Chapter 14
Brielle Shaw
As good as all this feels—
as safe as Desmond feels—
there’s this knot in my stomach that won’t loosen.
Because I don’t want to become something he’ll eventually hate.
Or regret.
Or feel stuck with.
Which means I need to start doing something with my life.
I can’t just drift through his days like some half-formed shadow who cooks breakfast and folds laundry and warms his bed.
I need a job—a real one—something I can do while still taking care of Leon, something steady enough that I can support myself.
Maybe even help him out a bit instead of feeling like another mouth he has to feed.
Because right now?
Right now I’m in this… strange in-between place.
Desmond still pays me like a nanny.
But now we sleep together.
I wear his shirts.
Eat his food.
Breathe his air.
Wake up in his bed like it’s mine.
And he doesn’t even hesitate—he just lets me have all of it.
That can get messy so fast.
Sideways.
Ugly.
And I don’t want to do that to him.
I don’t want to do that to us, whatever we’re becoming.
He’s sweet. Really sweet.
Thoughtful in a way that feels like a warm hand pressed over a bruise you didn’t know was still hurting.
And he looks at me like I’m something he wants, not something he settled for.
But maybe that’s just for now.
Maybe it’s because this is new—me and him and sex and morning coffee kisses and Leon babbling “Da-da” at both of us.
Maybe the shine will wear off and he’ll realize I’m not some pretty little dream he had in the grocery store aisle. I’m someone with a past full of cracks and dents and bad choices.
And there’s the other thing.
I haven’t seen him angry yet.
Not really.
And I know from experience that anger tells you who a man really is.
Big, strong men… they can do a lot of damage when they want to.
My ex proved that every time he lifted his hand or raised his voice or slammed something close enough to make me flinch.
Desmond hasn’t so much as snapped at me.
He barely even raises his voice unless he’s yelling at the TV.
But he’s big enough, strong enough that if he ever did—if he ever lost himself the way other men have—
I know I wouldn’t stand a chance.
And the scary part?
He likes some rough stuff.
Nothing bad.
Nothing that makes my skin crawl or my stomach twist.
Everything he’s done has been careful. Asked for. Wanted by both of us.
The hair pulling?
God—it lit something up inside me I didn’t know was still alive.
The biting?
That slow scrape of his teeth down my neck made my knees shake.
And last night—
when Leon was dead asleep and we were on the couch—
he gave me a slap.
Not hard.
Not cruel.
Just enough to shock the breath right out of me and turn my whole body molten under his hands.
It didn’t scare me.
It turned me on so fast I barely had time to think.
And maybe that’s what scares me.
That I liked it.
That he liked giving it.
That there’s a side of him I’m only just beginning to see—a side that’s intense and physical and hungry—and I don’t know how deep it goes. I don’t know where the line is. I don’t know what he looks like when he hits the edge of his control.
And he’s nothing like my ex—nothing—but my brain doesn’t always know the difference between memory and danger. Between love and warning.
Between safe hands and ones that have hurt me.
So I tell myself:
Get a job.
Become steady on your own feet.
Don’t lean too hard on him.
Don’t fall too fast.
Protect him from the mess you are.
Protect yourself, just in case you’re wrong about him.
Because everything feels good now.
Better than good.
Warm. Easy. Right.
But I’ve learned that good things can sour without warning.
That gentle hands can close into fists.
That sweet can turn sharp overnight.
I don’t think Desmond would hurt me.
I don’t believe he would.
But believing something and knowing it are two very different things.
And until I know—
until I’m sure—
I need to keep one part of myself steady. Independent. Able to walk away if I ever have to.
Because… I know my track record.
I know the kind of men I’ve chosen before.
The ones who look like safety for a month, maybe two, then slowly peel back the sweetness and show the rot underneath.
The ones who start with soft hands and end with doors slammed hard enough to shake the walls.
The ones who made me believe love always came with fear tucked under it like a hidden string.
And every time, I told myself it was different.
That he was different.
Until the day he wasn’t.
So yeah… part of me is terrified Desmond is the same kind of wrong.
The beginning is always good. Always warm. Always a little magical.
Just like this.
And then it turns.
Ugly.
Sharp.
Mean.
I don’t think Desmond will turn. Nothing in him feels dangerous in that way. He doesn’t move like he’s waiting to explode. He doesn’t speak like he’s holding a grudge in his teeth. He doesn’t touch me like he wants power. He touches me like he wants me.
And that’s different.
So different it scares me in a whole new way.
