Chapter 8
Brielle Shaw
Monday started out… different.
Soft, almost. The kind of morning that didn’t feel like it belonged to someone like me.
For starters, Desmond and I had breakfast together.
Coffee, toast, quiet conversation over a baby finally asleep against his chest. The sun wasn’t even fully up yet, just a pale streak through the blinds, but the kitchen felt warm in a way I couldn’t explain.
And then he said it.
You’re the only reason this place feels like a home again.
The words landed slow, heavy, like they didn’t know they were allowed to sit in my chest. No one’s ever told me that before. Not my boyfriends, not the men who swore they loved me. Not my mother, who taught me early that love was something you had to earn by shrinking yourself.
But Desmond said it like it was a fact. Like it wasn’t up for debate.
And I didn’t know what to do with that.
I’ve never been the reason for something good. I’ve been the girl who shows up at the wrong time, the one people make excuses for, the mistake in someone else’s clean record. The soft warning before the crash. A temporary fix with a shelf life.
But this morning… for a few minutes… I wasn’t running. I wasn’t trying to disappear or shrink or keep a lid on myself.
I sat across from a man with coffee in my hand and warmth on my face and let the quiet settle around us like it belonged there.
It didn’t last long, not really. He got up around six-thirty to shower. Said he’d be out fast. Left Leon with me again, bottle already made, warm and ready to go.
Now it’s just me and the baby, sunlight creeping in slow, painting long yellow bars on the rug as I hold him in my lap, feed him while he blinks up at me with those big ocean-blue eyes.
He sucks down the formula like a champ, his chubby hands waving now and then, brushing the side of my shirt, making happy little grunts like this—this—is all he needs.
I stroke his cheek with my thumb.
“You’re too good for a world like this, you know that?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, obviously. But he blinks at me like he understands. Like maybe he knows more than he should for six months old. Like he feels it—this weird thing between us, this borrowed piece of peace I don’t know how to hold onto.
Desmond’s still in the shower. I can hear the water running. The faint creak of the pipes. I imagine him in there, rubbing a hand over his face, maybe thinking about the day ahead, maybe not. Maybe thinking about me.
I shouldn’t wonder what he looks like under all that denim and flannel.
But I do.
Just for a second.
Then I feel guilty, because this isn’t my house. This isn’t my life. And it sure as hell isn’t my place to want anything from a man like Desmond Coyle.
He’s too good.
Even when he’s gruff. Even when he’s quiet and tense and tired. He’s… solid. The kind of man who doesn’t break easy. Who still shows up. Who doesn’t flinch at hard things.
And I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to tell me he changed his mind. For him to say that maybe I’ve stayed long enough, that this charity stretch of his is over and he needs his couch back.
But he hasn’t.
Not yet.
Still, I keep waiting.
That’s how it is when you’re used to being discarded.
You brace for the goodbye. You keep one hand on the door, even when it’s shut, just in case.
But… there’s a part of me that wants to believe him.
Wants to believe I’m not just passing through. That when he says I make this place feel like a home, he means it. That he sees me—really sees me—not the baggage, not the bruises, not the trail of bad luck and worse choices—but the person underneath all of that.
The part of me I’ve tried to protect so fiercely, I almost forgot she was still in there.
And then the bathroom door opens.
And I swear—for a second—the whole damn world stops.
Desmond walks out, steam curling around his shoulders, like it’s clinging to him on purpose. He’s wiping a hand over his face, hair dripping, and—
Oh. Oh God.
He didn’t bring clothes into the bathroom.
Which, of course, why would he? It’s his place. His routine. He’s not used to guests, let alone ones who live in the shadows and try to stay small. Which means I’m now staring—full-on, helplessly—at Desmond Coyle in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.
And before I can remember how to look away, I’m already looking.
Really looking.
The broad chest, still damp from the shower, muscle thick across his shoulders and chest, pale skin flushed from heat.
A faint trail of golden hair leading down from his sternum, disappearing into that white towel like a sin waiting to happen.
His arms are massive—forearms veined and strong, biceps curling as he runs a hand through his wet hair.
His neck, his collarbones, the cut of his waist—God help me, everything about him looks like he was carved out of work and fire and hard days that don’t break him.
And the worst part?
He doesn’t even know.
He’s not showing off. Not flexing. Not trying to catch my eye.
He just exists like this—built like a man who could carry the world and still make it home in time for dinner.
My mouth goes dry.
