"I don't really know what the relationship could be deemed," I admit slowly. "Because even this fake arrangement is clearly outdoing it. In less than two weeks, you three have given me more... moreeverythingthan they gave me in two years."
The fire crackles, sending sparks spiraling up into the starry sky.
"I never really saw anything wrong with it," I continue, the words coming easier now that I've started. "Because who was telling me otherwise? My family certainly wasn't going to point out that I deserved better—they're the ones who put me there in the first place. And I'm very closed off. I don't like to share pack business with other people." I pause, staring into the flames. "Until recently, anyway. It's only now that I'm realizing there's no need to speak well of a group of men who only saw me as transactional. Who never once thought of me as a being worth letting be free."
Saying it out loud makes it real. Makes it impossible to pretend anymore that maybe they cared and just didn't know how to show it. They didn't care. Simple as that. They never cared, and I wasted two years of my life trying to earn affection from people who were incapable of giving it.
Tank is quiet for a long moment. The fire pops and crackles between us, sending another shower of sparks into the night sky. When he speaks, his voice is softer than I've ever heard it.
"I get it. More than you might think."
I lift my head from his shoulder, looking up at him. The firelight plays across his features, casting shadows that make him look both softer and more dangerous at once. His dark eyes are fixed on the flames, but I can tell his mind is somewhere far away. Somewhere painful.
"I was engaged once," he says quietly. "Before the pack. Before Elias and Julian. Before I knew what it meant to have people who actually give a damn."
Engaged. Tank was engaged. There was someone before—someone he chose, someone he planned a future with. Someone who looked at this strong, protective man and said yes, and then changed her mind.
I don't say anything, just wait for him to continue at his own pace.
"She was an Omega. Sweet. Kind. Everything you're supposed to want in a partner." He takes a long sip of his cocoa, and I notice his hand isn't quite steady. "But she couldn't handle my PTSD episodes. The nightmares that wake me up screaming. The flashbacks that come out of nowhere. The days when I couldn't get out of bed because my brain was convinced I was still in a war zone and every sound was a threat."
His jaw tightens, and I can see the muscle ticking beneath his skin.
"She left. Said she didn't sign up for broken goods. Said I wasn't the man she thought she was marrying." A humorless laugh escapes him, rough and bitter. "Like I chose to come back wrong. Like I volunteered for the nightmares when I volunteered for service. Like I woke up every day and decided to be traumatized on purpose just to inconvenience her."
Broken goods. Someone called this man—this strong, protective, gentle man—broken goods. Someone looked at his trauma and saw defects instead of battle scars. Someone chose to leave rather than learn how to help him heal.
I want to find her and have words. Strong words. Possibly involving a very detailed explanation of what it means to actually love someone through the hard parts.
"The pack saved me," Tank continues, his voice steadier now. "Elias and Julian. They found me in a pretty bad place after she left. Rock bottom, honestly. Neither of them was going to accept an Omega who couldn't deal with something as humane as trauma that wasn't asked for." He finally looks at me, andthere's something vulnerable in his eyes that makes my chest ache. "They decided we didn't need to rush. That we'd find the right one when the time was right. If ever."
If ever. Like they'd accepted the possibility of never finding someone. Like they'd made peace with being incomplete rather than risk another rejection.
And then I stumbled into their lives with my bounty hunters and my ex-pack drama and my temporary arrangement that's starting to feel less temporary by the day.
"Your experiences weren't meant to be bad or horrendous," I say softly, reaching over to take his free hand. His fingers are rough and calloused, warm despite the winter chill. They dwarf mine completely, but his grip is gentle. Careful. Like he's afraid of holding on too tight. "You didn't ask for what happened to you. And anyone who can't understand that doesn't deserve you."
He smirks—but it's a sad smirk, one that doesn't reach his eyes. "That's what most people think when you do military. That you volunteer for the trauma and then can't complain about it after. It's stupid, if you ask me." His grip on my hand tightens slightly. "They praise you when you're protecting what they deem valuable. But the moment you become a commodity—the moment you're the one who needs help instead of giving it—suddenly you're the problem. Sad reality, if you ask me."
I nod, understanding exactly what he means. It's not so different from being an Omega, really. Praised and valued when you're useful—when you're fulfilling the role society assigned you. But the moment you need something for yourself? The moment you're inconvenient? Suddenly you're a problem to be solved rather than a person to be supported.
We're both damaged goods in our own ways. Both carrying scars that other people would rather not see. Both learning totrust again after being betrayed by people who should have protected us.
Maybe that's why this works. Maybe that's why I feel safe with him in a way I've never felt safe with anyone.
"If you have an episode," I say carefully, squeezing his hand, "I'll be there for you. I don't know if there are special actions I'm supposed to do—like with panic attacks—but anything that makes you comfortable. Whatever you need. I'll learn."
Tank is quiet for so long I start to wonder if I said something wrong. The fire crackles, filling the silence between us. Above our heads, the stars seem impossibly bright—millions of tiny pinpricks of light scattered across the infinite darkness. A shooting star streaks across the sky, there and gone in an instant, and I make a wish without meaning to.
When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"Just a hug, Sweetness." He's staring at the fire pit, but I can see the vulnerability he's trying so hard to hide. "That's all I want. When it gets bad—when my brain convinces me I'm back there—I just need to know someone's there. Someone who won't run. Someone who'll hold on until it passes."
A hug. That's all he's asking for. Not someone who can fix him—because he's not broken, despite what that woman told him. Not someone who has all the answers. Just someone who will stay. Someone who will hold on.
I can do that. I can absolutely do that.
I lean back from his shoulder, shifting so I can look at him properly. The firelight catches the moisture in his eyes that he's blinking away, the tension in his jaw, the way his whole body is braced as if expecting rejection.
