"You found purpose in it," Henny said softly, ignoring my dark humor.
I hummed, taking a moment to solidify my words. "Every job proved I had value. Every kill proved I deserved to exist. As long as people kept hiring me, kept needing me, I mattered. Plus, I started to like it. I craved the control and rejoiced in the carnage."
Finally, I let Henny turn over. He moved carefully, giving me space to pull away if I wanted. But I didn't want space. I wanted him.
His face was barely visible in the darkness, but I could see the way he looked at me. Not with pity or horror or disgust.
"You've always mattered," he said, cupping my face with both hands. "Your worth was never dependent on what you could do for other people."
I tried to smile but it came out wrong. "Wasn't it? Everyone in my life made it clear I was only valuable if I was useful. If I made things easier, stayed quiet, didn't cause problems. The second I stopped being convenient, they got rid of me. Or they gave me the kind of attention no kid wanted."
"I'm not getting rid of you." Henny's thumb wiped away the tears on my cheek.
"You say that now."
"I mean it." His voice had that firm quality, the one that made me believe him despite my instincts. "You could stop killing tomorrow. Never take another contract. And I'd still want you here. Still want you with me."
The words hit hard.
But decades of experience told me that worth was conditional and love was temporary. Eventually everyone left.
"I had another nightmare," I admitted, changing the subject because I couldn't handle the intensity of what he was offering. "This time was different. You got hurt. I didn’t have time to save you, and you died in my arms."
“Do you want to talk it out? Maybe find the flaws in the dream so you can firmly say it wasn’t real?”
I shook my head. "Not right now I just… I don't want to go back to sleep. Can't face another bad one."
Henny studied my face for a moment. "Okay. What do you want to do instead?"
"I don't know. Something that doesn't involve thinking about the past."
"Come on then." He sat up, taking my hand. "Let's make pancakes."
I blinked at him. "It's four in the morning."
"So? We're already awake. Might as well eat." He pulled me out of bed with a firm tug. "Besides, you never got to have normal childhood breakfast experiences. Time to fix that, baby."
Aw, fuck.
Henny was going to make me cry. He'd heard everything I'd said about my childhood, and his immediate response was to give me a small piece of what I'd missed.
I was so in love with the jerk.
We shuffledinto the kitchen hand in hand. Henny turned on the light over the stove, leaving the rest of the apartment dim. Itfelt intimate, like we were in a bubble separate from the rest of the world.
"Get the eggs and milk," he instructed, pulling flour and sugar from the pantry.
I did as I was told, easily following his orders. He moved through the kitchen, measuring ingredients while I watched and handed him things he needed.
"My mother used to make pancakes on Saturday mornings," Henny said as he mixed the batter. "Before everything got complicated with the family business. It was the one time during the week that felt normal."
"What happened to change it?" I asked, leaning against the counter.
"My father got promoted. More responsibility. More time away." He poured batter onto the hot griddle, making it sizzle. "My mother tried to maintain the routine, but it fell apart. By the time I was in middle school, Saturday pancakes were a memory."
"Is that why you're rigid about routine now?"
He flipped the first pancake with ease. "Partially. If I control my own schedule, maintain my own traditions, then no one can take them away."
