We dismounted without speaking. The adrenaline was fading now, leaving behind the hollow feeling that always followed violence. My hands were still stained with Ghost's blood, dried to a rusty brown in the creases of my knuckles.
"I need to clean up."
"Me too."
We walked toward the garage. Not the clubhouse, where showers and clean clothes waited. The garage, where the Shovelhead sat in her bay, where the smell of oil and metal might drown out the smell of blood.
Inside, I flicked on the work light and stood in its pool of illumination, staring at my hands.
Tyler moved to the utility sink against the far wall. I heard water running, heard him scrubbing at his skin, washing away the evidence of what we'd done.
"You saved my life." The words came out before I'd decided to say them. "That Wolf coming out of the van. I didn't see him."
"You would have."
"I didn't. You did." I turned to face him. He'd finished washing, was drying his hands on a shop rag, his face half-shadowed in the uneven light. "Where did you learn to shoot like that?"
"Quantico. Practical Pistol Course, then advanced tactical training." He set the rag aside. "Cross used to say I was the best shot in our unit. Before—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Before."
"You don't talk about it much. What you could do."
"Doesn't usually come up." Tyler moved closer, stopping a few feet away. Close enough that I could see the flecks of blood still clinging to his collar, the exhaustion in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders that hadn't released even now. "Tonight was the first time since Chen that I've had to?—"
He stopped again. His throat worked.
"First time you've had to be that person again."
"Yeah."
"How does it feel?"
Tyler considered the question. In the dim light, his face was all planes and shadows.
"Like remembering a language I thought I'd forgotten." His voice was quiet, reflective. "Like coming home. Even though home was never a good place."
"You weren't weak out there. You weren't scared. You were?—"
"I was terrified." Tyler cut me off. "Every second. Terrified something would happen to Ghost, to Irish, to—" He stopped, his jaw tightening.
"To me?"
"Yes." The word came out rough. "To you."
The air between us changed.
"Tank." Tyler's voice was barely above a whisper. "What are we doing?"
I moved.
One step, two, closing the distance until I was close enough to see the pulse jumping in his throat, close enough to smell the blood and smoke that still clung to his skin beneath the soap.
His breath caught.
I kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't tentative. It was hard and desperate, tasting of adrenaline and copper, my hand finding the back of his neck and pulling him in. Everything I hadn't let myself feel pouring out through the press of my mouth against his.
Tyler went still.
