Page 126 of Dirty Hit
“That’s not the point,” he says, but there’s no bite in it.
He turns on the tap and starts scrubbing his hands;reallyscrubbing. I watch his shoulders tense as he works the soap into his skin, fingers digging into his palms, wrists, forearms. He doesn’t look at me while he works, his jaw clenched, eyes fixedon the sink, but even after the water runs clear again, he keeps going.
“Dom,” I finally say, quietly. “They’re clean.”
“Yeah,” he says, but he still rinses a few seconds longer before shutting the tap off. He grabs the dish towel, dries his hands briskly, then tosses it aside and heads for the fridge without turning around.
There’s a container on the middle shelf with cling film over it; He pulls it out, peels the wrap back, sniffs it, and nods, satisfied.
“Stir-fry,” he says. “From lunch. Don’t give me that face.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I protest.
“You thought it,” he says, shooting me a sideways look as he dumps the food into a pan and turns the gas on. “I heard the tiny judgment bells going off in your Christian brain.”
Despite myself, my lips curve. “Those bells retired when I stopped praying for you to explode,” I say.
“You stopped praying for me,” he echoes, reaching for a wooden spoon. “That’s tragic. I liked being a special request.”
I swallow, throat tight. “I started again this week,” I admit quietly.
He pauses for a moment, wooden spoon hovering over the pan, then nods once, like that’s a data point he’s storing away for later. Vegetables and meat sizzle, the smell beginning to fill the kitchen, and my stomach chooses that moment to remind me it exists with a low, embarrassing growl.
He glances over his shoulder, smirking. “Somebody’s hungry.”
“Shut up,” I say, heat creeping up my neck.
“Never,” he says back. “You being hungry is one of my favorite things. Means I get to fill you up.”
I groan. “Can you go five minutes without turning everything into filth?”
“No,” he says cheerfully. “Eat your food, and maybe later we can arrange a part two.”
“Dominic,” I warn, but the sound is weak, and my cheeks are definitely on fire now.
He chuckles under his breath and focuses on the pan, stirring it a few more times before turning the heat off. He grabs a plate from the cupboard, piles stir-fry on it, and then, instead of putting it on the table, he walks back over to me.
I reach for it automatically. “I can—”
He shakes his head, shifting it out of my grasp. “I said I was feeding you. Hands in your lap, Little Sin.”
My stupid body obeys faster than my brain, fingers curling into my own jeans as my palms press against my thighs. He sets the plate down on the counter beside me, grabs a fork, and then steps into my space until he’s standing between my knees.
“Open,” he says softly.
My throat tightens. “Dom—”
“Brendon,” he says, voice dropping, eyes locked on mine. “You showed up at my house broken. You knelt on my floor. I know you haven’t eaten, because you look like you’re about to pass out. Let me take care of you. Just… let me, okay?”
The fork hovers in front of my mouth, steaming vegetables skewered on the tines. His eyes are so serious that I feel the last bit of resistance drain out of me.
I open.
He feeds me a bite, watching my face closely, like he expects me to spit it out or have some dramatic revelation mid-chew. It’s just stir-fry: chicken, peppers, onions, and a garlic-soy sauce. It’s good—or maybe I’m just starving. I make a small sound of surprise anyway.
“See,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’m not completely useless in the kitchen.”
“It’s… good,” I admit, once I swallow. “Really good.”
