Chapter 4
Brielle Shaw?
I’ve officially made it through a full week working for Desmond.
What started off as a last-minute side gig—something to keep me afloat for a few days—has slowly settled into something steadier.
A rhythm. And in the mess of a life I’ve been dragging behind me, that’s rare.
A week might not seem like much, but when everything else in your life has been shifting under your feet for months, seven days in the same place feels like a damn miracle.
Two hundred bucks a week. It’s not a fortune.
Hell, it’s barely enough to fill my tank and keep me in crackers and dry shampoo.
Proper nannies? They’d laugh at that number.
They get that in two days flat, with bonuses.
But I’m not a proper nanny, and Desmond sure as hell can’t afford one. Which works for both of us.
He doesn’t ask questions.
And I don’t push for more.
Still, that doesn’t mean things are good.
Last night, I tried washing my hair in the Walmart bathroom again.
It’s usually fine—quiet, late, nobody around.
But this time, some middle-aged woman with a badge and a bad attitude came storming in and started shouting like I was committing a felony.
Cussed me out good in front of some poor kid holding a Hot Wheels.
Told me to get the hell out before she called the cops.
I didn’t argue. Just grabbed my things and left, soap still in my hair, water dripping down the back of my hoodie, eyes stinging from the shampoo and the shame.
I slept in the car after that, head wrapped in a towel, windows fogged, trying to pretend like I wasn’t freezing my ass off.
So yeah. When I knocked on Desmond’s door this morning, hair twisted up into a rough, wet bun that looked more like a mop than anything else, I half-expected a raised eyebrow. A comment. Something.
He opened the door, gave me a once-over—his eyes lingered on my hair for half a second—and then just nodded, stepped aside to let me in like always.
No questions. No jokes. No pity.
Just—come in.
And that? That’s more kindness than most people have shown me in a long time.
He goes into his usual routine, like clockwork—lacing up his boots by the door, pulling them tight with that quick, practiced tug. Tells me there’s leftover chicken in the fridge, to help myself if I’m hungry, same way he does every morning. Like I belong here. Like it’s normal.
Today, he’s not wearing his usual flannel.
Just a fitted gray t-shirt that’s seen better days but fits him like it was made for him.
Probably laundry day. But all I can think is—damn.
That shirt doesn’t hide a thing. And he’s got arms that look like they could bend rebar if he got annoyed enough.
Veins, rough skin, the kind of muscle that’s earned, not gym-fed.
Of course he looks like that.
He welds for a living.
Carries steel and pipes like they’re grocery bags. Builds things with heat and pressure. That kind of strength doesn’t come from lifting weights—it comes from surviving a hard job and doing it again the next day.
Still... I’m not dead. My eyes linger a little longer than they should while he grabs his cap from the hook and checks his pockets for his keys.
He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t let on.
I look away before he turns back around. No sense getting ideas about men with steady jobs and good shoulders. I know better. I’ve lived better. Men like that don’t look twice at girls like me—not once they know the details. My life doesn’t leave much room for daydreams.
But they still slip in, quiet and uninvited, curling in the corners of my thoughts like smoke under a door—harmless, until they’re not.
Desmond pulls his wallet from the counter, sliding it into the back pocket of his jeans. “I’ll probably stay a bit late today,” he says, almost like an afterthought. “Boss is riding our asses about the new weld orders. Can you hang till eight?”
I shift Leon higher on my hip. He’s drooling onto my hoodie sleeve, totally unbothered by the logistics of my sad little life. “Uh… yeah, I guess.”
He pauses, looking up. “You guess?”
I shake my head quickly. “No, I mean—it’s fine. I’ll stay. Of course.”
It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that I’d finally scraped together enough to maybe—maybe—afford one night at the motel off the highway.
A shower that lasts longer than two minutes.
Clean towels. A door that locks. I was planning on checking in after shift, getting clean for real.
Wash my hair all the way this time. Sit on a mattress that isn’t folded into a car seat.
But I don’t say that.
He’s got enough to carry without my pride stacked on top.
Desmond nods slowly, watching me for a beat longer than usual. Like he heard what I didn’t say.
“You sure?” he asks. “I can try to get home earlier if it’s a problem.”
I force a small smile, bounce Leon gently in my arms. “It’s not a problem. Really. We’ll be fine.”
“Alright,” he says, still not quite convinced, but letting it go. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. I think there’s chicken and some rice from yesterday. Should still be good.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
He steps toward the door, keys jangling in his hand. Then he hesitates, turns back for half a second. Opens his mouth like he might say something else—but doesn’t. Just gives a tight smile, a nod, and pulls the door shut behind him.
