Chapter 3 #2
“Well,” she says, rubbing the back of her neck, “more like… threw stuff in a pan and hoped for the best.”
Leon squeals, shaking the stuffed dog like it owes him money, and she laughs—quiet and real, the kind that doesn’t come easy unless it’s earned.
I glance at the pan again. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” she says, looking up at me. “But you left some money. I thought it’d be better to make something for both of us instead of just buying junk food.”
Something about the way she says both of us hits me harder than it should.
I nod, slow. “Well… thanks.”
She gives me this small smile—like it’s no big thing, like it didn’t change the whole damn feel of the place just by happening.
And for a guy who eats standing up most nights with a paper towel under his plate, it sure as hell feels like a big thing.
Something about coming home to a fed kid, a clean floor, and the smell of something warm on the stove… it hits harder than it should. Like someone cracked a window in a room I didn’t realize was suffocating.
I step further in, boots thunking on the floor, and walk over to where she’s still sitting with Leon half in her lap. He looks up at me with that bleary, post-nap baby face—eyes heavy, cheeks flushed, holding onto the stuffed dog like it’s a security badge.
“How was he today?” I ask, crouching down beside them, reaching to take him.
She shifts, lifting him up carefully, hands practiced. “Good,” she says, handing him over without fuss. “He was a bit feisty this afternoon. Fought his nap like it was personal.”
I smirk, settling Leon on my hip. He lets out a little grunt of protest, then melts into my shoulder.
“Cried a bit,” she continues, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Got himself all worked up. Took some rocking, a bottle, and a lullaby that probably scarred him emotionally, but he finally passed out. Slept a solid two hours once he gave in.”
“Yeah,” I grunt. “He gets like that. Stubborn as hell.”
She gives me a look. “Wonder where he gets that from.”
I shoot her a side glance. “Watch it.”
She grins. Just a flicker. “I’m just saying.”
“Uh-huh.”
I rub Leon’s back absently, feeling the little thud of his heart against my chest. He smells like baby soap and something herbal—probably whatever she used to wipe him down. Clean. Content.
“You fed him already?” I ask.
“Mmhm. Last bottle was around five-thirty. He took most of it. Didn’t spit up, either.”
“Diapers?”
“Three. Two wet, one... ambitious.”
I snort. “Poor bastard.”
She shrugs, resting her elbows on her knees. “We all have those days.”
I look at her again. Really look. She’s tired—I can see it in the way her shoulders curve forward, in the faint shadows under her eyes—but she’s not worn out. There’s a difference. She’s steady. Grounded. The kind of tired you get from doing the work, not from running from it.
“Thanks,” I say. Not just for the diaper log. For the cooking. For not flaking. For not treating Leon like a chore. For making this busted apartment feel like less of a cage.
She meets my eyes, and for a second, it’s like the static in my head dies down. Just goes still. She doesn’t flinch from the look, doesn’t look away. Just holds it, steady. Like she sees me, and not just the tired welder with a kid and a worn-out couch.
“You’re welcome,” she says.
And the way she says it—I believe her.
She shifts, rising from the floor, joints cracking faintly as she stands.
Then she walks over to the corner and grabs her sneakers.
Same ones from yesterday, all scuffed and peeling like they’ve seen a few too many winters.
It’s her little ritual—I’m starting to learn that.
When she reaches for those shoes, it means she’s getting ready to go.
She slips them on, fingers moving fast on the laces.
“Do you need me tomorrow too?” she asks, not looking up. Her voice is careful, like she’s trying to make it sound casual, but there’s a thread of something beneath it. Hope, maybe. Uncertainty.
“Yeah,” I say, shifting Leon in my arms. “If it’s not a problem for you, we could… do this indefinitely.”
She stops mid-knot. Looks up. Blinks.
“Indefinitely?”
I shrug. “I mean—I can’t offer you much. Not a salary. No benefits or fancy contract. But if you’re still in town and you want steady work, I could use the help. Leon clearly likes you. I trust you.”
She straightens slowly. “You trust me?”
“Yeah,” I say, simple. No drama in it. Just truth. “Not a lot of people I can say that about.”
Her mouth opens slightly like she’s gonna respond, but she doesn’t. Just nods. Once. Firm.
“Well,” she says, tucking her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie. “If it’s alright with you… I’ll be here. Seven-thirty?”
“Same as always.”
She smiles—small but real. “Alright then.”
And for the first time since Lizzie left, I realize the house doesn’t feel empty after someone walks out the door.
The quiet she leaves behind doesn’t echo. It lingers. Soft. Like it belongs there.
After she goes, I get Leon settled—he’s still half-dozing, thumb near his mouth, holding that mangy stuffed dog like it’s gold—and I take the fastest shower of my life.
One eye on the baby monitor, other on the clock.
Scrub off the steel dust, the sweat, the grime that clings after ten hours of grinding and torching metal.
My back aches like hell, but it’s a clean ache. Earned.
Towel around my waist, I pad into the kitchen, still drying my hair, and lift the lid on the pan she left on the stove.
Soon as the steam hits me, my stomach damn near growls out loud.
It’s rice—yeah—but not just any thrown-together mess. It’s got sausage, beans, corn, chopped-up peppers, maybe some onion in there. She hit it with spice, too—real seasoning, not just salt and hope. Smells warm and rich, like something that took time. Like someone gave a shit.
I don’t even bother getting a plate.
I grab a fork and eat it straight out of the pan, standing at the stove like some caveman who just discovered fire. Leon watches me from the blanket on the floor, one eyebrow practically raised. Judging me. Like he knows I should have better manners.
I glance over and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re six months old and you just ate lint off your sock.”
He gurgles back at me like he’s unimpressed.
But I don’t care. I keep eating. Because it’s been a long damn time since I’ve had a real home-cooked meal. Not frozen shit. Not drive-thru. Real food. Warm, seasoned, made by someone who wasn’t just feeding me out of obligation.
And maybe it’s not just the food.
Maybe it’s the fact that when I walked in tonight, the apartment smelled good. It was clean. My kid was happy. Nothing was broken, nobody was crying, and there was this quiet hum of normal in the air that I haven’t felt in what feels like a year.
And all of that? That was her.
For forty bucks a day.
Hell, that’s not pay—that’s damn near theft.
Brielle’s sweet. Soft-spoken. Doesn’t ask for much.
Shows up on time. Doesn’t leave a mess. Doesn’t act like this job’s beneath her.
I’ve had sitters who charged more and couldn’t be bothered to even wipe Leon’s chin.
And here she is—cooking, folding baby blankets, singing songs with sock puppets like this is what she was made for.
She doesn’t know it, but she’s holding this little piece of my life together with nothing but elbow grease and a quiet kind of grace that’s rare as hell.
Damn.
She’s an angel.
And I don’t say that lightly.