19. Tank #2
She hangs up and stares at the phone.
"She wants to meet you," she says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Says anyone important enough to keep me safe is important enough to meet properly."
My stomach flips. Meeting her mam. Meeting Warren. Becoming part of their lives.
It's huge. Massive.
And terrifying.
"Whenever you're ready," I say. "I'll meet them."
She looks at me. Really looks. "You're scared."
"Little bit."
"Why?"
"Because what if they don't like me? What if Warren's scared of me? What if your mam thinks I'm not good enough?"
"You are good enough." She stands, crosses to me, and takes my face in her hands. "You're more than good enough. And they'll see that."
I want to believe her. Want to trust that this will work.
But doubt's still there, sitting heavy.
She kisses me. Soft. Gentle. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being here. For staying. For not running when things got hard."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She smiles. Small but real. Then she takes my hand, leads me to the couch, sits down and pulls me beside her.
"I'm exhausted," she admits. "Physically. Emotionally. Just... exhausted."
"Then rest. I've got you."
She leans into me, head on my shoulder, body pressed against mine.
I wrap my arm around her. Hold her close. Let her take what she needs.
Within minutes, her breathing evens out. Sleep taking her.
I sit there, holding her. Thinking. About everything that's happened. Everything that's changed. Everything that still needs to happen.
Meeting Warren. Becoming part of their lives. Building something real with Enya.
It's terrifying. Unknown. Risky.
But looking down at her sleeping peacefully against me, I know it's worth it.
She's worth it. Warren's worth it.
This—whatever this is becoming—it's worth everything.
I press a kiss to the top of her head and whisper into her hair, "I've got you. Always."
She makes a small sound and presses closer.
And I sit there, holding her, protecting her. Being exactly what she needs.
For as long as she'll let me.
* * *
Two days pass before Enya's ready for me to meet Warren properly.
Two days of her settling back into the flat, of me staying close, of slow mornings and quiet evenings and her gradually relaxing into the space that used to terrify her.
Two days of me thinking about meeting her son and trying not to spiral.
"He's coming home this afternoon," Enya says over breakfast. She's making toast. I'm drinking coffee that's actually decent now that she's shown me how to make it properly.
"Yeah?"
“Yeah. They’re coming home around three." She glances at me. "You don't have to be here if you're not ready. I can tell him about you first. Let him get used to the idea before—"
"I want to be here."
She stops and looks at me properly. "You sure?"
"Yeah. I'm sure."
"He might be shy. Or clingy. Or..." She sets the toast down, nervous energy rolling off her. "I don't know how he'll react. To you. To the idea of someone new."
"We'll figure it out."
"What if he doesn't like you?"
"Then we keep trying. Until he does."
She studies my face, looking for doubt, for hesitation. She won't find any.
"Okay," she says finally. "Okay. You'll meet him today."
The hours until three drag. Enya cleans. I help. We move around each other in her small flat like we've been doing this for years instead of days.
But underneath the normalcy, tension builds. I can feel it in my shoulders. See it in the way she keeps checking the time.
At quarter to three, she stops and stands in the middle of the sitting room, just breathing.
"You alright?" I ask.
"Nervous."
"Me too."
"Really?"
"Really. I want him to like me. Want to be someone he trusts."
"He will." She crosses to me and takes my hands. "Just be yourself. That's enough."
I'm not sure it is. But I nod anyway.
At exactly three, there's a knock at the door.
Enya jumps slightly then steadies herself. "That's them."
"Want me to wait in the kitchen?"
"No. Stay. Please."
I stay.
She opens the door. Her mam's there. Older woman. Kind eyes. Gray hair pulled back. And beside her, holding her hand, is Warren.
Small. Five years old. Dark hair like Enya's was before she bleached it. Blue eyes. Gap-toothed smile when he sees his mam.
"Mam!" He lets go of his gran's hand and runs to Enya.
She crouches down, catches him, and holds him tight. "Hi, baby. I missed you."
"Missed you too." He pulls back and looks at her closely. "Are you okay now? Gran said you were sad."
"I'm better now. Much better."
"Good." Then his eyes drift past her. Land on me.
He goes very still. Just stares.
