Page 6

"It's not much," I say, pushing open the front door and flicking on the lights, "but it's home."

I wince as the overhead light reveals the state of my living room.

Clothes draped over the arm of the couch, books stacked on the coffee table, a half-empty mug of yesterday's tea sitting on the side table.

I'd left in a rush this morning, not expecting company, especially not company in the form of Lilly's intimidating older brother.

"Sorry for the mess," I add, quickly gathering an armful of scattered clothing. "I wasn't exactly planning on houseguests tonight."

Tank steps inside, his large frame making my modest farmhouse seem suddenly smaller. His eyes sweep the room—tactical assessment, I realize, noting exits and entry points before he even thinks about the décor.

"No need to apologize," Lilly yawns, dropping her purse on the entryway table. "You should see my apartment. This is practically a magazine spread compared to my disaster zone."

I toss the armload of clothes into a nearby basket and kick off my boots by the door. "Make yourselves at home. Anyone want tea? Coffee?"

Lilly yawns again, stretching her arms overhead. "Honestly, I'm dead on my feet. That adrenaline crash is no joke."

Looking at her more closely, I can see the exhaustion etched into her face. The confrontation with Dylan, the emotional roller coaster of the day. It's all catching up with her.

"You can take my bed," I offer immediately. "I'll crash on the couch."

"No way," Lilly protests. "I'm not kicking you out of your own bed. The couch is fine for me."

"It's a lumpy old thing," I argue. "And you've had a rough day. I insist."

Tank watches our back-and-forth with quiet amusement, still standing near the door like he's not quite sure of his place in this domestic scene.

"How about I give you both a quick tour," I suggest, "and then we can figure out sleeping arrangements?"

I lead them through the small house—kitchen with its vintage appliances and mismatched mugs, the bathroom with the clawfoot tub I refinished myself, the spare room currently serving as my home office with a fold-out futon.

"Tank, you can take the futon," I say, gesturing to the room. "It's surprisingly comfortable. I crash there sometimes when I'm up late working."

He nods, setting his small duffel bag on the floor beside it. "It's perfect. Thanks."

Finally, we reach my bedroom at the end of the hall. I hesitate before opening the door, suddenly self-conscious. My bedroom has always been more functional than personal—a place to sleep, not much more.

"And this is where you'll be staying," I tell Lilly, pushing open the door.

The room is sparse, just a queen bed with plain navy sheets, a simple wooden nightstand, and a lamp. No pictures on the walls, no knickknacks, no personal touches. It's practical, efficient, and utterly lacking in character.

I see Tank notice this, his eyes taking in the room's emptiness. A flicker of something—recognition, maybe?—crosses his face before his expression returns to neutral.

"It's not exactly HGTV material," I joke weakly, trying to cover my sudden discomfort. "I never really learned how to make a place feel like home. Military brat and all. We moved so often that 'home' was wherever we unpacked our bags that year."

"It's perfect," Lilly says, sitting on the edge of the bed and bouncing slightly. "And the bed feels amazing after the day we've had."

"Bathroom's stocked with fresh towels," I tell her. "And there should be an unused toothbrush in the medicine cabinet."

"You're the best," Lilly says through another yawn. She looks between Tank and me with sudden mischief in her eyes, despite her exhaustion. "You two going to behave yourselves while I sleep?"

"Lilly," Tank warns.

"What?" she asks innocently. "I saw you two on that Ferris wheel. And the hot chocolate thing? Please."

I feel heat creeping up my neck. "Go to sleep, Lil."

"I'm just saying," she continues, clearly enjoying our discomfort, "if you guys want to—"

"Good night, Lilly," Tank cuts her off firmly, though I catch the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

"Fine, fine," she concedes, flopping back onto my bed. "I'm going. But remember. These walls are probably thin."

"We’re leaving," I point to the door, fighting my own smile. "Before I change my mind about the bed."

She giggles as she grabs her small overnight bag and disappears into the bathroom, leaving Tank and me alone in the hallway.

The silence stretches between us, different from the comfortable quiet we shared on the Ferris wheel. Here, in my home, with the prospect of the night ahead, everything feels more intimate, more charged.

"She's always been a brat," Tank finally says, breaking the tension.

