Page 14 of Code Name: Tank
“Fine. I’ve been avoiding you.” The admission felt both embarrassing and liberating. “But in my defense, you’re…”
“I’m what?”
I stared, taking him in. “Distracting.”
Tank’s smile was genuine and warm. “You’re pretty distracting yourself.”
“So where does that leave us?” I asked.
“Seeing what happens when we stop making everything so complicated.”
The conversation shifted into more personal territory as we ate. Tank told me about his family’s Sunday dinners—how his mother insisted everyone be there by two o’clock sharp, how his father told the same terrible puns week after week that somehow never stopped being funny, how his sister brought her kids who turned every meal into controlled chaos.
“My mom makes this apple pie,” Tank said, his eyes lighting up with the memory. “She’s been perfecting the recipe for thirty years. Says the secret is using three different types of apples and a pinch of cardamom, which nobody else knows about.”
I found myself smiling at the warmth in his voice. “That sounds wonderful.”
“What about you? Any family traditions?” he asked, then caught himself. “I mean, if you don’t mind talking about it.”
The question hit an empty space I’d learned to navigate carefully. “I don’t really have any. My father died when I was a teenager, and my mother…” I paused, surprised by how easily the words came. “She remarried, and I’m not that big of a fan of her new husband. Honestly, she wasn’t the Sunday-dinner type even before that.”
Tank’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. Losing your dad must have been difficult.”
“Thank you.” I took another sip of wine, deflecting from the sympathy I could see in his eyes. “I never really knew what I was missing until I started working with people who had big families while I was in training at the agency.”
“CIA training?” he asked.
“Yes. Operational psychology courses, mainly.”
Tank didn’t push for more classified details. Instead, he said, “My family would adopt you in about five minutes if they met you.”
The casual comment sent an unexpected warmth through my chest. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely. My mom’s weakness is competent women who don’t take any nonsense. She’d probably try to feed you until you couldn’t move, then start planning Christmas presents.”
The image he painted was both appealing and terrifying. “I wouldn’t know how to fit into something like that.”
“You wouldn’t have to fit in. You’d just be you.”
The conversation continued as we finished our meals, but eventually, the evening wound down. By the time we headed upstairs, the shift from earlier was a distant memory and the walls I built so carefully had developed cracks.
“Thank you,” I said when we stopped outside our rooms. “For dinner, for the conversation.”
“Thank you for not leaving when you saw me in the bar.”
“I don’t leave when I see you.”
He raised a brow and grinned.
“Okay. Maybe I strategically relocate. I’ll work on it.”
“Only if you want to. No pressure.”
His stare held mine for a moment that I didn’t want to end. This close, I could see the flecks of gold in his gaze, the stubble along his jawline, and the way he seemed to be weighing whether to say more.
I felt myself leaning closer, wishing he would do the same and maybe even kiss me.
Instead, he took a step away. “Good night, Dragon.”
