"Tank—"
"This isn't negotiable." His voice was firm, but not unkind. "You just told me Cross has been planning something for a week. Something big enough that he wanted you scared, wanted you running. If tomorrow's the day, we need to be ready. And that means no more secrets. Not from the club. Not from me."
He was right. I knew he was right. But the instinct to handle things alone, to protect the people around me by keeping them in the dark—that was hard to shake. Cross had trained me well in that regard. Every time I'd tried to involve someone else, every time I'd trusted someone with information that could hurt me, he'd found a way to use it against me. Trust had become synonymous with vulnerability, and vulnerability with pain.
But Tank wasn't Cross.
I kept having to remind myself of that. Tank wasn't Cross. The club wasn't the Bureau. This wasn't the same game with the same rules and the same inevitable betrayal waiting at the end.
"You're thinking too loud." His voice dropped, gentle now. "What is it?"
"Just—old habits." I shook my head. "Cross used to tell me that trusting people was weakness. That the only person I could rely on was him. He isolated me from everyone—friends, family, colleagues—until he was the only thing I had left. And then he used that isolation to control me."
"That's not going to happen here."
"I know. Logically, I know that. But knowing something and feeling it are different things."
Tank's hand found mine, his fingers interlacing with my own. The gesture was simple—almost casual—but it grounded me in a way I hadn't expected.
"You don't have to trust everyone all at once. Start with me. Start with telling Hawk. And we'll figure out the rest as we go."
I took a breath, let it out slowly. "Okay. We tell Hawk."
"Together."
"Together."
Tank nodded, then did something unexpected—he leaned forward and pressed his lips to my forehead. A gentle kiss, almost chaste, but it sent warmth flooding through my chest all the same.
"I've got you." His voice was low, barely above a murmur. "Whatever happens next, I've got you."
I believed him.
For the first time since Cross had walked into that garage a week ago, I actually believed that someone had my back.
We left the garage together, walking toward the clubhouse where Hawk would be starting his day, where the rest of the club was waking up to a morning that felt different than the ones before. The sun was fully up now, burning off the last of the morning fog, and the air smelled like coffee and diesel and the particular dusty sweetness of a Nevada late summer.
Tank's hand brushed against mine as we walked. Not holding, not quite, but close. Present. A reminder that I wasn't alone.
"For what it's worth—" He paused as we reached the clubhouse steps, his expression softening. "I'm proud of you."
"For what?"
"For burning that envelope. For deciding to face this instead of running." Another pause, something flickering behind his eyes. "For giving me another chance after I walked away twice."
"You're worth another chance."
"You don't know that yet."
I stopped at the door, turned to face him. "No. But I'm willing to find out."
Something passed between us—not a kiss, not a touch, just a look. A recognition. Two people standing at the edge of something terrifying and choosing to step forward anyway.
"Let's go talk to Hawk."
"Let's."
He opened the door, and I followed him inside.