I laugh softly. "She means well. In her own meddling way."

"That's what makes her dangerous," he agrees with a wry smile.

We stand there for a moment longer, neither quite ready to separate for the night.

"Are you tired?" I ask. "Or would you like something to drink? Water, beer, tea?"

"Water would be good," he answers. "It's been a long day."

I lead the way back to the kitchen. In the fluorescent light of my small kitchen, I grab two glasses from the cabinet and fill them from the tap.

"Fighting four guys really works up a thirst, huh?" I tease, handing him a glass.

"That was nothing. Barely even a workout."

I lean against the counter, studying him over the rim of my glass. "You've had worse, I take it?"

"Much," he confirms, taking a long drink. "Those boys were amateurs. All gym muscles and no actual experience."

"And you enjoy it?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can reconsider. "Living a life of danger, I mean."

"Not enjoy, exactly," he says, setting his glass down. "It's more that I understand it. Danger, violence, risk. They follow rules. There's a clarity in those moments that's hard to find elsewhere."

"The certainty you mentioned on the Ferris wheel," I observe. "Like what my father gave me growing up."

He nods, leaning against the opposite counter. The kitchen is small enough that even with this arrangement, we're only a few feet apart.

"Exactly. In a fight, everything simplifies. Objective, threat, action. No gray areas, no moral ambiguity, no second-guessing." His eyes find mine in the harsh kitchen light. "But enjoy? No. I respect it. I'm good at it. It's not the same thing."

The answer surprises me with its thoughtfulness. Most men I've known who live the kind of life Tank does romanticize the violence, wear it like a badge of honor. His self-awareness is unexpected and, frankly, appealing.

"What about you?" he asks, turning the question back on me. "This is a pretty isolated spot for someone who claims not to like being alone."

"I never said I don't like being alone," I correct him. "I said I never learned how to make a place feel like home. There's a difference."

His eyes flick to the empty walls, the functional furniture, the lack of personal touches. "Your bedroom," he says. "It's like a way station. Somewhere to sleep, not somewhere to live."

The observation is so accurate it makes me uncomfortable. "Hazard of moving every year or two as a kid," I say with forced lightness. "You learn to travel light."

"That's not it," he counters, his voice gentle but certain. "My room at the club is the same way. It's not about how much stuff you have. It's about not allowing yourself to put down roots."

I look away, uncomfortable with how easily he's read me. "Maybe. Or maybe I just have minimalist taste."

He doesn't push, just takes another sip of his water, allowing the silence to settle between us again. It's one of the things I'm coming to appreciate about Tank. He doesn't fill empty spaces with needless words. He's comfortable with silence in a way few people are.

He sets his glass down and stretches his arms overhead, his shoulders rolling as he works out the kinks from the long ride and the eventful day.

The movement pulls his t-shirt taut across his chest and arms, and I can't help but notice just how powerfully built he is.

The definition in his biceps, the breadth of his shoulders, the solid wall of his chest.

It's almost unreal, like something carved from stone rather than flesh and blood.

I take a quick sip of water, trying to cool the sudden heat rising within me. Good lord, this man is dangerous in more ways than one.

"So, your stepfather," he says, dropping his arms. "You still have to deal with him?"

"He died a few years ago," I reply. "Liver failure."

"I'm sorry," Tank offers, though there's a question in his tone.

I shrug. "Don't be. He never apologized, never expressed any regret for how he treated me or my mom. Never even acknowledged it." I trace the rim of my glass with my finger. "That's just how it goes sometimes. Not every story gets a neat resolution."

Tank nods, understanding in his eyes. "Life rarely ties things up with a bow."

There's something in his expression that makes me wonder about his own unresolved stories. Taking a chance, I ask, "What about you and Lilly? I know your dad left when you were young. Did that shape who you became?"

He wrinkles his nose slightly—a surprisingly boyish gesture on such a formidable man—and considers the question.

"Maybe," he finally admits. "After he left, I was suddenly the 'man of the house' at twelve years old. Mom worked two jobs, so I was responsible for Lilly most of the time." He shakes his head slightly. "Probably gave me some kind of hero complex. Military was a natural fit for that."

"Did you like it? The military?" I lean forward, genuinely curious.