Chapter 13
Desmond Coyle?
Sunday came like some kind of dream—one of the good ones, the rare ones—the kind you wake up inside of and don’t wanna move in case it disappears.
Brielle slept in my bed last night.
Not on my damn couch.
My bed.
Right up against me, soft and warm and curled under my arm like she’d always been meant to fit there.
I woke up slow, the kind of slow you only get when life isn’t clawing at your throat for once. Sun creeping through the blinds. Heating vent humming soft. And her—fuck—her breathing steady beside me.
She had one hand splayed over my chest, fingers curled in the hair there, like she fell asleep holding on.
Her legs tangled with mine, her knee nudged against my thigh.
And her hair—her dark, inky, impossible hair—spread all over my pillow and half of my face like I should feel lucky it smothered me.
And I do.
I breathe her in, and she smells like me.
And comfort.
And something sweet underneath it all that I can’t name because I’ve never had it before.
Her cheek’s pressed to my shoulder, mouth parted just a little, eyelashes brushing my skin every time she shifts in her sleep. There’s this tiny furrow between her brows, like even resting she’s still waiting for the world to take something from her.
But I’m right here.
And she’s not going anywhere.
Not today.
I drag a hand down her back, slow, careful, because she’s still out cold and I don’t wanna wake her yet. She makes this soft sound—barely there—but it hits me in the chest like a damn hammer.
How the hell did this happen?
How did Sunday turn into this— her wrapped around me like I’m something safe, like she trusts me with her whole damn body, like I’m the first place she’s slept without flinching in years?
I don’t know.
But I’m not complaining.
She stirs a little, that slow, sleepy wiggle people do when they’re just barely clawing their way out of a dream. Her lashes flutter, blue eyes blinking open like she’s surprised to still be here—still in my bed, on my chest, wrapped around me like I’m something worth waking up to.
“Morning, beautiful,” I say before I even think about it.
And damn if she doesn’t smile. Small. Warm. The kind of smile that kicks me right in the ribs.
“Morning,” she mumbles, voice still thick with sleep. She shifts closer—closer, like she didn’t already take up half my oxygen—her hand sliding up to brush my hair out of my face.
My hair’s probably a disaster. I’m not a morning-pretty kind of guy. I wake up looking like I lost a wrestling match with my pillow and maybe a raccoon.
But she touches me like it doesn’t matter. Like she likes seeing me undone a little.
“You slept good?” she asks, all soft and earnest, fingertips grazing my temple like she’s checking for fever.
I huff a laugh—low, rough, still waking up. “Yeah. Best I have in… hell, I don’t even know how long.”
Her brows lift like that surprises her.
I tilt my head deeper into the pillow and let my hand slide up her back underneath the flannel, fingers tracing lazy circles along her spine. Her skin’s warm from sleep, soft in that way that makes a man want to stay in bed for the rest of the damn day.
“You sleep good?” I ask, though I already know—she didn’t flinch. Didn’t jerk awake. Didn’t tremble in her dreams like I’ve seen her do on the couch.
She nods, cheek brushing my shoulder. “Yeah. Really good.”
“Yeah?” I murmur, catching her chin with two fingers so she looks at me. “That mean you’re finally getting used to being in here with me?”
She blushes a little—just barely—and it does something to me I don’t have a name for.
“I think so,” she whispers.
I grin, rough and crooked. “Good. About time.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too. Then she tucks herself right back into me like she belongs there, like the day doesn’t matter yet. Like she’s not in any hurry to leave my arms.
But Leon has other plans—loud ones. The kind that start as a whimper and turn into a full-throated where-the-hell-is-everyone wail echoing down the hallway.
Brielle untangles from me like it’s the most natural thing in the world—no hesitation, no awkward scramble.
Just slips out of bed with that sleepy little grace she has.
She’s still in her tank and soft shorts, hair a mess, legs bare, and she pads down the hall on quiet feet like she was made for morning baby duty.
I throw on some sweats and follow right behind her, leaning on the nursery doorframe as she scoops Leon up.
“Hi, bud— good morning,” she croons, voice going warm and syrupy in a way I can’t compete with. “I know— I know— I’m gonna change you, okay?”
Leon sniffles, eyes puffy from crying, but the second she’s holding him he settles right into her shoulder, tiny fists bunching in her tank top.
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath. “Didn’t calm that fast for me.”
She looks back over her shoulder at me with a small smirk. “That’s because he knows I’m the one who actually knows what I’m doing.”
“Oh, is that right?” I push off the doorframe, crossing my arms. “Pretty sure I’ve been keepin’ him alive this whole time.”
She lays Leon on the changing table, undoing his sleepy little onesie. “Under protest,” she teases.