Monday morning, after I kissed him goodbye—after he pressed his palm to my hip and told me, “Don’t wait up, I might be late,” in that soft rough voice—after he walked out the door with his lunchbox and his steel-toe boots and the faint, sleepy smile he pretends he doesn’t have…
I sat down at his kitchen table with Leon in his high chair beside me and opened Desmond’s old laptop.
And I started looking for jobs.
Not big ones, not fancy ones. Just… something. A remote position. Data entry, customer service, virtual assistant, anything that didn’t require college or references I don’t have. Anything that could put a little padding between me and disaster if things ever went wrong.
I don’t need to make a lot.
I don’t need a career.
Not yet.
I just need enough to make a small cushion. Enough that I don’t reach into Desmond’s wallet every time I need shampoo. Enough that I don’t feel like a burden he’s too polite—or too lonely—to shake off.
Enough that I can stand on my own two feet even while I’m falling stupidly, helplessly into him.
Because it’d be so easy to let him take care of everything.
To lean into his warmth, his steadiness, his hands that fit everywhere on my body like they were carved for me.
To pretend the softness we have now will stay this soft forever.
But I’ve learned the hard way: dependence is a trap dressed up like comfort.
And I can’t—
I won’t— be trapped again.
So while Leon babbles beside me and smears pureed banana on his tray, I fill out forms.
I write cover letters that make me sound more put together than I am.
I check job boards and type with shaking fingers.
Not because I’m planning on leaving.
But because if this is real— if this is something worth building —I want to come into it standing, not crawling.
----
Desmond Coyle
I’m finishing a seam on a pipe, holding the torch steady while sweat runs down my spine, collecting under my shirt.
Normally Mondays feel like dragging a dead mule uphill, but today…
hell, today I’ve got something like a lift in my step.
A looseness in my chest. Like someone cracked open the tight parts of me and let some light in.
I haven’t felt that in a long damn time.
Not since before Leon. Not since before Lizzie walked. Maybe not ever.
Probably has something to do with the fact that I practically devoured Brielle this morning before heading out the door.
I meant to give her a quick kiss. Something light.
Something that would keep us both on schedule.
But she looked up at me with bed-warm eyes and that shy little smile and I swear my whole body forgot what “quick” meant.
Next thing I knew I had her pressed against the counter, her fingers in my hair, both of us breathing like we’d run a mile.
Walking away after that? Hardest part of my damn morning.
And maybe the second reason I’m walking around like a man with secrets has to do with the lunch she packed me.
Real lunch. Homemade pasta with actual meatballs— not the frozen kind, not the dry cafeteria crap I usually choke down.
These were the kind you can smell even when the lid’s on.
The kind that make a man feel… hell, I don’t even know. Looked after, I guess.
Couple of the guys were eyeing my container in the shop fridge like wolves when I put it in there. One of them asked if I’d finally learned how to cook. I told him the truth: “Nope. Someone made it for me.”
And his eyebrows damn near hit his hairline.
Not surprised. Nobody makes lunches for me. Hasn’t happened in years. And nobody kisses me in the morning like they mean it. Nobody rolls into my arms still warm from sleep. Nobody asks if I slept okay, like my rest matters to them.
But Brielle did.
And now I’m here at work, sweating through my shirt, sparks bouncing off the floor, and the only thing on my mind—besides not setting my own pants on fire—is her.
Her voice. Her skin. The way she looked half embarrassed, half proud when she handed me that container.
The way she whispered “Have a good day” like she was sending me off to war instead of the job I’ve been doing for years.
I steady the torch again, heat flaring bright. My hands know what they’re doing without me thinking about it. Good thing, too. Because my head isn’t here.
It’s back in my apartment.
With her.
After the day is done, I can’t get out of the shop fast enough.
Ironvale’s painted gold in the afternoon—sun hitting the steel beams out back, dust floating in the air like it’s moving slow just for me.
Normally I drive home bone-tired, shoulders locked, jaw clenched from grinding through the shift.
Today I’m wired. Restless. Like someone’s tugging me home by the collar.
By the time I climb the steps to my building, my chest is already loosening. And when I unlock the door, the first thing that hits me is the quiet—soft, warm, lived-in quiet. The kind that doesn’t feel empty. The kind that feels… peaceful.
I step inside, boots thudding soft on the floorboards.
The place is tidy—tidier than I ever manage on my own.
Counters wiped down. Toys collected. A pot on the stove still warm, steam low and lazy like dinner’s waiting on me without making a big deal about it.