Chapter 7
Desmond Coyle?
In the end, Brielle got the damn couch.
She looked weirdly proud about it, too. Said “fair is fair” like she’d just won a war instead of a beat-up piece of furniture with one armrest that squeaks if you lean too hard on it.
I tried to argue—hell, I wanted to argue—but she gave me that look.
Calm. Steady. Stubborn as hell under all that softness.
So now I’m in my bed.
Alone. Flat on my back. Eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might explain what the hell I’m supposed to do with myself.
It’s close to midnight and I haven’t slept a damn wink. And it’s not the usual stuff keeping me up. Not Leon. Not work. Not money.
It’s her.
Brielle. Out there. In my living room. Curled up on my couch like it’s a prize instead of a fallback plan. Just a door and a few steps away. And my brain won’t shut up about it.
I keep thinking—how she looked standing in Leon’s room, tucking him in like she’s been doing it her whole life.
How she talked like she didn’t deserve a bed, like comfort was some kind of debt she hadn’t earned yet.
The way her hands twisted together when she said she wasn’t used to people being kind.
And now she’s just out there. Close enough to reach, but out of reach all the same.
My imagination’s not doing me any favors. Not even a little.
I already jerked off to the thought of her.
Already pictured her bent over my kitchen counter, already wondered how soft her skin is, how heavy those tits feel in my hands.
I’ve spent a week trying not to look too long when she stretches, trying to keep my eyes off the curve of her ass when she crouches down to pick up a toy.
And now she’s here. On my couch. Just a few feet away.
Sleeping under my roof because she doesn’t have one of her own.
Because life chewed her up and spit her out, and she’s been living in a fucking car.
And I’m lying here, rock hard, thinking about what she’d sound like with my head between her thighs.
Yeah. Real noble of me.
I drag a hand down my face, like that’ll scrub the thought out of me. It doesn’t. Just makes me more aware of how wound up I am. How long it’s been. How fucking easy it is to want her.
But it’s not just about getting off. Not anymore.
I want to hear her—really hear her. I want to know what kind of noises she makes when she lets go.
If she tries to hide it behind bitten lips or if she moans open and desperate, hips rolling like she can’t help it.
I want to feel her thighs around my head, shaking.
Want to press her down into my mattress and fuck the sadness right out of her.
And that thought?
That one punches low.
Because it’s not just lust.
It’s something else now. Something that makes my hands curl into fists at the idea of any man hurting her. Something that makes me want to wrap her up in warmth and keep her. Not just fuck her. Keep her fed, keep her safe, keep her right here where no one can touch her again.
But I can’t touch her either.
Not like this. Not when she’s sleeping in my living room because she’s got nowhere else to go. Not when her eyes still flinch at kindness, like it’s a trick.
So I roll over again, dick throbbing, jaw tight, swallowing the want like it’s poison.
She’s in my house.
She trusts me.
And here I am, hard as a rock, sweating through my damn sheets, thinking about a girl I can’t touch.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
But fuck if that stops me from wanting to.
Monday comes, and it’s early—
Still black outside, street quiet, sky heavy with that cold Ironvale stillness you only get before dawn. Somewhere around five a.m., I hear it—Leon’s cry, sharp and needy, punching through the thin walls like an alarm clock made of heartbreak.
I groan, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, rub the sleep from my face. I’m halfway to the door before I even realize I’m moving, muscles on autopilot, body wired to respond to that sound no matter how bone-deep the fatigue is.
But when I get to his room?
She’s already there.
And the sight stops me cold in the doorway.
Brielle—back to me, standing in that quiet half-light with her body curved soft around my son.
She’s in a pair of loose shorts and one of her t-shirts, thin from too many washes, collar slipping off one shoulder.
Her dark hair’s a mess—tousled from sleep, a little matted at the ends, falling in waves down the middle of her back.
“Shhhhh… it’s okay, baby,” she murmurs, voice low and warm, the kind of sound you don’t expect to come out of someone who’s had such a hard run. She bounces him gently, swaying side to side, like she’s done it a hundred times.
Leon settles fast, his cry softening to little hiccups, his tiny hand curled in her shirt. He knows her voice. Knows that touch. Feels safe in it.
I lean against the doorframe without meaning to. Something in my chest pulls tight, then loosens, then tightens again. Watching her soothe him—watching how easily he melts into her—it hits me in a way I’m not prepared for at five in the damn morning.
She doesn’t see me yet.
