Chapter 12 #2
I cut him off with a kiss.
Because the look on his face? Like he’s bracing for rejection.
For disappointment. For history to repeat itself.
It destroys me a little. This big, confident man who kissed me like he couldn’t get enough, who touched me like I was something precious—he’s lying here now, second-guessing every move he made, every sound I made.
He looks insecure. And that makes no sense. Not after what we just shared.
I reach up, cradle his cheek with my palm, thumb brushing along the scratch of stubble there.
“Desmond,” I say, soft but firm. He blinks down at me, eyes searching mine like he doesn’t quite believe what I’m about to say.
“You did perfect, baby.”
He stares for a second. Then a slow, real smile tugs at his mouth—just enough to make the breath catch in my throat. Like he’s been holding it back, afraid to let himself hope. Afraid it might not be true.
“You sure?” he asks, the smile faltering like he’s still not fully convinced.
I nod. “I’m sure.”
Then, a little quieter—but honest, a little breathless: “You’re the best I’ve ever had.”
He lets out a short breath, like I just knocked the wind out of him—in the best possible way. And for a second, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me, like he’s trying to memorize the moment. Like no one’s ever said that to him before and meant it.
Then he leans in, slow and deliberate, and kisses me.
It’s not like the others—not heated or hungry. It’s soft. Careful. Grateful. Like he’s thanking me without words.
When we break apart, he presses his forehead to mine and whispers, “You don’t know what that means to me.”
But I think I do.
Because I know what he means to me.
And somehow, even after everything… this feels like the start of something real.
Something worth staying for.
----
Desmond Coyle
Not long after, Leon started fussing in his crib, cracking apart the calm afterglow hanging between us. Brielle slips out from under my arm—careful, warm, still a little shaky—grabs my flannel off the chair and shrugs into it like she’s been wearing my clothes her whole life.
She walks down the hall barefoot, bare legs showing under the hem, cheeks still flushed, hair a wild mess from my hands being in it. And Christ—she looks pretty. Not fancy, not done up. Just pretty in that real, raw, “this woman just came apart in my hands” way.
By the time she comes back with Leon on her hip, my brain’s barely restarted.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she asks.
Hell yes, I’m hungry.
Starving.
Our diaper run turned into hauling ass back home, then her kissing me like she meant it, then me losing every ounce of self-control I’ve ever claimed to have. Lunch? Never stood a chance.
But I don’t say all that. I just drag a hand over my face and huff out a laugh.
“Yeah. Think I burned through breakfast and lunch combined,” I mutter, scratching at my jaw. “Didn’t exactly pace myself.”
Her face goes pink—slow, creeping up her cheeks like the memory hits her at the same time it hits me.
Good. I like seeing it on her. I like knowing I put it there.
I stand up, stretch, feel a couple joints pop. “You want me to heat something up?”
She shifts Leon higher on her hip. “I can do it—”
“Nope.”
I cut her off, stepping closer, brushing my fingers down the back of her flannel—my flannel. “Your legs are still shaking. Sit down before you fall and I gotta explain to the ER why you can’t stand.”
Her mouth drops open. “Desmond,” she whispers, half scandalized, half trying not to smile.
“What?” I shrug. “Just being honest.”
She presses her lips together, trying to hide the way they curve. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah?” I cock my head. “Walk in a straight line for me then.”
She glares—adorable, annoyed, and absolutely giving herself away. “I don’t need to prove anything.”
“Mhm,” I say, leaning one arm on the back of the couch, eyes dragging over her. “That’s what people say right before they face-plant.”
She rolls her eyes hard, but she does wobble when she takes a step toward the kitchen.
I smirk. “Uh-huh. Thought so.”
She flips me off behind Leon’s back. He giggles like he knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Careful,” I say, raising a brow. “Kid’s learning hand gestures early at this rate.”
“He didn’t see,” she mutters.
“I did.”
She huffs, cheeks pinking again. “Just… sit down. I’ll heat leftovers—”
“Brielle.”
My voice drops—not harsh, just steady. Final.
“You just got… thoroughly tangled up with me. Sit. I’ll handle food.”
She hesitates, and something about that hesitation hits me in the ribs. Like she’s waiting for the catch. For the “you owe me” that always showed up with other guys.
There isn’t one here.
I hook my arm around Leon, take his weight off her like it’s nothing. “Go,” I say softer. “Couch. Let me take care of you for once.”
Her eyes flick up to mine—uncertain, warm, a little shy in a way that shouldn’t hit me as hard as it does.
“…Okay,” she breathes.
She settles onto the couch, pulling my flannel tight around herself, legs tucked under her. She looks small there. Comfortable. Like she belongs in that exact spot and my apartment was waiting for her this whole damn time.
And as I head to the kitchen with Leon babbling on my hip, I catch myself thinking—
Yeah. I could get used to this.
Too used to it.
I shake the thought off, opening the fridge.
“Alright, little man,” I mutter to Leon. “Let’s get your—”
I stop myself.
Correct.
Try to.
“Let’s get Brielle fed before she accidentally tips over.”
But the word I almost said?
It sticks in my throat.
Mama.
And the thing is…
It didn’t feel wrong.