Chapter 8 #2
Someone who hums soft while she makes coffee and smiles like she’s surprised she still remembers how. Someone who holds my kid like she was meant to. Someone who’s gentle in a way that shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.
Kind. Pretty. And stuck in my head more than she should be.
And yeah, sure—
I keep having fantasies about her.
Ones that hit me in the middle of the night and in the shower and at the damn welding station when I should be thinking about anything else but the way she’d sound if I touched her right.
And that messes with me more than I want to admit.
I hit the walkway, keys jingling against my thigh, grocery bag swinging from my forearm. I’m already rehearsing something normal to say when I get inside, something that doesn’t make it sound like I spent all day thinking about her.
But when I unlock the door and push it open—
I stop dead.
Brielle’s sitting inside the playpen.
Not next to it.
Not leaning over it.
Inside it. Cross-legged. Cozy. Like it’s her own damn nest.
Leon is beside her, proud as can be, waving a sock in the air like it’s a trophy.
She’s got a pile of laundry in front of her and she’s folding each piece like it matters.
Her hair’s damp and brushed out, falling down her back instead of tied up in that tired bun she always wears.
She’s in shorts and a tank top—simple, soft, normal clothes—but they hit me like a punch anyway.
She looks… settled.
Comfortable.
Like she belongs in that little square of padded walls and baby toys.
“Thanks for helping, bud,” she coos, all sweet and soft.
Leon babbles back, waving the sock dangerously close to his own face like he’s giving her a performance review.
She laughs—god, that sound—and takes the sock from him. “Wow, such hard work. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
My mouth twitches. I don’t know if it’s a smile or disbelief.
I clear my throat, heavier than I need to. “That pen wasn’t meant for adults, you know.”
She looks up quick, like she got caught doing something she shouldn’t. Her cheeks flush the faintest pink.
“Oh—hey,” she says. “Welcome home.”
The words hit harder than they should.
“Yeah,” I grunt, stepping inside and setting the bag on the counter. “Home.”
Leon squeals when he sees me and lifts both arms, sock forgotten.
Brielle smirks. “Guess he missed you.”
I raise a brow. “He miss me, or is he trying to escape his new supervisor?”
She gasps in this fake-offended way that makes my chest warm. “Excuse you, we were being productive.”
“You’re literally trapped in a baby jail,” I say, crossing my arms. “Doesn’t look productive from where I’m standing.”
She laughs under her breath, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “He kept throwing the folded clothes out of the pen. This was the only way to keep them clean.”
I give her a long look. “So your solution was to imprison yourself.”
She shrugs. “Worked, didn’t it?”
I shake my head, fighting a smile I shouldn’t want to give her. “You’re something else.”
Her eyes flick away at that, shy again.
Then Leon starts bouncing like he’s got springs for legs, reaching for me and whining like I’ve been gone a year.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter, heading over. “C’mere, kid.”
Brielle shifts to her knees to help lift him toward me, and for one stupid second, her hand brushes my wrist.
My whole body goes tight, like someone plugged me into an outlet.
She must feel it too—she pulls back fast, eyes dropping.
I clear my throat and lift Leon out of the pen, settling him against my shoulder. He pats my cheek like he’s rewarding me for showing up.
“You get a good day?” I ask her, keeping it casual.
She nods, smoothing the laundry pile. “Yeah. I, uh… showered. Did some cleaning. Wasn’t sure what you wanted for dinner so I didn’t start anything yet.”
“I picked up stuff,” I say, tipping my chin toward the grocery bag. “Figured I’d cook tonight.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You cook?”
I snort. “I can feed myself without dying, yeah.”
She smiles, soft and small, but real. “I’d like to see that.”
And I feel it again—
That pull.
That stupid, dangerous pull toward someone who feels too good to be real. Someone sitting in a playpen folding laundry like she’s been part of this home longer than a week.
Someone I’m starting to want in ways I shouldn’t.
----
Brielle Shaw
I guess when Desmond said he could cook, he meant he knows how to boil water. Maybe. The man isn’t a full disaster, but it’s close. Real close. Every time I blink, something new goes missing—a spoon, a measuring cup, his own focus.
Leon’s on my hip, watching the whole thing like it’s a live comedy show. Honestly, I can’t blame him.
Desmond is standing over the counter squinting at a cutting board like it personally offended him. He pats around for the kitchen knife, checks the sink, checks behind the salt shaker, lifts a dish towel like the knife might have crawled underneath to hide.
It takes everything in me not to laugh.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?” I ask gently, bouncing Leon as he gums the sleeve of my shirt.
Desmond huffs, straightening up. “I’m fine. I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” I tease lightly.
“Yes,” he insists. Then pauses. “Mostly.”
I glance at the counter. “Where’s the knife?”
He freezes. Looks at the empty spot where it should be. “I… just had it.”
“Mm-hm.”
He mutters something under his breath that sounds like he’s offended for himself, and checks the fridge like maybe he accidentally refrigerated the knife. Leon squeals like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen all day.
I soften at the sight—big, tough union guy losing an argument with his own kitchen while trying to impress absolutely no one and somehow still managing to impress me.
“I can chop stuff,” I offer again, quieter this time. “You can do the rest. Teamwork.”
He looks over at me then. Really looks. Like he’s weighing whether accepting help is a failure or just… sharing the kitchen with someone.
He sighs, defeated. “Okay. Maybe a little help.”
I smile. “Thought so.”