and I don’t want to. I just want this. Him. Devin.
It’s too much and not enough. Every thrust is pleasure and ache and sweetness tangled into something filthy and so, so good. My body is on fire. My skin hypersensitive. I feel everything. The way his hips grind into mine, the drag of his cock inside me, the warmth of his breath against my ear.
And then his voice is there, low and rough and reverent.
“Come for me. Let me feel you.”
My whole body tightens. I fall.
It hits hard, ripping through me like a wave, leaving me shaking and gasping and crying out his name. “Devin.” I come around him, pulsing, clenching, losing myself completely in the ecstasy he’s built so patiently.
He groans my name, spilling inside me, hips jerking, body going tense before he collapses against me, still deep, still trembling. His breath is hot against my neck, uneven, ragged, like he’s just survived something.
He doesn’t pull away. Just wraps his arms around me, pressing our bodies together like he needs to feel every inch of me. His lips find my cheek, then my forehead, soft and slow and sweet.
And that’s when it happens.
The tears come, sudden and quiet, sliding down the sides of my face as I lie there, still catching my breath. I don’t even know why. Relief maybe. Or release. Or just the sheer overwhelming feeling of being completely seen.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just holds me closer, like he already understands.
* * *
I wake sometime in the middle of the night, disoriented, confused about where I am.
Then I feel him. Warm, solid, still here.
Devin.
He's asleep beside me, one arm still around my waist, face relaxed in a way I've never seen it.
He looks younger like this. Softer. The hard edges smoothed away by sleep.
I watch him for a long moment, my heart doing something complicated in my chest.
This is dangerous. Letting him in. Letting myself care. Letting myself need him.
Because need makes you vulnerable. Need gives people power over you.
But lying here in the dark, safe in his arms, I can't make myself regret it.
I can't make myself wish I'd stayed alone tonight.
The fear is still there, still lurking at the edges, reminding me that Declan's out there somewhere, that danger's never far.
But so is something else.
Something that feels like hope.
I should be terrified of how much I need him already.
But all I feel, lying here in the dark, is safe.