Page 172 of Dirty Hit
“This is what he used to do,” I hear myself say, when I lift my head, words coming out before I decide to share them. “My dad.”
Brendon stills behind me, listening.
“On bad nights,” I continue, staring at the countertop through the blur, seeing a different kitchen overlaid on this one. “When she… when shit got loud, he’d make cocoa. Not that powdered bullshit. The real kind on the stove. Said it was ‘for his nerves.’ But I knew it was for me. To give me something else to focus on.”
Brendon’s arm tightens around me, just enough to sayI’m herewithout squeezing too hard.
“I forgot what it smelled like until you did it. And now my fucking chest feels like someone’s stabbing it, and all you did was boil milk.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s not… I’m not mad,” I say quickly, blinking hard. “It’s just… I miss him, and sometimes I forget that. I’ve been so focused on hating her and surviving and not thinking about any of it that I forgot there was a person in that house who made things bearable for a while.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, and another tear slips free, tracks hot down my cheek. I sniff, drag the back of my hand across my face, not bothering to hide it now. Jericho hops up onto the counter and bumps his head against my wrist like he’s trying to head-butt the sadness out.
I huff a watery laugh. “Even your cat’s judging me,” I mutter.
“He’s comforting you,” Brendon says. “That’s his‘don’t be stupid, human’face.”
I sniff shakily and let my head drop forward until my neck stretches, vertebrae popping. His hands slide up, palms flattening on my chest now, right over my heart. The position is familiar—I’ve done this a hundred times to calm him down—but the roles have flipped, and my brain stutters.
“I didn’t know,” he says quietly, voice careful. “About your father. About the—” He stops himself before he says the word I won’t let out tonight. “About the dreams. About how far back it goes.”
“Yeah, well,” I rasp. “I’m not exactly a model of open communication.”
He lets out a breath against my back that might almost be a laugh. “We’re working on it. This counts.”
I close my eyes, focus on the warmth of his hands, the weight of his head, the purr of the cat, the smell of cocoa. My breathing evens out little by little, the sobs tapering off into ragged inhales.
After a while, he eases back just enough to reach around me for the mugs. He presses one into my hands, fingers curling around mine to steady it.
“Careful,” he says. “It’s hot.”
I wrap my palms around the ceramic, soaking up the warmth. The surface is smooth under my fingers. I bring it up and take a sip. It’s rich and dark and a little too sweet, cocoa hitting my tongue like a punch of memory, but this time it’s anchored to him standing here with me, not just a ghost in a different kitchen.
Brendon watches me over the rim of his own mug, eyes still a little swollen from sleep, hair still a mess. I don’t know what I did to deserve someone who meets my worst moments with this much care.
He leans his hip against the counter next to me, close enough that our arm touch, and we stand there in the pool of kitchen light at stupid-o’clock in the morning, drinking hot chocolate and breathing.
When I set the mug down, I turn to him without thinking and pull him into my arms, carefully mindful of his side. He fits there the way he always does now, like my body built itself around the shape of him without asking permission.
“Thank you,” I murmur into his hair.
He hums, cheek pressed to my chest. “For the cocoa, or for not making you talk?”
“Both,” I say. Then, because the night has already peeled me open and there’s no point pretending, I add, “For making this feel like a home instead of a graveyard.”
His arms tighten around me just a little. “You want to go back to bed?” he asks. “We can put something on in the background. The stupid baking show with the British guy you like. Or I can just talk until you pass out again.”
I snort. “Your voice will put me to sleep faster than any British baking show,” I say. “Law lecture tone. Deadly.”
He pulls back and swats my arm. “Asshole,” he mutters, but he’s smiling now. “Come on then, Beast. Let’s try this sleep thing again. If you get stuck, I’ll be right there.”
I grab my mug, finish it in a few quick swallows, and set it in the sink. He does the same. On impulse, before I can overthink it, I catch his wrist and tug him in, pressing a slow, grateful kiss to his mouth.
“I don’t deserve you,” I say against his lips. “But thank you for waking me up. For this. For… fuck, all of it.”
“Anytime,” he says. “You pull me out of my nightmares, I pull you out of yours. That’s the deal.”
