Page 36 of Tank
Alex and I have been pushing ourselves to the edge, burning through every reserve we have to secure donors, coordinate vendors, and keep Safe House afloat in a sea of mounting pressures. I can feel the exhaustion in my bones, having become so familiar that I no longer recognize it as exhaustion at all, just the way things feel. I haven’t really slept in longer than I can remember, but I’m used to that now.
Real sleep, like real peace, is a luxury reserved for people who feel safe.
And safe is something I haven’t felt in years
So I do what I’ve always done. Adapt. Keep moving. Accept fatigue and sleeplessness as the only constants I can rely on. Keep the fear at bay by staying so busy there’s no time for it.
Yet, this morning feels even heavier, even more worn than the ones before it.
After so many mornings of rolling out of bed with empty, trembling hands, feeling like I have nothing left to give, and knowing I have to keep digging, keep finding something more, because if I don’t, everything I’ve worked so hard to build will collapse around me — this morning I need something more. Something small, but mine. Something indulgent and rich, something that will remind me that life is more than stress, more than survival.
That’s why I find myself here, first in line as usual, before the shop has even opened, before anyone else is awake to need anything from me.
And maybe that isn’t the only reason.
Maybe, just maybe, I want to see him.
Tank is already at the counter, watching me as I walk in. I can tell from the way his shoulders rise slightly when the door opens that he’s been waiting, not just for any customer, but for me. He cracks a grin that spreads slow and easy, like he’s already amused at some private joke he hasn’t let me in on yet.
“You know,” he calls out over the empty shop as I push through the door, “showing up at my bakery first thing in the morning so often might give a man ideas.” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice, one that makes it clear he knows I’ll rise to the bait.
I roll my eyes. “Trust me, I have no interest in feeding your ego, Tank. This is just about feeding my sugar addiction.”
“There are other bakers in town. Others that are closer to Safe House, too.”
I raise an eyebrow. "Are you trying to drive away your customers?"
His eyes glint with challenge, and he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the counter. “Just curious. Especially since you look like you haven’t slept in days.” The light through the wide windows catches the pale blue of his eyes, highlighting them to the point of translucence, making it impossible for me to look away. He’s watching me too closely, seeing too much.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, the response so practiced it might as well be tattooed on my tongue.
His smirk widens like I just proved his point. “You sure about that?”
I roll my eyes again, more to break up his gaze than anything else. “Positive.” My feet propel me toward the pastry case, ready to ignore him, ready to pretend I have more control over this interaction than I actually do.
And then I see them.
The usual elegant pastries — the croissants, the kouign-amann, the beignets — are all lined up perfectly in a neat, mouthwatering display. But off to the side, there’s something… else. A pile of ugly, misshapen disasters unlike anything Tank has ever let leave his kitchen.
They look like they were made by a blind, one-armed six-year-old with no adult supervision. Messy. Overloaded with frosting and marmalade. Burned in places, undercooked in others, and one of them looks, in the words of Gordon Ramsay, fucking raw.
I blink, pointing at them. “What the hell are those?”
Tank crosses his arms, looking far too amused. “Ricky made them.”
I stare at him.
I stare at the pastries.
Then I stare at him again, completely baffled.
“Are you fucking with me?”
Tank shakes his head, the playful gleam in his eyes never wavering as his smirk deepens. “Nope.”
I don’t know what’s more shocking: that Ricky is alive, or that he’s apparently working in a bakery. The incongruity of it all spins in my mind, each thought colliding with the next. Ricky, the low-level dealer who used to work for my brother, and Tank, this hulking, unreadable man, somehow tangled together in this fucked-up scenario.
I cross my arms and narrow my eyes, demanding an answer. “Explain. Now.”
