Chapter 10
Desmond Coyle?
It’s the first weekend after Brielle started living with me, and I wake up not really sure what the hell to do with myself.
No job to rush off to. No laundry piles. No crusty dishes in the sink waiting for me to bully them clean.
She handled damn near everything all week. So now I’m standing in my bedroom like an idiot, trying to remember what normal guys do on Saturdays.
When I walk out, she’s already at the counter, making coffee like she owns the quiet. Hair tied up, sleeves pushed to her elbows, moving slow and soft so she doesn’t wake the kid.
She always wakes up earlier than me. Always.
“Morning,” I say, rubbing my face.
She glances over her shoulder, small smile tugging at her lips. “Morning. Want some coffee?”
I nod. “Yeah. Is Leon alright?”
“Oh yeah,” she says, turning back to the mugs. “Still sleeping. I checked on him not long ago.”
She pours my cup first, like she always does now, sliding it over without looking.
I mutter a soft, “Thanks,” fingers brushing the warm ceramic.
She shrugs like it’s nothing. “You’re welcome.”
There’s a beat— quiet, comfortable, the kind that sneaks up on you.
“So,” she says, wiping a speck of coffee off the counter, “big plans today?”
I huff. “No clue. Haven’t had a day off with the house in one piece in… hell, maybe ever.”
She snorts. “I didn’t do that much.”
“You did,” I say, giving her a look. “This place hasn’t been this clean since I moved in.”
She ducks her head a little, clearly not used to compliments. “Well… then I’m glad it helps.”
I take a sip, watching her over the rim of the mug.
Her hair’s messy.
Her sweater looks too big.
She’s barefoot, humming something low as she rinses a spoon, like she slipped into my morning without asking and somehow made it better.
“You could do a diaper run,” she says, casual. “We’re running low.”
I nod. “Got it. We could go when Leon wakes.”
She pauses mid-rinse. “We?”
I raise a brow. “Yeah. We. Why?”
“I—” she turns off the faucet, drying her hands on her sweater hem, “I just didn’t wanna intrude on your personal time.”
I huff out a small laugh. “Brielle, you live here now. Pretty sure we passed the intruding phase.”
She shakes her head a little, embarrassed. “Still… I don’t wanna be glued to your hip on your day off.”
“You’re not glued to anything,” I say. “But if I’m running errands, makes sense you come. You know what brand he doesn’t break out from. I don’t.”
She bites her lip. “That’s the only reason?”
I meet her eyes, hold them. “No,” I admit. “It’s not.”
She blinks, swallowed breath catching in her chest. “Oh.”
I nudge the mug toward her. “What, you don’t wanna come?”
“It’s not that,” she murmurs. “I just… didn’t think you’d want me tagging along.”
“Brielle,” I say, voice coming out rougher than I mean, “if I didn’t want you around, you’d know.”
She looks down at her feet, pink creeping into her cheeks. “Okay. Then… yeah. I’ll go.”
“Good,” I say, grabbing my coffee again. “Diaper run’s boring as hell alone.”
She lets out a tiny laugh—quiet, careful, warm.
And for some stupid reason, it hits me like a goddamn punch right under the ribs.
After a quick diaper change, a bottle, and whatever toy Leon decided was his entire personality for the morning, we head out. I strap him into the back seat, snug and babbling. Brielle starts to climb in beside him, hand on the door handle, when I stop her.
“Ride with me in the front.”
She freezes, halfway leaned into the car. “Oh. I just figured—”
“What?” I ask, resting an arm on the roof. “You’d sit back there like the help?”
Her eyes flick up, startled. “No, that’s not— I wasn’t thinking that.”
“Then get in the front,” I say, a little softer this time. “Feels weird talking to you through the rearview mirror.”
She hesitates, chewing her lip. “I don’t want to take your space.”
“It’s a Ford truck, Brielle,” I mutter. “There’s tons of space to take.”
A puff of a laugh slips out of her before she can stop it. Good. That sound does something to me I’m not ready to admit.
She circles around to the passenger side, moving careful—like sitting up front is something she has to earn. When she finally settles, her hands fold tight in her lap, nerves tucked in neat like laundry she doesn’t want anyone to see.
We drive to the store quiet but not awkward, Leon babbling in the back like he’s narrating a story only he understands.
Inside, he reaches for Brielle the second I unbuckle him. No hesitation. No question. Just two little fists straining toward her like gravity’s got an opinion.
She laughs, soft and warm, and scoops him up without missing a beat. “Okay, okay, come here, buddy—I’ve got you.”
She snuggles him against her chest.
Her stupid soft chest.
And I pretend I’m not noticing how he fits there better than in any baby carrier I’ve ever bought.
I grab a cart. She drifts beside me, rocking Leon as we walk the aisles. I reach for baby formula. She reaches for diapers. She pauses at a pack of wipes, eyes scanning prices—because of course she’s still thinking about cost even when it’s not her money.
