"Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you." Axel crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Whatever happened between you and Tank last night—and something obviously happened—you need to deal with it. We can't afford distraction right now."
"I tried to deal with it. He walked away."
"Then try again." Axel's voice softened slightly. "Tank's not good with... this. With feelings, with wanting things he thinks he shouldn't want. He's spent his whole life being the steady one, the reliable one, the guy who doesn't let himself need anything. If something's changed for him, he's probably terrified."
"That's not my problem."
"It is if you want it to be." Axel pushed off the doorframe. "I've seen the way he looks at you, Tyler. The way he's been looking at you for weeks. Whatever this is, it's not nothing. But if you wait for him to figure it out on his own, you'll be waiting forever."
He left me alone with that, the words settling into my chest like stones.
I found Tank in the gym.
It was late afternoon, the light slanting gold through the high windows, dust motes drifting in the beams like lazy thoughts. He was alone, working theheavy bag with the kind of focused intensity that suggested he was trying to beat something out of himself.
I stood in the doorway and watched him.
His hands were wrapped, his shirt discarded, sweat gleaming on his back and shoulders. Each punch landed with a solid thud that echoed off the concrete walls, the bag swinging and settling, swinging and settling. His form was good—powerful, grounded, the kind of raw strength that came from years of fighting without formal training.
He hadn't noticed me yet. Or he had, and he was pretending he hadn't.
"We should talk."
His rhythm faltered for just a moment before he resumed, not turning around. "Nothing to talk about."
"Bullshit."
That made him stop. He caught the bag, stilled it, and finally turned to face me. His expression was closed off, guarded—the same blank mask I'd seen him wear in church, in combat, in every situation where he didn't want anyone to know what he was thinking.
"Tyler—"
"You kissed me." I stepped into the gym, letting the door close behind me. "You kissed me, and it wasn't nothing, and then you walked away without a word. So yeah, Tank. We should talk."
His jaw tightened. "I don't know what to say."
"Then don't say anything. Just don't pretend it didn't happen."
Silence stretched between us. I could see him fighting with himself—the impulse to shut down, to deflect, to retreat into the safety of not dealing with this. And underneath that, something else. Something that looked like want, and fear, and a desperate confusion that almost made me feel sorry for him.
Almost.
"I've never—" He stopped, started again. "I don't know how to do this. With you. With—" He gestured vaguely, encompassing the situation, the complication, everything that had shifted between us.
"Neither do I. But I'm not going to pretend it away."
"What do you want from me?"
The question hung in the air. I thought about Cross, about all the times I'd twisted myself into knots trying to be what someone else needed, trying to make myself small enough to fit into the spaces they left for me.
I was done with that.
"I want you to stop running. That's it. That's all. Just stop running long enough to figure out what this is."
Tank's hands flexed at his sides. The muscle in his jaw jumped. He looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, trying to decide whether to step back or jump.
"Spar with me."
"What?"
