Page 61 of Dirty Hit
“Yeah, and that’s the problem. Your brain is not a reliable narrator right now.”
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “It’s not usually, either.”
“Fair, but right now it’s worse. Listen.” I lean in a little, enough that he has to look at me or stare at my collarbones. “What we did was intense. You let go harder than you ever have and handed me the reins in a way your body loved and your Sunday school teacher would faint over. Your system flooded you with all the good shit to get you through it—plus a healthy dose of fear because,hi, serial killer—then it yanked the plug.”
He’s really listening now. The panic in his eyes eases a fraction, replaced by interest, as if I’ve just named a monster he didn’t know had a label.
“That yank,” I continue, “feels nasty, empty, and wrong. Your brain hates empty space, so it fills it with whatever it’s got lying around. For you, that’s Bible verses, your dad’s voice, every ‘don’t’you’ve ever heard from church or family, and every lecture about purity and self-control. All of it rushes in to cover the silence, and you start thinking the low feeling means you did something wrong.”
His throat moves around a hard swallow. “Doesn’t it mean I did that?”
“No,” I say. “It means you had a big fucking experience and now your chemistry’s being a drama queen. You’re not being punished, and you’re not disgusting: you’re crashing.”
He stares at me like I just told him gravity’s optional. “How are you so sure about that?”
“Because I’ve been living on high and crash cycles since I was old enough to understand what a pulse is. Games, fights, kills, sex—big spikes, big drops. I know what they feel like. I know what I tell myself when I’m in it, too. That doesn’t mean the shit I tell myself is true.” I flick his forehead lightly with one finger. “You? You’re wired for submission and shame. That combo is going to try to eat you alive right now. I’m not letting it.”
His eyes shine, not quite tears, but close. “Wired for submission,” he repeats.
“Yeah,” I say. “You think most people fall to their knees and call a manDaddyfor the first time with that much enthusiasm? No. That button was already there; I just pressed it.”
He groans quietly. “Don’t say it like that. I’m trying not to spontaneously combust,” he mutters, and I can’t help but smirk. His lips press together, and I can tell I’ve hit every thought he’s already had in the last five minutes. “I feel…”
“Say it,” I coax.
“… dirty,” he finishes, voice breaking.
“That’s good.”
His eyes snap to mine. “Good?”
“Yeah,” I shrug. “Dirty’s not bad—dirty’s honest. You know what happens to something dirty? You wash it. You don’t burn the whole fucking house down because there’s mud on the floor.”
He stares at me like that thought has literally never occurred to him before. “You sound very sure of yourself,” he says.
“I’m good at managing monsters. Yours are just smaller versions of mine; I know their tricks.” I tap the side of his head lightly. “That one in there loves to use God, and your dad’s voice, and all your professors’ expectations to kick you when you’re down. Don’t believe it when you’re in the dip. It lies.”
“So it’s… not God punishing me,” he says, and the way he says it tells me exactly how much that thought had already sunk its claws in before I named this.
“No,” I say immediately. “It’s not God.”
His fingers toy with the cuff on his wrist, the leather dark against his skin. “What do I do when it hits?” he asks.
“Exactly what you’re doing now: Eat. Hydrate. Sleep. Text me if your brain starts running the greatest hits of‘I’m disgusting and going to Hell.’I’ll tell you to shut the fuck up and remind you what actually happened.”
He snorts, a real sound this time. “You’re going to be my subdrop tech support?” he says, a weak attempt at a joke.
“Pretty much,” I say. “Perks of the job. I get you all pretty and kneeling and calling me Daddy, I can handle a phone call where you’re freaking out that you’re broken.”
“I am broken,” he says instinctively.
I shake my head. “No. You’re bent in ways that suit me perfectly. That’s different.”
He laughs then, a small, genuine sound that eases the tightness around his mouth. The anxiety’s still there, but it’s not chewing through him as fast now. Good.
“Eat more,” I say, nodding at the plate. “Then I’m driving behind you to your place. Not negotiable.”
“You don’t have to—”