“Get the good ones,” I mutter.
She glances at me. “These are fine.”
“Brielle. The good ones.”
She rolls her eyes but puts them in the cart.
We turn the corner into the snack aisle—my aisle—and that’s when it happens.
An old lady shuffles past us, cardigan buttoned wrong, purse clutched tight. She spots Leon and her whole face lights up like Christmas.
“Ohhh aren’t you a sweetie pie?” she coos, leaning forward. Leon giggles, grabbing at the air like she’s a celebrity.
And then—
the lady beams up at Brielle.
“You got your mama’s eyes and your daddy’s hair, huh? Aren’t you a handsome boy?”
I freeze.
So does Brielle.
The woman keeps walking like she didn’t just drop a pipe bomb in aisle seven.
And it hits me slow but hard. That image she saw?
It probably looked right.
Leon’s baby-blue eyes.
Brielle’s softer blue ones.
Both bright enough to fool a stranger.
Brielle clears her throat, looking at everything except me. “She didn’t know,” she murmurs.
“I know,” I say. My voice feels rough in my throat.
She adjusts Leon on her hip. He coos and pats her cheek.
“She… uh…” She forces a tiny laugh. “She thinks we’re… y’know.”
“A family,” I say, finishing it because she can’t.
Her cheeks go pink, eyes snapping to the floor. “Yeah. That.”
I stare at them—
her holding him,
him clinging to her like she invented comfort—
and something twists in my gut.
Not bad.
Not wrong.
Just… deep.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods too fast. “Yeah. Just—caught me off guard.”
“Same,” I admit.
She looks up quickly like she didn’t expect that.
“Does it… bother you?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I shake my head once. Firm. “No.”
Her breath catches, subtle but real.
“Oh,” she says, soft.
And for a second, I swear neither of us blinks.
Something shifts.
Quiet.
Heavy.
Like the air drops a few degrees and heats up at the same time.
Before my brain can talk me out of it, I step closer.
Too close.
Close enough that her breath brushes my throat and Leon is too busy trying to rip the eye off his stuffed animal to notice his dad is about to do something stupid.
Or brave.
Depends who you ask.
“Does it bother you?” I ask, low, rough.
My hand lifts before I can stop it, brushing a dark lock of hair behind her ear.
She stiffens—not pulling away, just… startled. Like no one’s done that for her in a long damn time.
Her eyes flutter shut for half a second.
When they open, they’re wide. Unsteady.
“I— I just…” she breathes, voice thin as thread.
“Brielle,” I murmur, leaning in just an inch—not touching, not crowding—just giving her the truth of my presence. “You got three seconds to tell me I should back off.”
Her lips part.
No sound.
“One…” I say quietly.
Her pulse jumps in her throat.
“Two…”
She swallows hard, fingers tightening around Leon like he’s the only thing keeping her anchored.
“Desmond…” she whispers. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s not ‘back off,’” I warn, voice low enough it barely exists.
Her eyes dart to my mouth, quick, involuntary.
And that’s all it takes for my self-control to wobble like a loose weld.
“Three,” I say, barely breathing the word.
Silence.
Then:
“I don’t want you to back off,” she whispers, so soft I almost think I imagined it.
My jaw ticks. Hard.
“Say it again,” I rasp.
She wets her lips, cheeks burning. “I… don’t want you to back off.”
And just like that, aisle seven feels too small to hold whatever the hell just cracked open between us.
That’s all I need.
I press my mouth to hers. Firm, but not hard. Gentle, but not uncertain.
And holy fuck.
She tastes like coffee and nerves and something sweet underneath all of it. Her lips are soft, slower than I expected—like she’s not used to this, like no one’s taken their time before. So I do. I kiss her like she’s not going anywhere. Like we’ve got all damn day.
She kisses me back—tentative at first, then deeper, surer. One of her hands finds my chest, fingers curling against my shirt skin like she’s anchoring herself, and I can feel the tremble in her touch. My arm pulls her in, and in the process I squish her and Leon.
Leon’s giggle pops the moment like a damn bubble.
Brielle pulls back first, breath shaky against my cheek, lips kiss-swollen and pink. I stay close—close enough to feel her exhale—but I glance down at the little dude mashed between us.
He’s beaming.
Actual beaming.
Like he knows exactly what just happened and approves.
“Alright, alright,” I mutter, shifting him so he isn’t a pancake between two adults making terrible decisions in public. “Didn’t mean to flatten the kid.”
Brielle laughs—soft, breathless, a little shy. The sound goes straight through me like a warm punch.
“I guess someone doesn’t like being squished,” she teases, brushing Leon’s curls.
“Yeah? Well someone also ruined my moment,” I murmur, smirking at her over the baby’s head.
Her blush deepens instantly. She ducks her face toward Leon like she can hide behind a baby.
“That wasn’t— I mean— it was barely a moment,” she whispers.