He looked back down at his work, but his hands weren't moving. Just holding the wrench, knuckles white against the metal.
I crossed the garage, my boots echoing on theconcrete floor, and stopped on the other side of his workbench. Close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip had tightened. Close enough to see the place where he'd nicked himself shaving, a tiny cut along his jaw that made him look unexpectedly vulnerable.
"We need to talk."
"Tyler—"
"Are we going to do this, or are we going to keep beating the shit out of each other until one of us breaks?" The words came out sharper than I'd intended, edged with six days of frustration and want and the strange clarity that came from watching your fears burn to ash. "Because I'm done with the second option, Tank. I'm done pretending nothing's happening. I'm done waiting for you to figure out what you want while I stand here trying not to want you back."
He flinched. Actually flinched, like my words had hit him somewhere soft.
"It's not that simple." His voice came out strained, almost hoarse.
"I know it's not simple. Nothing about this is simple." I braced my hands on the workbench, leaning forward, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the faint scar above his eyebrow I'd never noticed before. "You've spent your whole life with women. You've never had to question who you are or what you want. And now there's me, and I'm not what you expected, and it's terrifying. I get it. I do."
"Then why are you pushing?"
"Because you kissed me." The words hung in the air between us, heavy and undeniable. "Twice, Tank. You kissed me twice. And both times, you ran. And I need to know—" My voice cracked slightly, and I hated myself for it. "I need to know if you're running because you don't want this, or because you do and it scares you."
Tank was quiet for a long moment. His hands had gone completely still on the carburetor, his eyes fixed on some middle distance that had nothing to do with the parts in front of him. I could see him wrestling with something—the same internal battle I'd watched him fight every time we got too close.
Outside, a bird was singing—something bright and oblivious to the weight of the moment. The smell of coffee drifted in from somewhere, mixing with the garage smells of oil and metal. Normal morning sounds, normal morning smells, while everything between us hung in the balance.
"I don't know what I'm doing." The admission came out rough, scraped raw, like the words were being pulled from somewhere deep. "I've never—this isn't—" He stopped, took a breath, started again. "My whole life, I knew exactly who I was. What I wanted. Where I fit. And then you showed up, and suddenly none of that makes sense anymore."
"Tank—"
"I'm not finished." He looked up, meeting my eyes, and what I saw there made my breath catch. Vulnerability. Fear. And underneath it, something that looked a lot like hope. "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't have words for what I feel when I'maround you. I don't understand why I can't stop thinking about you, why I kissed you, why walking away both times felt like tearing something out of my chest."
He stood, came around the workbench, stopped close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough that I could see the rapid pulse in his throat, matching my own hammering heartbeat.
"But I'm not sorry I did it." His hand came up, hesitated, then settled against my jaw, his palm warm and rough against my skin. "Either time. I'm not sorry, and I don't regret it, and if you're asking whether I want this—" His thumb brushed my cheekbone. "I want it so much it scares me. I just don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do about it."
My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. His hand on my face felt like a brand, like a promise, like the first real thing either of us had said in days.
"You could stop running."
"I could." His thumb traced along my cheekbone, a touch so gentle it made my chest ache. "What would you do if I did?"
"I'd meet you wherever you are." I covered his hand with mine, held it against my face. "I'm not asking you to have it all figured out. I'm not asking for promises or labels or any of that shit. I'm just asking you to stop pretending this isn't real."
"And if I fuck it up?"
"Then we figure it out together." I turned my headslightly, pressed my lips to his palm. Felt him shudder. "I'm not Cross, Tank. I'm not going to punish you for being confused. I'm not going to use this against you or hold it over your head. I just want?—"
"What?" The word was barely a whisper, his breath warm against my face. "What do you want?"
I looked at him—this man who'd thrown himself between me and an explosion, who'd held me while I shook, who'd kissed me like I was the answer to a question he'd been afraid to ask. This man who was terrified of what he felt and brave enough to feel it anyway.
"I want you to let me in. That's all. Just let me in."
The silence stretched between us, thick with possibility. I watched the war play out across his face—fear and want, caution and need, the weight of a lifetime's assumptions crashing against the undeniable reality of what was happening between us.
Then something in his expression shifted. Settled. Like a decision being made.
"Okay."
My heart stuttered. "Okay?"
