Page 61 of Tank
“You haven’t been eating actual meals. You have to take care of yourself. That’s why we’re here.”
I open my mouth to argue, to protest that I don’t need looking after, that I can handle it all on my own, but he cuts me off.
“I care about you, Bianca.” His voice changes, becoming softer, more serious. “No, I — ” He hesitates for half a second that feels like forever, his sharp blue eyes searching mine, before he says it. “I love you. And I want to treat you right.”
The words knock the breath out of me. That word. That word — those four letters — that makes my fingers tighten around the edge of the table.
I should panic. I should be terrified.
Instead, I smile.
“I love you too.”
The words tumble out, unplanned and unguarded, and I realize I mean them. I really, truly mean them. Something shifts inside me, and I feel light, unburdened, like I’m discovering a new part of myself.
The server comes, says something — I don’t remember — and we order something else, which I also don’t remember. I’m too caught up in the moment, in the way Tank is looking at me like I’m the most important thing in the world, like I’m something worth loving. Suddenly, it’s just a plate that gets put in front of me, which I pick at idly, while losing myself in Tank’s eyes, his voice, the way my heart feels every moment I look at him.
We both lean in closer, our food long forgotten as we talk. The words come easier than I ever thought they could, spilling out in a rush of honesty and emotion.
I tell him things I don’t normally share.
I tell him about why I started Safe House, about my need to make a difference, even if it’s small, even if it feels hopeless sometimes.
I tell him about my ex. The abuse. The way it broke me, and the way I had to rebuild myself, piece by fragile piece, into the woman I am now. The woman who is still afraid she might shatter again.
And Tank listens. Really listens. His gaze doesn’t waver, holding me steady like a life rope, like an anchor.
He doesn’t pity me. He doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t offer suggestions or advice. He doesn’t tell me what I should have done, or why I didn’t do this or that.
He just lets me be me.
“Can I tell you something? I still remember the scariest moment in my life. It was the first time I killed a man,” Tank says after a long silence, his voice surprisingly raw, each word like a jagged piece of gravel breaking free.
I freeze. I nod.
He exhales slowly, as if releasing years of tension. “It was in combat. First tour. I was young. So young. We were ambushed, and I…” He pauses, swallows hard, his gaze dropping like he’s reliving it right now. “I hesitated.” The word hangs between us, thick with meaning. He shakes his head, and I can almost feel the chaos of that moment, the devastation and horror. “In that moment I felt this terrible sensation… This weight about what it means to end a life. To kill someone.” He looks up; the pain in his eyes makes my chest tighten. “I hesitated, and I almost felt broken before I even did it. But I did.” The words crack like bones breaking. “Because if I hadn’t pulled the trigger, my team would’ve died.” There’s a tremor in his voice, a vulnerability that makes my heart ache. “One way or another, I would’ve been a murderer.”
I see it in his eyes — the weight of it, the way it's embedded in him, a scar that never fully healed. This is not the story of a hardened soldier; it’s a story of a young man thrust into choices no one should have to make.
The same way I faced terror, abuse, the same way I faced choices no one should have to make.
“Do you regret it?” I ask gently.
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “No. But I hate that I was put in that position.”
I nod, biting my lip, feeling the old wounds within me. Understanding what it’s like to be forced into impossible choices, choices that leave you broken no matter how they fall.
Then Tank exhales sharply and gives me a wistful smile. “I never expected to find love in Boise.”
Then Tank takes a sharp breath and releases it with a wistful smile. “I never expected to find love in Boise.” The sudden shift surprises me, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to lighten the mood or if there’s more he’s not saying. Something in his expression is off, though. The way he says it—like there’s a sadness behind it.
For a split second, suspicion flickers through me. And I wonder: is it real, this suspicion I feel, or is it my old fears, my old habits, trying to break through the genuine love that exists between us?
But then he reaches across the table, tracing his thumb over my knuckles, and my thoughts scatter.
I write it off. Just old memories surfacing. Nothing to worry about.
Tank sits back and watches me as I take the last bite of my meal.
