"Fine, fine," she concedes, flopping back onto my bed. "I'm going. But remember. These walls are probably thin."
"We’re leaving," I point to the door, fighting my own smile. "Before I change my mind about the bed."
She giggles as she grabs her small overnight bag and disappears into the bathroom, leaving Tank and me alone in the hallway.
The silence stretches between us, different from the comfortable quiet we shared on the Ferris wheel. Here, in my home, with the prospect of the night ahead, everything feels more intimate, more charged.
"She's always been a brat," Tank finally says, breaking the tension.
I laugh softly. "She means well. In her own meddling way."
"That's what makes her dangerous," he agrees with a wry smile.
We stand there for a moment longer, neither quite ready to separate for the night.
"Are you tired?" I ask. "Or would you like something to drink? Water, beer, tea?"
"Water would be good," he answers. "It's been a long day."
I lead the way back to the kitchen. In the fluorescent light of my small kitchen, I grab two glasses from the cabinet and fill them from the tap.
"Fighting four guys really works up a thirst, huh?" I tease, handing him a glass.
"That was nothing. Barely even a workout."
I lean against the counter, studying him over the rim of my glass. "You've had worse, I take it?"
"Much," he confirms, taking a long drink. "Those boys were amateurs. All gym muscles and no actual experience."
"And you enjoy it?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can reconsider. "Living a life of danger, I mean."
"Not enjoy, exactly," he says, setting his glass down. "It's more that I understand it. Danger, violence, risk. They follow rules. There's a clarity in those moments that's hard to find elsewhere."
"The certainty you mentioned on the Ferris wheel," I observe. "Like what my father gave me growing up."
He nods, leaning against the opposite counter. The kitchen is small enough that even with this arrangement, we're only a few feet apart.
"Exactly. In a fight, everything simplifies. Objective, threat, action. No gray areas, no moral ambiguity, no second-guessing." His eyes find mine in the harsh kitchen light. "But enjoy? No. I respect it. I'm good at it. It's not the same thing."
The answer surprises me with its thoughtfulness. Most men I've known who live the kind of life Tank does romanticize the violence, wear it like a badge of honor. His self-awareness is unexpected and, frankly, appealing.
"What about you?" he asks, turning the question back on me. "This is a pretty isolated spot for someone who claims not to like being alone."
"I never said I don't like being alone," I correct him. "I said I never learned how to make a place feel like home. There's a difference."
His eyes flick to the empty walls, the functional furniture, the lack of personal touches. "Your bedroom," he says. "It's like a way station. Somewhere to sleep, not somewhere to live."
The observation is so accurate it makes me uncomfortable. "Hazard of moving every year or two as a kid," I say with forced lightness. "You learn to travel light."
"That's not it," he counters, his voice gentle but certain. "My room at the club is the same way. It's not about how much stuff you have. It's about not allowing yourself to put down roots."
I look away, uncomfortable with how easily he's read me. "Maybe. Or maybe I just have minimalist taste."
He doesn't push, just takes another sip of his water, allowing the silence to settle between us again. It's one of the things I'm coming to appreciate about Tank. He doesn't fill empty spaces with needless words. He's comfortable with silence in a way few people are.
He sets his glass down and stretches his arms overhead, his shoulders rolling as he works out the kinks from the long ride and the eventful day. The movement pulls his t-shirt taut across his chest and arms, and I can't help but notice just how powerfully built he is. The definition in his biceps, the breadth of his shoulders, the solid wall of his chest.
It's almost unreal, like something carved from stone rather than flesh and blood.
