Chapter 18
Desmond Coyle?
Brielle’s been walking around lit up lately, and hell if it isn’t rubbing off on me.
She’s got this bounce in her step—this light in her eyes like something heavy finally let go of her shoulders.
Hard not to feel it when she’s got that soft little smile playing on her mouth every time she catches me looking.
She got her first paycheck yesterday. Full month of clocking in, handling calls from pissed-off customers, dealing with bullshit scripts and long hours on that busted laptop. I watched her hit submit on that timesheet with shaking fingers like she expected the whole thing to vanish under her.
But it didn’t. It went through. The money hit. And I swear, when she showed me that stub with her name on it, something settled in her. Just a little. Not gone, but steadier. Like the floor under her feet stopped creaking.
It’s Saturday morning. I let her sleep in because she earned that sleep, and Leon woke up chirping like a damn bird at six a.m. sharp. He’s in his little high chair now, legs kicking, eyes half-lidded as he sucks down his bottle like it owes him money.
I’m at the stove, coffee percolating, one hand on the pan, flipping bacon, shirtless ’cause it’s hot as hell in the kitchen when the burners are on. Still got yesterday’s grime on my skin, sleep lines on my face, but mornings like this?
They’re the good kind of quiet.
Then I hear the shuffle of her steps—bare feet on hardwood, soft and slow like she’s still not fully awake.
She rounds the corner and—fuck.
That crop top’s hugging her just right, riding up just enough to show the flat of her stomach, that sweet little dip above her hips. The shorts are those tiny-ass cotton ones she wears to bed, barely covering anything, and I swear, if she yawns and stretches I might burn breakfast.
“Morning, babe,” she mumbles, voice raspy from sleep, dragging her lips across my shoulder without missing a beat. Just this lazy, affectionate little kiss that makes my chest go tight in a way I never expect.
She pads past me to Leon, who’s making those happy grunt-sounds as he finishes his bottle, and she presses a kiss to the top of his head too, murmuring something soft to him that I can’t hear over the hiss of the stovetop.
I lean on the counter, watching her like a man who just spotted water in a desert.
That’s mine.
All soft and sleepy and barefoot in my kitchen. Shirt barely hanging on, hair messy, no makeup, no polish—just her. Real and raw and all mine.
And damn, I’d go to war for that picture.
“You sleep okay?” I ask, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She stretches a little, arms overhead, crop top lifting higher and lets out this satisfied little hum. “Yeah. Best I’ve had in weeks.”
My eyes drag over her body—slow, possessive. I don’t bother hiding it. She feels it too, I can tell, from the way she smirks a little, from the glance she throws back over her shoulder as she walks toward the coffeepot like she’s not leaving a trail of fire in her wake.
“I made it strong,” I grunt, watching her pour herself a mug. “Figured you’d need it after a long week.”
She smiles, “Thanks,”
She’s holding her mug on her hands, looking all cute and sexy, but she’s got that look on her face. One I start to piece that means something’s on her mind.
“Des…” she starts.
“Yeah?”
She fidgets a little, her cheeks pink. “Remember you told me that if I got something on my mind I should talk? Like tell you my feelings and stuff?”
I grab the spatula and set it down because whatever she’s about to say? Yeah—I already know it’s not small.
She’s standing there in my kitchen, barefoot, hair a mess, crop top slipping off one shoulder, fingers wrapped around her coffee mug like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. And the way she’s looking at me—those blue eyes uncertain and soft around the edges?
Yeah. That hits me right in the ribs.
I wipe my hand on a dish towel and turn fully toward her. “Yeah, sweetheart,” I say, voice settling low without me trying. “I remember. What’s goin’ on?”
She swallows, staring into her mug like she’s hoping the coffee will give her bravery. “I just… I don’t want you to think I’m complaining. Or being ungrateful. Or making things weird. It’s just—”
“Slow down,” I cut in gently. “Just tell me.”
She nods, but she’s chewing her lip now. Hard. That nervous tell she does right before she spirals. I take a slow step closer, not touching her yet, just letting my presence anchor her.