“Under protest?” I snort. “Lady, if you saw the way this kid treats me when I’m tryna change him in the middle of the night—”
She giggles—giggles—and Leon kicks his legs like he wants to join in on the joke.
“You’re dramatic,” she says.
“I’m factual,” I counter. “He aims for my face on purpose.”
“He does not.”
“He does,” I insist. “He’s got sniper instincts. It’s genetic.”
She bites her lip to hold back another laugh while she works a clean diaper under him. “From who?”
I blink. “Uh— me, obviously.”
She raises her brows like that’s the funniest thing she’s heard all week.
“Desmond,” she says, fastening the diaper, “you tripped over your own boot yesterday.”
“That boot moved,” I say stubbornly.
She laughs outright this time—bright and soft—and my damn heart does something I’m too old and too tired to be dealing with at eight in the morning.
She scoops Leon up, bouncing him lightly on her hip. “All done. Right, bud? All fresh.”
He squeals and grabs a fistful of her hair. She winces but doesn’t complain, just leans her head a little so he doesn’t yank too hard.
I step closer, brushing my fingers through the tangled part he’s got hold of. “Easy, little man. That’s not a handlebar.”
He lets go and immediately reaches for my beard like that’s a better idea.
“Ow— okay,” I grunt, leaning back. “Nope. No beards. Those are attached.”
Brielle snorts. “He just wants to match textures.”
“What does that even mean?” I ask, incredulous.
She shrugs. “He’s a baby. Babies like grabbing things.”
“Yeah, well he can grab anything but my damn face.”
She smiles at me—small, warm, the kind she doesn’t know she’s giving. “You’re good with him, you know.”
“Yeah?” I say, rubbing Leon’s back as he toddles his tiny hands toward my shoulder.
She nods, shifting so she can hand him to me. “Yeah. Really good.”
I take Leon from her, and his head drops right onto my chest like I’m his personal mattress. My palm settles over his back, big enough to cover damn near all of him. He does this soft little grunt—half yawn, half complaint—and it hits me right in the ribs.
“Come on—” she murmurs.
Before I can answer, she leans in and presses a quick peck to my lips. Soft. Easy. Like kissing me is already normal. Then she kisses the top of Leon’s wispy hair too, her mouth brushing the little curls right where his cowlick sticks up.
“Let’s feed you two,” she says, stepping back with this sweet little smirk. “Bottle for the little guy, and some bacon for the big guy.”
I huff out a laugh. “I like how you say that like I’m not gonna eat half the pan.”
“Half?” She raises her brows, walking toward the kitchen. “Bold of you to pretend it’s not usually three-fourths.”
“Hey—” I grumble, following her, adjusting Leon against my chest. “I’m a grown man. I need protein.”
“You need manners,” she fires back over her shoulder.
“Don’t start,” I warn, but there’s no heat in it. “Last time you said that, you tried to teach me how to fold laundry ‘properly.’”
“Because you were just… balling it up,” she says, grabbing a bottle from the drying rack.
“It all ends up wrinkled anyway,” I mutter.
She shoots me a look. “That is not the point.”
I grin, leaning against the counter with Leon still tucked on my chest. “Then what’s the point, smart girl?”
She flushes—just a little—caught off guard by the pet name.
“The point,” she says, trying to recover, “is that things last longer when you take care of them.”
Her eyes flick to mine for a beat too long, like maybe she didn’t mean only laundry.
Like maybe she meant people.
Or… us.
I swallow that thought before it gets too big.
She turns to warm the bottle, and I can’t help myself—I reach out with my free hand and give her hip a small, gentle nudge.
“Brielle.”
She glances back, eyebrow up. “Yeah?”
“Thanks,” I say.
“For what?”
“For this.” I nod toward her, the kitchen, Leon’s little fingers scrunching my shirt. “For… all of it.”
She stares at me—soft, startled—and her voice comes quiet.
“You don’t have to thank me for being here.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, shifting Leon a little so he’s not drooling down my chest. “I kinda do.”
She looks away again—but she’s smiling. The kind of smile she tries to hide, but can’t quite pull off.
She grabs the warmed bottle and brushes past me, fingers grazing my side. “Sit down, big guy. Before you fall over.”
“I’m not gonna fall over,” I argue.
“You look like a cowboy that got thrown off a horse.”
“Oh god—”
She giggles—actual giggles—and it’s embarrassing how fast the sound hits every soft spot in me.
“Sit,” she orders, nudging my hip with hers. “Breakfast is almost ready.”
I sit.
Because apparently the little guy gets a bottle.
And the big guy gets bossed around by the woman that slept in his bed.
And somehow…it feels perfect.
Sunday goes by… different.
Not the usual drag of chores and half-assed errands, not me pacing around the apartment trying to figure out what to do with myself while the kid naps.