I stay where I am. Don't move closer. Don't want to overwhelm him.
Enya straightens, keeping a hand on Warren's shoulder. "Warren, this is Devin. He's... he's a friend of mine. A very good friend."
Warren doesn't say anything. He just keeps staring. Assessing.
I crouch down, get on his level. "Hi, Warren. It's nice to meet you properly."
Still nothing.
Enya's mam steps inside, closing the door behind her. She looks at me with sharp, assessing eyes. A mother protecting her daughter and grandson.
"You must be Devin," she says.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Mary. Call me Mary." She moves closer. Looks me over. Takes in the fading bruises. The healing cuts. "Enya says you've been looking after her."
"Doing my best."
"Hmm." She doesn't sound convinced, but she doesn't sound hostile either. Just careful.
Warren tugs on Enya's hand. Whispers something I can't hear.
She bends down and listens, then straightens. "Warren wants to know if you're staying."
The question lands heavy. Because it's not just about today. It's about everything.
I look at Warren. "If that's okay with you and your mam. I'd like to stay. Get to know you."
Warren's quiet for a long moment. Then he asks, “Do you have a motorbike?"
The question catches me off guard. "Yeah, I do."
"Can I see it?"
I glance at Enya. She nods slightly.
"Sure. It's parked outside. We can look at it together if your mam says it's okay."
"Can we, Mam?"
"After you've had a snack."
Warren nods, satisfied with that answer. His eyes keep drifting back to me.
Curious. Cautious. But not scared.
That's something.
Mary makes tea. Enya gets Warren settled with juice and biscuits at the kitchen table. I hang back. Give them space. Let Warren have his mam to himself.
But he keeps glancing at me, like he's trying to figure me out.
After a while, he says, "Are you Mam's boyfriend?"
Enya goes still. Mary looks up sharply. Both women waiting to see how I answer.
"I'm someone who cares about your mam very much," I say carefully. "And I'm someone who wants to be around. If that's okay with you."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you want to be around?"
"Because your mam's important. And you're important. And I want to make sure you're both safe and happy."
He thinks about this. "My da used to say he wanted to keep us safe. But he didn't. He made Mam cry."
The words hit like a fist. Direct. Innocent. Devastating.
Enya's face goes pale. Mary reaches for her hand.
I stay very still. Very calm. "I'm not your da. And I won't make your mam cry. I promise."
"How do you know?"
"Because I care about her. Really care. And when you care about someone, you protect them. You don't hurt them."
Warren stares at me. Weighing. Deciding.
Then he says, "Okay. Can we see the bike now?"
Just like that. Crisis averted. Trust offered. Tentative and fragile but there.
Enya looks at me. Grateful. Relieved. Terrified.
I nod. "Yeah. Let's go see the bike."
Outside, Warren's fascination with the bike is immediate and absolute. He runs his small hand over the chrome and asks a hundred questions. What does this do? How fast does it go? Is it loud?
I answer each one. Patient. Careful. Aware that Enya's watching from a few feet away.
"Can I sit on it?" Warren asks.
"If your mam says it's okay."
He looks at Enya. "Can I?"
She hesitates, then nods. "Just for a minute. And Devin has to hold you."
I lift him carefully, settle him on the seat, and stand close. One hand on his back to make sure he doesn't slip.
He grips the handlebars, face lit up with pure joy. "I'm on a motorbike!"
"You are."
"Can we go for a ride?"
"Not today. But maybe someday. When you're bigger. And if your mam says it's okay."
"Will you still be here when I'm bigger?"
The question stops me. Because he's not just asking about the bike. He's asking about me. About whether I'm staying. About whether he can trust me to be there.
I look at Enya. She's watching. Waiting.
I look back at Warren. "Yeah. I'll still be here."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He smiles, gap-toothed and genuine and trusting.
And something in my chest cracks open. Makes room. For this kid. For this family. For this life I didn't know I wanted.
"Come on," Enya says softly. "Let's get you inside. It's getting cold."
I lift Warren down. He takes Enya's hand. Then, without warning, he reaches for mine too.
Small hand in mine. Trusting. Accepting.
We walk back inside together. The three of us.
And I think maybe, just maybe, this is going to work.