Chapter 9 Pressure #2
Outside, a bird was singing—something bright and oblivious to the weight of the moment. The smell of coffee drifted in from somewhere, mixing with the garage smells of oil and metal. Normal morning sounds, normal morning smells, while everything between us hung in the balance.
"I don't know what I'm doing." The admission came out rough, scraped raw, like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep.
"I've never—this isn't—" He stopped, took a breath, started again.
"My whole life, I knew exactly who I was.
What I wanted. Where I fit. And then you showed up, and suddenly none of that makes sense anymore. "
"Tank—"
"I'm not finished." He looked up, meeting my eyes, and what I saw there made my breath catch.
Vulnerability. Fear. And underneath it, something that looked a lot like hope.
"I don't know what I'm doing. I don't have words for what I feel when I'm around you.
I don't understand why I can't stop thinking about you, why I kissed you, why walking away both times felt like tearing something out of my chest."
He stood, came around the workbench, stopped close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough that I could see the rapid pulse in his throat, matching my own hammering heartbeat.
"But I'm not sorry I did it." His hand came up, hesitated, then settled against my jaw, his palm warm and rough against my skin.
"Either time. I'm not sorry, and I don't regret it, and if you're asking whether I want this—" His thumb brushed my cheekbone.
"I want it so much it scares me. I just don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do about it. "
My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. His hand on my face felt like a brand, like a promise, like the first real thing either of us had said in days.
"You could stop running."
"I could." His thumb traced along my cheekbone, a touch so gentle it made my chest ache. "What would you do if I did?"
"I'd meet you wherever you are." I covered his hand with mine, held it against my face. "I'm not asking you to have it all figured out. I'm not asking for promises or labels or any of that shit. I'm just asking you to stop pretending this isn't real."
"And if I fuck it up?"
"Then we figure it out together." I turned my head slightly, pressed my lips to his palm. Felt him shudder. "I'm not Cross, Tank. I'm not going to punish you for being confused. I'm not going to use this against you or hold it over your head. I just want—"
"What?" The word was barely a whisper, his breath warm against my face. "What do you want?"
I looked at him—this man who'd thrown himself between me and an explosion, who'd held me while I shook, who'd kissed me like I was the answer to a question he'd been afraid to ask. This man who was terrified of what he felt and brave enough to feel it anyway.
"I want you to let me in. That's all. Just let me in."
The silence stretched between us, thick with possibility. I watched the war play out across his face—fear and want, caution and need, the weight of a lifetime's assumptions crashing against the undeniable reality of what was happening between us.
Then something in his expression shifted. Settled. Like a decision being made.
"Okay."
My heart stuttered. "Okay?"
"Okay." A ghost of a smile crossed his face—the first real smile I'd seen from him in days.
"I don't know how to do this. I don't know what I'm doing or where this is going or what it means.
But—" He stepped closer, his other hand coming up to frame my face, holding me like I was something precious.
"I'm done running. I'm done pretending. Whatever this is, I want to figure it out. With you."
The relief that washed through me was staggering. I hadn't realized how tightly I'd been wound, how much I'd braced for rejection, until the tension released and left me almost dizzy.
"Yeah?" I managed.
"Yeah." The smile widened slightly. "I'm terrified, for the record. Absolutely fucking terrified."
"That makes two of us."
"Good. At least we're terrified together."
I laughed—a real laugh, surprising us both. "That's not exactly comforting."
"Best I can do right now." His thumbs traced gentle lines along my cheekbones. "I meant what I said, Tyler. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm going to screw up. I'm going to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, probably run at least once more before I get this figured out."
"I can work with that."
"Yeah?"
"I've survived worse than you figuring yourself out.
" I let my hands settle on his waist, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt.
"Just—don't shut me out. Whatever you're feeling, whatever you're thinking, just tell me.
I can handle confusion. I can handle fear. I can't handle being left in the dark."
He nodded slowly, like he was committing the words to memory. "Okay. I can do that."
