Page 170 of Dirty Hit
When I finally wrench all the way awake, my eyes lock on Brendon’s face hovering over mine.
He looks terrified.
His hair is a mess from sleep, sticking out at the crown. His eyes are too wide, green ringed dark in the low light, mouth parted. One hand cups my jaw, the other braces lightly on my chest, careful of the scars and the places he knows can spark me if he touches wrong. He’s pale and breathing too fast, but he’s here. Real. Not a memory and not a threat.
I stare at him for a second, still not fully back in my body. My throat hurts and my chest aches. There’s dampness on my face, but I’m not willing to identify it yet.
“Hey,” Brendon says, voice shaking, and I hate myself for putting the tremor there. “Hey, you’re back. You’re okay. I’ve got you, Daddy.”
I blink up at him and force another breath into my lungs. Then another.
The shame comes right on its heels—hot, immediate, and familiar. This part pisses me off—being seen like this, and that he heard me, that he knows there are dreams bad enough to pull those sounds even out of me. That my body can still turn traitor and freeze like I’m that kid again instead of the man who put a knife through his mother’s chest.
I turn my face away automatically, but he doesn’t force it back. He just keeps his hand warm against my cheek, thumb moving in slow, grounding strokes.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says quietly, like he’s already reading the refusal in the tension of my jaw. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
“Thank you,” I say finally. “It’s just…stuff from before. I don’t… I can’t talk about that one yet, okay?”
“Okay,” he says, and I turn back to face him. “You don’t have to. I just… I hate that you’re still carrying it alone.”
The relief of that almost undoes me worse than the nightmare did.
He sits back a little, enough to give me air, and for a second we just breathe. The room is still dim. The lamp’s still on. Jericho is gone, probably offended by emotional scenes. Outside, the trees scrape softly against the window in the night breeze. Normal sounds.Safesounds.
Brendon glances at the clock, then back at me. He makes a decision I can see happen in real time.
“Come on,” he says softly.
I frown. “What?”
He pushes the blankets back and slides carefully out of bed, one hand already reaching for mine. “Kitchen.”
I almost laugh, because the idea is absurd. My skin’s clammy, my chest feels flayed open, and my body’s still halfway expecting the dark to come back if I close my eyes. The last thing I want is bright lights, movement, and conversation.
Brendon knows that. That’s probably why he’s doing it.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, which is such bullshit even I don’t believe it.
He gives me a look that says exactly what he thinks of that claim, then curls his fingers around mine more firmly. “No, you’re not, and that’s okay. Come with me.”
There are a hundred reasons to resist. Pride. Embarrassment. The fact that if I move too fast, my heart still feels like it’ll climb up my throat. I let him lead me anyway, because his hand iswarm and his voice is steady, and when he says ‘come with me,’my body listens before my ego can catch up.
The kitchen light is soft when he turns it on, just the overhead above the stove and the one over the sink. Enough to see by without feeling interrogated. He points me toward one of the stools by the counter, and I sit because apparently this is my life now—taking orders from a skinny law student in my own house.
I’ll indulge him in this when I wouldn’t for anyone else. My hands brace on the countertop, fingers spreading on the cool surface. My chest still feels tight, but the oppression of the dream is fading under the familiar sights. The chipped tile, the dent in the fridge door, the mug he left by the sink earlier with a smear of red from the tea he was drinking.
“You know there are easier ways to drug me into sleeping again,” I mutter.
He shoots me a look over his shoulder. “Shut up. I’m being nurturing.”
“That’s disgusting,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
There’s a little smile tugging at his mouth, faint but there, and it does something warm and horrible to my insides.
I watch as he takes out two mugs, a small pot, milk, cocoa powder, sugar, and a little jar of vanilla I forgot I had. He’s barefoot, shirt rumpled from sleep, hair sticking up in messy tufts, and he’s making me fucking hot chocolate in the middle of the night like that’s a normal way to handle my PTSD.
