The cabin is even more beautiful up close. The logs are weathered to a perfect gray-brown, clearly decades old but maintained with obvious care. The windows are framed with forest-green shutters that look hand-carved, each one slightly different in a way that speaks to craftsmanship rather than mass production. A wide porch wraps around the front, complete with rocking chairs that have been softened by years of use and a wooden swing that's probably seen countless peaceful evenings. Wind chimes made of antler pieces hang near the door, tinkling softly in the breeze.
Inside, it smells like woodsmoke and pine and something faintly spicy—maybe cedar? Maybe the lingering scent of Tank himself, embedded into every surface after years of quiet weekends here. The warmth hits me immediately, courtesy ofthe fire already crackling in the massive stone fireplace that dominates the main room. Someone—probably Tank himself, before picking me up—came out here earlier to prepare.
He planned ahead. He thought about my comfort before I even knew we were coming here.
Exposed wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, darkened with age and smoke. The furniture is all sturdy, comfortable pieces that look like they were built to last generations—a leather couch that's worn soft in all the right places, a solid wood coffee table with ring marks from decades of mugs, mismatched chairs that somehow work together perfectly.
Rustic. Solid. Unmistakably Tank.
But it's the details that catch my attention—the things that reveal pieces of the man who owns this place. Military memorabilia is scattered throughout the space: a folded flag in a shadow box above the fireplace, framed photographs of men in combat gear, medals displayed in a small case, a worn dog tag hanging from a hook near the door. There are books too—tactical manuals, yes, but also poetry and philosophy and a surprising number of historical fiction novels.
And in the corner, half-hidden behind a bookshelf, I notice a heavy steel door that looks distinctly out of place in the otherwise rustic space.
"Is that...?" I point at the door, curiosity getting the better of me.
"Safe room," Tank says simply, dropping our bag on the worn leather couch. "Old habits."
Of course he has a safe room. Of course his secluded cabin in the woods comes equipped with military-grade security. Of course this man never fully lets his guard down, even in his most peaceful sanctuary.
Instead of finding it paranoid or unsettling, I find it... reassuring. Here is a man who knows how to keep people safe.Who has built his life around protecting things—and people—he cares about. Who never takes security for granted because he's seen firsthand what happens when it fails.
"I like it," I say softly, and I mean it. "The whole place. It feels... safe."
Something shifts in Tank's expression—a softening around his eyes that tells me I said exactly the right thing. "That's the idea."
We spend the next hour settling in and gathering materials for a proper campfire outside. I change into warmer clothes from the bag Elias packed—thick wool socks, lined leggings, a chunky sweater that smells faintly of cedar like Tank's house. When I emerge from the small bedroom, Tank has already laid out everything we'll need: kindling, logs, matches, fire starters.
Tank explains his process as we work—the best kindling to use (dry pine needles and small twigs, nothing too damp), how to stack the logs for optimal burn (teepee style first, then log cabin once you've got good embers), the importance of reading wind direction before positioning yourself. He shows me how to arrange the fire pit's stone circle, how to check for moisture in the wood by listening for the snap when you break it.
His voice takes on a different quality when he's teaching: patient, methodical, almost gentle in a way that contrasts sharply with his intimidating exterior. He never gets frustrated when I ask questions, never makes me feel stupid for not knowing something. Just explains, demonstrates, and waits for me to try.
He likes this. Sharing knowledge. Being useful. Having someone actually listen instead of just tolerating his presence. I can see it in the way his shoulders relax, the way his voice loses that guarded edge it sometimes carries. This is Tank without walls. Tank in his element.
I pay attention to everything he says, asking questions when I don't understand, genuinely interested in learning. It's not that I expect to ever need survival skills—my life plan involves coffee shops and cozy interiors, not wilderness survival—but watching Tank in his element is fascinating. This is where he's comfortable. This is where he makes sense to himself.
And honestly? There's something deeply attractive about a man who knows how to build things. Who can look at raw materials and see potential. Who can create warmth and safety from nothing but wood and skill and patience.
By the time the fire is properly blazing, the sun has set completely, and the stars are beginning to emerge in the velvet sky above us. The clearing around the cabin is eerily quiet—no traffic noise, no neighbor sounds, no distant hum of civilization. Just the crackle of flames, the whisper of wind through pine branches, the occasional hoot of an owl somewhere in the darkness, and our breathing.
It's the kind of silence that would feel lonely if I were alone. But with Tank beside me, solid and warm and present, it feels peaceful instead. Safe.
Tank produces a bag of marshmallows from somewhere—heart-shaped ones, pink and white, because apparently this is a Valentine's-themed survival date—and hands me a roasting stick. The stick is clearly handmade, the end carved to a perfect point, probably by Tank himself during some quiet evening by this very fire.
We settle onto the log bench he's positioned perfectly near the fire, close enough to feel the warmth but far enough to avoid wayward sparks. Someone—Tank again, I'm sure—draped a thick wool blanket over the log, turning rough bark into a comfortable seat. Little details. Little thoughtfulnesses.
"Spiked hot cocoa?" he offers, pulling a thermos from the bag and raising an eyebrow.
"Is there any other kind?" I accept the cup he pours me, wrapping my hands around the warm metal and breathing in the rich chocolate aroma laced with something that smells like whiskey. Or maybe bourbon. Something warm and smoky that promises to chase away any lingering chill. The first sip confirms my suspicion—definitely bourbon, good quality, with just enough to warm without overwhelming.
We roast marshmallows in comfortable silence for a while, the heart shapes turning golden brown over the flames. I watch the way the fire reflects in Tank's eyes, the way the light plays across his features and softens his usually harsh expression. The chocolate warms me from the inside, and Tank's solid presence beside me warms me from the outside. His arm brushes against mine every time he adjusts his roasting stick, and eventually I give up on maintaining any distance at all.
I rest my head on his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath my cheek. He smells like woodsmoke now, mixed with that cedar and sandalwood that's becoming as familiar to me as my own scent.
"This is pretty nice," I murmur, watching the flames dance. The fire pops, sending a cascade of sparks spiraling into the darkness. "I never had one-on-one time with my Alphas. Not like this."
Tank's shoulder tenses slightly beneath me. "What good was you even being their Omega if you didn't get to eat with them? Didn't get special time with them?" His voice is rough with something that sounds like barely restrained anger. "Was it just sex and that's it?"
I think about it—really think about it, for the first time in a long time. What was my relationship with my ex-pack? What did we actually share beyond physical arrangements and contractual obligations?
