Page 171 of Dirty Hit
“You could’ve just made the instant kind,” I say, trying for casual, watching him measure cocoa into the pot.
He snorts. “You’re not getting that powdered shit after a nightmare like that,” he says. “We’re doing this properly. This is… I don’t know. A ritual. You need a ritual.”
He pours milk into the pot, turns the burner on low, and starts whisking slowly, the faint scrape of metal on metal soothing.The smell hits quickly—the deep, rich chocolate, a hint of sugar, the warmth of the milk. He adds a pinch of salt and a drizzle of vanilla, then keeps whisking until it’s glossy. His movements are unhurried, almost reverent.
The smell hits me halfway through.
Cocoa and sugar and a hint of vanilla, warm and rich and familiar in a way that’s got nothing to do with this kitchen. It slams into a part of my brain I keep boarded up.
I’m not here. I’m shorter, bare feet on cold tile, kitchen table towering. There’s a big hand on the pot handle, stirring, the deep rumble of a voice in Russian telling me something about how even soldiers need sweetness sometimes.
A mug slid in front of me, steam curling, gentle fingers pushing my hair off my face. “Drink, mishka,”he would say.“Bad dreams don’t like sugar.”
The memory hits so clean and sudden, it knocks the breath out of me.
My dad used to do this on the nights things got too bad. Make hot chocolate from scratch, exactly like this, like if he poured enough sweetness into the mug, he could cover the bitterness in the walls. After he died, the smell disappeared with him.
Now it’s back. In my kitchen with my boyfriend at the stove, doing the same thing, without even knowing what he’s echoing. He’s just doing what feels right to him, making something warm in the middle of the night because I woke up wrecked. He has no idea he’s just stepped into a memory so tender it hurts worse than the nightmare did.
I push up off the stool, turn around, and brace both hands against the counter before I can think better of it, head bowed, arms locked. The wood feels cold under my palms.
“Dom?” Brendon’s voice goes soft immediately. “Hey. Did I do something wrong?”
His concern makes it worse. I shake my head once because speaking feels impossible. My eyes burn. My chest aches with a fullness I can’t keep contained anymore.
“No,” I say, but it comes out wrecked. “Not you…fuck.”
I drag in a breath that doesn’t help. The tears are there before I can stop them, stupid and humiliating and hot. I squeeze my eyes shut and stare down at the countertop like I can bully them back where they came from.
But then there’s that memory again, my father’s big hand ruffling my hair, his voice saying,“It’s okay to be sad, Dima. It means you’re still human.”
He’d be pissed if he saw me standing here choking on it just to prove I’m tough.
“Fuck,” I mutter, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Fuck,fuck.”
I shake my head and lean more forward, bracing my forearms on the countertop, head hanging. My hair swings forward, curtaining my face. I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches, swallowing against the burn in my chest.
I feel the first tear slip out before I can stop it. It tracks hot down my nose, and hits the counter. Then another until my shoulders start to shake, and try to breathe through it, but my body’s done taking orders.
“Hey,” Brendon says softly.
“I’m fine,” I rasp.
A mug slides into my peripheral vision, then disappears as he sets it down and moves around the island. A second later, he’s behind me, his chest warm against my back, arms coming around my middle. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just holds on, cheek pressed between my shoulder blades, breath steady.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs after a minute. “You’re safe. Nobody’s here but me and Jericho. You can let it out.”
That makes it worse, obviously. A rough sound rips out of me, halfway between a groan and a sob. I squeeze my eyes shut and let my head hang, the tears dripping onto the counter.
“This is so fucking stupid,” I grind out. “It was just a dream and fucking hot chocolate.”
“It wasn’t just a dream,” he says quietly. “And it’s not just hot chocolate, is it?”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. My hands tighten on the countertop until my knuckles ache.
“Don’t,” I say again, and I’m not even sure what I mean.Don’t look at me. Don’t pity me. Don’t make this softer than it already is.
The sobs that follow are quieter than the ones at the hospital, less ripped open, more like something old finally cracking the rest of the way. It still hurts, and it still feels like my ribs are trying to push their way out through my skin. I let my forehead drop to my folded arms, shoulders hunched, breath hitching. The sound I make is muffled, but it’s there. Brendon just holds on, cheek against my shoulder blade, his warmth seeping into me.
