Page 86 of Tank
But then something inside me just... gives out.
I shove my chair back with a loud scrape, the sound of my soul collapsing. I walk out of the office, out of the building, desperate for air before the grief inside me turns to screaming, before it consumes me entirely.
And there he is.
A refuge. A person I didn’t realize I was hoping to find.
Tank.
Standing just outside the entrance of Safe House, like he’s been waiting for me, like he knew exactly where I’d go when I couldn’t take it anymore.
Like he loves me.
He’s holding an envelope in one hand, looking at me with those sharp blue eyes that see everything, even the things I try to hide. When he sees me — crying, broken — he doesn’t say a single word. Just crosses the distance in three long strides and pulls me into his arms.
And I let him.
It’s a surrender more profound than I’ve ever allowed myself. I collapse into him, burying my face into his shoulder, letting the sobs tear through me, and I don’t hold back. I cry until my throat aches, until I have poured out the grief and terror and sheer hopelessness of the week, the month, my whole damn life.
For a few fleeting, exquisite moments, I let the world narrow to the circle of his embrace. I let myself forget the bruises on my heart, the weight on my conscience, the ghosts at my back.
I let myself be held.
Slowly, I pull away, wiping my eyes with the heels of my hands, trying to piece myself back together one ragged breath at a time. And it hits me like a shock, the rawness of my voice when I finally manage to speak.
“What are you doing here?”
Tank shifts the envelope in his hand.
“I’m here because, whether or not you take me back, I believe in you. I believe in what you do. And I want to help.”
He presses the envelope into my hands, and I feel the heft, the importance and weight of what he’s giving me, before I even open it.
Then I open it.
And freeze.
It’s a check. A six-figure check. With my name on it. With Safe House listed on the memo line.
“What the hell is this?” I ask.
“My insurance payout,” he says. “The bakery. I had a damn good policy. Put everything into it — my money, my time, my blood. And when it burned down, I made sure it paid out fast.”
I gape at him. “How the fuck did you get the insurance to pay this fast? Those things take weeks, months even.”
“I went and found the agent,” he says, deadpan. “Told him I’d dismember him if he dragged his feet. I think I inspired him.”
My hands are shaking. “Tank… are you sure?”
He nods. “Yes, I’m sure. I want every cent to go to you.”
“All that money… And you’re just giving it to me?”
“No strings,” he says. “You said Safe House needed saving. I want to help save it.”
I stare at him; this man… This dangerous, stubborn, handsome man.
“You’re giving up your dream,” I whisper. “For me.”