We stood there for a moment, holding each other in the gray morning light, the smell of oil and coffee surrounding us. It wasn't a kiss—neither of us moved to close that distance. But it was something. An agreement. A beginning.
A crack in the wall wide enough to let light through.
"I should tell you something."
His hands stilled on my face. "What?"
"Cross's deadline is tomorrow. The date on the envelope—it's tomorrow."
His grip tightened. "What envelope?"
The words hit me like cold water. Of course. He didn't know. I'd hidden it, kept it secret, almost told him a dozen times but never found the courage. He had no idea what I'd been carrying for the past six days.
"Tyler." His voice had gone sharp, edged with something between concern and anger. "What envelope?"
I took a breath. This was the moment—the choice between the old patterns and something new. Cross had trained me to keep secrets, to handle things alone, to never let anyone close enough to help. And I'd almost done it again. Almost let the silence stretch until it was too late.
"The day after you took me on my first real ride. When we got back to the clubhouse, there was an envelope on my bed. Someone had been in my room—past the security, past the prospects, right into my private space."
His expression darkened, jaw going tight. "What was in it?"
"A photograph. Me and Cross, from three years ago, when we were still—" I couldn't finish the sentence. "There was a date written on the back. One week from delivery. And a note that said 'I see you.'"
"That was six days ago." His voice went flat. Controlled. But I could see the hurt flickering behind his eyes, the realization settling in. "You've been carrying this for six days. You didn't tell me."
"I didn't tell anyone."
"You almost did." His hands dropped from my face, and the loss of contact felt like punishment. "That night in your room, after Cross came to the garage. You started to say something, then stopped. This is what you were hiding."
"Yes."
"Why?" The word came out rough, almost raw. "Why didn't you trust me?"
"It wasn't about trust. It was—" I struggled to find the words.
"Cross spent three years conditioning me to handle everything alone.
To believe that involving anyone else would only make things worse.
Every time I tried to reach out, he found a way to use it against me.
He made me think that keeping secrets was the same as keeping people safe. "
"That's bullshit."
"I know. I know it is. But knowing something and unlearning it are different things.
" I reached for him, and when he didn't pull away, I took his hand in mine.
"I'm sorry. I should have told you. I should have told Hawk.
Instead I hid it under my mattress like it would disappear if I ignored it long enough. "
Tank was quiet for a long moment. I could see him processing—the hurt, the understanding, the war between the two. His jaw worked, muscle jumping beneath the skin.
"You burned it." The words came out measured. "This morning."
"Yes."
"Without telling anyone what it said."
"I'm telling you now."
"After the fact." He pulled his hand free, ran it through his hair in a gesture of frustration I'd seen a dozen times before.
"Tyler, what if something had happened? What if Cross had made his move while you were keeping this secret?
We wouldn't have known what we were dealing with. We wouldn't have been prepared."
"I know."
"Do you?" He turned to face me fully, and his expression was fierce—not angry, exactly, but intense in a way that made my chest tight. "This isn't just about you anymore. Whatever's between us—whatever we're figuring out—it means your problems are my problems. Your secrets put both of us at risk."
The words landed hard. He was right. I'd been so focused on protecting everyone else, on not being a burden, that I'd made myself a liability instead.
"You're right. I fucked up. I should have trusted you, and I didn't, and I'm sorry."
Tank studied me for a long moment. Then something in his expression softened—not forgiveness, exactly, but something close to it. Understanding, maybe. Recognition.
"Cross really did a number on you." His voice had gone quiet, the anger draining into something gentler.
"Yeah. He did."
"Then we're going to have to work on that." He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel his warmth again. "No more secrets. Not about this, not about anything that could get you killed. You feel like you need to handle something alone, you come to me first. Deal?"
"Deal."
"I mean it, Tyler. I can't protect you if I don't know what I'm protecting you from."
"I know." I met his eyes, let him see the sincerity there. "No more secrets. I promise."
He held my gaze for a moment longer, then nodded. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly—not gone, but banked. Something to deal with later, when there was time.