My cheeks flame.
I snap my eyes down like I didn’t just mentally undress a man already mostly undressed.
Too late.
Too damn late.
Because now I can’t unsee it. Can’t unfeel the way my stomach twisted, the way my chest fluttered, the way something low and dangerous and starved coiled inside me like it remembered what it meant to want.
He doesn’t notice me at first. Just walks toward the hallway, water dripping onto the floor with every step. Like this is nothing. Like I’m not standing in the kitchen with a baby on my hip, reeling in silence.
It’s not just that he’s beautiful.
It’s that he’s kind and beautiful. That he held space for me last night when I was too afraid to ask for it. That he looked at me like I was worth something, even when I felt like scraps.
That kind of man? That kind of body? That kind of heart?
It’s a dangerous combination.
And right now, it’s standing ten feet away, wrapped in a towel, with steam on his skin and no idea what he’s doing to me.
So I do the only thing I can do.
I look away.
Pretend the plate needs adjusting. Focus on Leon’s soft breathing. Pretend my heart isn’t trying to crack its way out of my chest.
Because I can’t afford to fall for a man like Desmond Coyle.
Even if—just for a second—I already did.
He walks out about twenty minutes later, fully dressed in his usual get-up for work—flannel layered over his union shirt, worn jeans, work boots laced tight.
He’s toweling off the ends of his hair, still damp from the shower, and for a second he looks…
soft. Like the morning hasn’t had a chance to harden him yet.
He stops in the doorway when he sees me with Leon, and something in his face eases. Just a little. Just enough.
“You can make yourself at home,” he says, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “You’re already used to the kitchen and everything, but… feel free to arrange your stuff, shower, do laundry, whatever you need to do.”
I blink at him.
It’s such a normal sentence. Such a casual, everyday sort of kindness.
Like it’s nothing for him to offer his space like that. Like letting me stay wasn’t a big deal. Like I’m someone who belongs in a place with running water and clean towels and a laundry basket that isn’t the backseat of a car.
My chest pulls tight for a second, sharp and familiar, but not in a painful way. More like a bruise being pressed by accident.
“Are you sure?” I ask, because I can’t help it. “I don’t want to get in your way.”
He snorts softly, shaking his head as he grabs his keys off the counter. “Brielle, you take up less space than a coat rack. You’re not in the way.”
A nervous little laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. Leon startles, then settles again, his cheek warm against my arm.
“I just don’t want to overstep,” I say quietly.
“You’re not.” He says it simple, like it’s the easiest truth he’s ever spoken.
And somehow… that’s what scares me most.
Not the space.
Not the kindness.
Not even the safety.
It’s how easy he says it.
How easy he makes it sound like I belong here.
He steps closer, and my heart spikes like it doesn’t know whether to run or soften. He moves with that quiet certainty he always has—solid, warm, steady—and then he leans in, not toward me but toward the small bundle in my arms.
He presses a soft kiss to the top of Leon’s head.
It shouldn’t make my breath catch.
It shouldn’t make heat spark low in my stomach.
It’s a simple gesture—a dad kissing his kid before work.
But the tenderness of it…
the ease…
the warmth…
It does something to me.
And damn it, I’m jealous of a baby.
Jealous of how easily he gets that affection. How natural it is for Desmond to give it. How close his mouth comes to my shoulder for a split second, close enough that I feel the ghost of his breath on my skin.
I hope he doesn’t notice the way I tense, or how my fingers curl just a little tighter around the bottle.
It’s stupid.
It’s dangerous.
It’s the exact kind of feeling I have no business letting myself want.
But I can’t shake it.
How badly I wish someone ever touched me with that kind of gentleness.
How badly I wish I didn’t want it now.
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Desmond Coyle
When I’m driving back home after work, I’ve got this weird butterfly feeling in my gut. And I’m not a butterfly guy. Never have been. I’m more of a “deep breath, long shift, keep your head down” type.
But today? Feels different.
I keep telling myself it’s just the situation. Just me helping Brielle out because she’s been dealt a shit hand and needs a place to breathe. She’s got a rough past, a bruised look in her eyes, and I’m not the kind of man who leaves someone like that in a parking lot.
Simple. Straightforward. Decent.
But for some damn reason…
It doesn’t feel simple at all.
It feels like I’m driving back to someone.
Not a girlfriend. Not anything official. Just… someone who makes walking through my own front door feel less like returning to a half-empty life.