Chapter 3
Brielle Shaw?
Seven-thirty sharp and I’m back on Desmond’s doorstep, knuckles tapping light against the wood like maybe if I’m too loud I’ll jinx it. Another day. Another sitting shift. Another forty bucks that’ll keep the tank fed and maybe, if I’m careful, me too.
Last night, I used half the cash on gas—just enough to keep the Corolla breathing for a few more days—and bought myself a sandwich from that gas station with the half-lit sign.
It wasn’t good, exactly, but it was warm, and I ate it slow in the driver’s seat like it was something special.
It felt like something special. Real food.
A full belly. A place to park without being chased off.
I still have fifteen bucks left. Tucked inside my sock, folded so small it feels like a secret. I’m not touching it. Not unless I have to. If I do this a few more times—stack up little bits here and there—I might be able to buy a week at a cheap motel. Shower properly. Sleep in a real bed.
That’s the dream right now. Not big. Just clean sheets and a locked door.
So yeah. I’m here. Ready to smile, to bounce a baby on my hip, to scrub bottles, to write feeding times down on a notepad like I’m qualified to do something other than run.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, the cold nipping through the soles of my sneakers and into my bones.
Hoodie zipped all the way to my chin, hair tied back as neat as I can get it without a mirror.
I’m wearing the cleanest jeans I own—still a little damp around the cuffs from being washed in a gas station sink and dried with the Corolla’s heater vents.
They smell faintly like hand soap and car interior. It’s not ideal, but it’s what I’ve got.
I glance up at the door, heart knocking around in my chest harder than it should. It’s silly—this isn’t a date. I’m just here to watch his kid. But something about standing on this doorstep again makes me nervous in a way I can’t quite name.
Then the door opens.
And there he is.
Desmond.
He’s holding Leon on his hip, the kid half-flopped against him, looking like he’s still debating whether to wake up or throw hands at the universe for daring to disturb his sleep.
Desmond’s in jeans and work boots, the same kind of uniform every guy around here wears, but he wears it like it was stitched onto him.
His flannel’s open over a faded union shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the thick cords of his forearms under the baby’s weight.
His blonde hair looks darker, still damp—he showered this morning.
I don’t know why that makes something twist low in my gut.
Probably because I haven’t had a hot shower in over a week. Maybe more.
He’s got that rough scruff on his jaw, the kind that looks like he didn’t shave more out of habit than laziness. Sleep still lingers in the lines under his eyes, but he smells like soap and steel, like someone who belongs to the world, even if it’s chewing him up slowly.
“Morning,” he says, voice low, a little gravel in it.
“Morning,” I reply, softer. I reach out instinctively for Leon, already falling into the rhythm. He doesn’t protest when I take him—just gives a little grunt and burrows into my chest like I’m part of the furniture.
He’s warm. Heavy. Smells like baby shampoo and sleep. His little hand fists into my hoodie, clutching the fabric like he’s anchoring himself.
“He’s still half in dreamland,” Desmond says, stepping aside to let me in. “Woke up twice last night. Teething maybe. Or just being dramatic.”
I smile down at Leon. “Aren’t we all?”
Desmond snorts under his breath as he closes the door behind us, the sound low and easy, like we’ve already fallen into some rhythm neither of us meant to.
I step inside, careful, automatic. My shoes make almost no sound on the scuffed floor as I move through the space I’m starting to memorize.
His apartment’s not much—modest, lived-in, a little rough around the edges.
Most of the furniture’s clearly secondhand, the kind of stuff you get off a curb or from some buddy who owed you a favor.
But it’s clean. Organized in a way that says he gives a damn.
Some things are newer—a coffee table that doesn’t wobble, a microwave that actually looks like it works.
But the best of it, the nicest pieces, are in Leon’s room.
I’d wandered in yesterday when I was trying to find wipes and saw it—soft blue walls, a real crib, one of those little machines that plays white noise and stars on the ceiling.
A rocking chair. It looked… safe. Cared for. Like someone made it a priority.
I’m not one to envy people. Never have been. I’ve seen enough to know everyone’s got something they’re carrying, even the ones who look put together. But still… there’s a twinge when I watch Desmond move around his space like he belongs in it. Like he’s grounded.
He’s working class, no doubt—boots worn thin, hands cracked and burned in spots, the weight of tired in his shoulders—but he’s stable.
He’s got a job to go to. A kid to come home to.
A place that stays warm. I bet he’s never had to sleep in a Walmart parking lot with the doors locked and a hoodie over his head to keep from being noticed.