She’s humming. Quiet. Barely there. Some soft melody without words, just breath and sound and warmth. Her cheek brushes the top of his head. One of her hands rubs slow circles on his back. She’s barefoot, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, making a small rhythm out of her own exhaustion.
She looks… right like this.
Too right.
Like she belongs here.
Like she’s been here much longer than a week.
And I know that shouldn’t fuck me up as much as it does, but it does.
It really does.
She finally turns, sensing movement, and her eyes meet mine in the dim light. She freezes for a second—just a second—but her shoulders relax when she sees it’s me. Leon stays tucked under her chin, breathing slow, sleep stealing him back.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “I heard him before you did.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” I murmur, stepping into the room. “I’m grateful.”
She looks down at the baby, brushing his hair off his forehead. “He just needed someone. That’s all.”
Her voice cracks on the last word. Not enough to notice if you weren’t listening for tremors, but I am.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She nods, but her eyes flicker. “Yeah. Just tired.”
I move closer, slow, careful—like she’s a wild thing that might bolt if I’m too sudden. Not because she’s fragile. Never that. But because she’s lived too many nights where the wrong tone meant danger.
“Here,” I say, holding out my arms. “Let me take him.”
She hesitates—not because she doesn’t trust me, but because he’s heavy in her arms and I can tell she doesn’t want to let him go. Then she finally shifts him toward me, gentle as ever. His warm little body slumps into my chest, one fist clutching at my shirt.
As soon as she hands him over, something shifts in the air between us. Close. Quiet. Warm. Unsteady.
Her fingers brush mine on the transfer, just barely, but it sends a jolt up my spine so sharp I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting.
She pulls her hand back fast like the touch surprised her too.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she whispers.
“You didn’t,” I say. Lie. My pulse has been awake since she stepped in this room.
She wraps her arms around herself now, like she’s cold even though the heat’s on. Her gaze drops to the crib, then the floor.
“I couldn’t stay asleep when I heard him,” she says, voice soft, almost shy. “I just… reacted.”
“That’s what parents do,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her eyes flick up. Wary. A little startled. A little… hopeful?
I clear my throat, look away. “I mean—caretakers. People who… people who give a damn.”
She nods, swallowing. “Yeah.”
Her voice is too small for someone who carries so much weight.
There’s a beat, the kind of quiet that feels fragile but not uncomfortable.
“You want some coffee?” she asks finally, like she’s offering a lifeline instead of caffeine.
I nod. “Sure. You having some?”
“Yeah. I can’t go back to sleep now,” she says, rubbing her arm absently.
“I know that feeling,” I mutter, and we drift out toward the kitchen, me rocking Leon slow against my chest.
The lights are low. The apartment’s still half-asleep. She moves around the counter like she’s been doing it for years—quiet, careful, not wanting to wake the world. Her sweater hangs loose off her shoulder, hair still messy from sleep. Somehow she looks softer like this, easier to read.
She fills the kettle. Clicks it on.
“You’re good in the kitchen,” I say, more like a fact than a compliment.
She glances over her shoulder, gives this tiny half-smile. “I don’t think so. I only know basic stuff.”
“No—” I shake my head. “You cook good. Your meals have been saving my ass when I get home.”
“Really?” she asks, like she honestly can’t believe it.
“Yeah,” I say. “Really. I get home dead on my feet, and then I open the lid on whatever you made and suddenly I’m not starving and miserable anymore. That’s… that’s something.”
She ducks her head a little, fussing with the mugs like they need arranging. “I just throw things together. It’s not special.”
“To me it is,” I say before I can stop myself.
She stills for a second. Just a second.
Then she reaches for the sugar jar. “You take one spoon, right?”
“Two,” I correct, shifting Leon higher on my shoulder. “Bad habit.”
“That’s okay,” she murmurs. “I have worse ones.”
Her voice dips small and guilty, like she’s confessing a crime instead of making coffee. It hits me low in the ribs, aggravating and tender at the same time.
“Look—” I start, voice rougher than I mean it to be, “I’m not gonna ask what happened that made you end up in a car. That’s your story. You tell it if you want, or you don’t.”
She freezes a little, spoon hovering over the mug. Breath caught. Shoulders tight.
“But…” I continue, shifting Leon again because I need something to do with my hands, “from what I can see? You’re not the issue.”
She lets the sugar fall into the cup, eyes fixed on the swirl like she’s reading something in it. “How can you be so sure?”