And just like that, it’s quiet again.
Me, Leon, and the unspent shower that’ll have to wait one more day.
----
Desmond Coyle
I get home Friday night later than I meant to—closer to nine than eight, and the second I open the door, I can feel the hour in my bones.
The apartment’s mostly dark. Just the soft glow from the little light above the door, casting everything in that kind of low yellow that makes it feel like the world’s holding its breath.
It’s quiet—peaceful in a way that almost makes me nervous.
But then I catch the scent of something warm still clinging to the air.
Another meal. Something she must’ve made, probably hours ago.
There’s a pan on the stove, lid still on, like she knew I’d need something hot when I dragged in.
I toe my boots off by the door and take a few steps in—and that’s when I see her.
Brielle.
Curled up small on my couch like someone who got tired of waiting for the clock to change. Baby monitor resting on the coffee table right in front of her, light blinking soft. She must’ve put Leon down already—crib’s probably warm, baby out cold by now.
But her?
She looks wrecked.
Not in the dramatic, fallen-apart kind of way.
Just... worn to the threads. Burnt around the edges.
Her hair’s a mess—worse than this morning.
I didn’t say anything then, figured it wasn’t my place, but now under this dull light it looks worse.
Oily, clumpy, pulled into a bun that’s mostly just holding on out of sheer will.
A dark, matted knot of black, tangled and unwashed.
Her face is pale. Hollow around the eyes. Those dark circles look like bruises, like life’s been pressing its thumb into her day after day, and she just kept taking it. Like she doesn’t know anything else.
Skin like that shouldn’t have to carry that kind of exhaustion. Not someone who smiles so soft when Leon’s gurgling in her arms. Not someone who keeps the fridge clean, the bottles washed, the baby happy—for barely more than gas money.
The second I step toward her, she jolts upright. Eyes wide, breath caught in her chest like she doesn’t know if she needs to run or swing. Pure fight or flight.
That reaction doesn’t sit right with me.
Doesn’t belong here.
Not in my house. Not with her.
“Oh—hey,” she says, blinking hard, rubbing at her eye like she can erase the fear. Her voice cracks, all dry and sleep-worn. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was just waiting and then you didn’t come by and—”
“Yeah,” I cut in gently, setting my keys on the counter so she hears them, sees I’m here, just me. “Sorry about that. Boss had us stay late. Pushed everyone to finish up a set of welds before the weekend. Should’ve texted. That’s on me.”
She nods, half-glancing away like she’s embarrassed to be caught sleeping. Her shoulders draw up, small. Defensive.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I add. “You stayed late. I’m grateful. I know this wasn’t what you signed up for.”
She shrugs, but her voice is quiet. “It’s fine. I just… didn’t want to leave him alone. And I didn’t know if you’d maybe gotten in an accident or something. I don’t know why I thought that, I just…”
She trails off.
I nod slowly, crossing my arms as I lean against the wall. “I get it. Been there. Head spins when someone doesn’t show.”
She finally meets my eyes. “I didn’t mean to freak out.”
“You didn’t,” I say, but I’m lying a little. Not at her, but at the picture her reaction painted. That wasn’t just a tired flinch. That was someone who’s been yanked awake in worse ways. Too fast, too loud, too many times.
“You eat?” I ask instead, softer now.
She shakes her head. “Wasn’t hungry.”
“You cooked and didn’t eat?”
“I made enough for you. That was the point.”
I let out a breath. Walk over, open the cabinet, and grab two plates. “Well, now it’s for both of us.”
She hesitates, eyes following me like she’s unsure if I mean it.
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the table. “Sit down, Brielle. You’re off the clock.”
Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But something close. And then—for once—she lets herself stay. Doesn’t make an excuse. Doesn’t reach for her shoes. Just stands there, blinking off sleep and looking unsure if she’s allowed to exist in this quiet without earning it.
I head to the stove, lift the lid on the pan she left.
It’s another stir-fry situation—chicken chopped fine, mixed with the leftover rice and some frozen veggies, probably salvaged from the back of my freezer.
Smells better than anything I’ve made in the last year.
She’s got a thing with spices, throws in just enough to make it feel like comfort without burning the roof off your mouth.
I scoop a plate for myself, then one for her, setting it down on the counter without making a big deal out of it. She watches me for a second like she’s not sure if I meant to make her one too, then slowly moves toward the drawer to grab us some forks.