I bet he’s never had to scrub his underwear in a sink with watered-down shampoo because the laundromat costs too much.
He grabs his keys off the hook and checks for his wallet like it’s just another part of the routine. Like nothing’s in question.
Another thing I don’t have. A job with hours and a paycheck. Something that doesn’t evaporate if the baby’s cranky or the mom decides she “just doesn’t vibe” with me.
“I’m gonna leave a few bucks on the counter,” Desmond says as he moves toward the kitchen, voice casual but not careless. “Figured you probably didn’t eat much yesterday, right?”
His back’s to me, like he’s trying to say it without making it a thing.
I shift Leon in my arms, press my cheek against his little head. “It’s okay,” I say, keeping my voice light. “You never said you provided food.”
He glances over his shoulder. “I didn’t. But I also didn’t say you had to go hungry in my place.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again.
It’s not just the money. It’s that he noticed.
That he paid attention.
And suddenly I don’t know what to do with that kind of softness.
It’s not pity, not charity. It’s not him trying to prove something, or lord it over me. It’s just… simple, quiet kindness. Offered without strings. And somehow that’s the part that knocks me off-balance.
So I just nod, eyes dropping to Leon again like he needs me—like I’m focused on him, not on the ache behind my ribs.
“It’s not much,” Desmond says, setting a few bills on the counter near the keys.
“But buy yourself something. Or cook here, if you’d rather. I don’t care if you use the stove—just don’t burn the place down.”
There’s a flicker of dry humor in his voice, but it doesn’t hide the sincerity underneath. “You hungry, eat.”
I glance at the bills, then at him. “You really don’t have to…”
“I know,” he says simply. “But I want to.”
My throat tightens. I nod again, quieter this time. “Okay. Thank you.”
He looks at me for a beat longer than necessary. Like he’s trying to read something in my face, but he doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask questions he has no right to. Just gives a small nod in return, then steps toward the door.
“I’ll be back around seven,” he says, pulling on his coat. “Same as yesterday. Unless the job runs long, but I’ll text you if that happens.”
“Alright,” I murmur. “We’ll be here.”
His hand lingers on the doorknob for half a second. “If you need anything—anything at all—just let me know.”
I almost say I won’t, out of habit. But I stop myself.
“Okay,” I say instead, quiet. “Drive safe.”
That earns me a faint smile. Just a hint. Like he wasn’t expecting that.
Then he’s gone, the door clicking softly behind him.
And I’m left standing there, holding a baby in someone else’s home, money on the counter, and warmth I don’t know how to hold without burning my fingers.
----
Desmond Coyle
Second day of Brielle watching Leon, and when I walk through the door, it’s déjà vu in the best kind of way.
Leon’s clean, grinning, kicking his little legs like he’s trying to take off. Giggles bubbling out of him like he’s been laughing all damn day. He’s in one of the onesies I never use unless I’ve actually done laundry—the good one, with the stars on it. That alone tells me she’s paying attention.
I’d been running hot all day at the shop, crawling through scaffolding with a MIG torch and a fucked-up shoulder from lifting wrong last week.
Stress had me in a chokehold yesterday—half-expecting she wouldn’t show, or worse, that I’d come home to a disaster zone and a screaming baby.
But I didn’t. And today? It’s more of the same, in the best way possible.
Better, even.
Because today, the second I step inside, I catch this smell in the air—real food, good food, something savory with spices that don’t come from a microwave packet. Makes the whole apartment feel warmer somehow. Not just heat-from-the-radiator warm, but home warm. Cozy.
And there she is, again on the floor like it’s her natural habitat. Legs crossed, hoodie sleeves shoved to her elbows, Leon tucked against her lap like he’s her damn blood. He’s holding this floppy stuffed dog and babbling to it, like it’s part of the conversation.
I glance toward the kitchen—pan on the stove, lid on, steam curling up around the edges. She’s been cooking. In my kitchen. And weirdly… I don’t hate it. I don’t even mind. It looks normal. Feels normal.
Before I can say anything, she glances over her shoulder, her face lighting up just a little.
“Hey,” she says, voice easy, worn around the edges but soft in a way that sticks. “Welcome back.”
I step further in, boots heavy on the floor, shrugging off the cold and the long shift. “Smells good in here.”
She shrugs, ducking her head a little. “Hope that’s alright. I found some stuff in the fridge that looked like it was about to go bad. Figured I’d put it to use.”
I raise an eyebrow, set my keys down on the counter. “You cooked?”