She exhales. “It’s just… I’ve been thinking a lot. About us. And this—” She gestures between us with one hand, a little helpless, a little scared. “And how I fit into your life.”
That tightens something in me. Not bad—just… protective.
“Okay,” I say, voice steady. “Keep goin’.”
She lifts her eyes to mine, and damn—they’re soft and wide and too damn honest.
“You’ve been so good to me, Des,” she whispers. “And I don’t want to just… take. I don’t want you doing everything. I don’t want to feel like I’m… dependent on you for everything.”
My throat goes tight.
Because she means every word of that. Because she’s scared—not of me, but of becoming something she hates, something someone taught her she was.
But she keeps going, voice small but gathering courage like she’s squeezing it out of her own bones.
“So… uhm— I know we never talked about what we are, or anything, and there’s like no pressure at all, I totally get it—”
“Brielle,” I cut in gently, “it’s fine, baby. Say your mind.”
She swallows. I see her throat bob, see her fingers twist around the ceramic of her mug like she’d drop it if she wasn’t careful.
“It’s uhm…” She inhales, a shaky breath. “I want you to know that like… I’m crazy about you. You and Leon.”
That hits me—hard. A blow straight to the ribs. I feel it crack something open.
She forces the rest out, voice trembling but brave. “And… I want us to be like… a family. Like you can count on me. I can help here, uhm— with money and stuff, and we… uhm, maybe, uhm—” She winces at her own stumbling, eyes flicking away. “—we could have like a future. If you want that.”
For a long second, all I can do is look at her.
Really look at her.
She’s standing there in my kitchen—barefoot, hair messy, belly showing, holding on to her coffee like it’s a life preserver—telling me she wants a future with me. Telling me she wants to help. Telling me she wants to belong.
Not begging.
Not asking permission.
Offering.
Offering something no one has offered me in a long damn time.
“Come here,” I say, low.
She hesitates—just a flicker—like she thinks she misread something. But she steps closer anyway. Brave little thing.
I take her mug out of her hands and set it on the counter. Then I take her hands—small, warm, shaking a bit—and hold them in mine.
“Baby,” I start, rougher than I mean to sound, “you think I haven’t been picturing that shit every day?”
Her eyes snap up to mine, wide.
“Desmond—”
“No,” I say, shaking my head, “let me talk a second.”
I pull her closer by her waist, slow, steady, so she doesn’t spook. Her palms rest on my chest, featherlight, like she’s afraid she’ll get burned.
“I’m crazy about you too,” I say. “More than I probably should be this early. But I am. And I’m not pretending I’m not.”
Her breath stutters.
“And Leon?” I glance toward the hallway like I’m checking on him even though he’s asleep. “He already picked you. That kid sees you as his person. You know that, right?”
She blinks fast, tears gathering. “He—he does?”
“Yeah,” I rasp. “He does. I do too.”
Her lips part like she forgot how to breathe.
“But listen,” I go on, brushing her hair back from her face with the backs of my fingers.
“You helping out? You getting a job? You talking about the future? None of that makes me scared. None of that makes me feel like you’re takin’ advantage. That makes me proud. That makes me think you actually want this.”
“I do,” she whispers. “I really do.”
“Good,” I murmur. “Because I want it too.”
Her breath leaves her in a soft, shaky sound—something between relief and disbelief.
But I’m not done.
I cup her jaw, make her look at me. “And just so you understand—I don’t give a shit about you paying bills. Or doing chores. Or whatever else you think makes you ‘worthy.’ You’re part of this family because you are. Not because you’re earning it like some job.”
Her lower lip trembles. “But I want to pull my weight.”
“And you will,” I say. “Because that’s who you are. Not because I need you to prove anything.”
She nods, slow, like she’s letting it sink into bone.
I dip my head, bring my forehead to hers. “And Brielle?”
“Mhm?”
“You don’t have to be scared to ask for a future with me. I already want one.”
A soft whimper escapes her—surprised, overwhelmed, hopeful all at once. Her hands slide up my chest and grip my shoulders like she needs something solid to hold on to.
“So… we’re…?” she asks, voice tiny.
I give a rough laugh under my breath. “We’re together, baby. We’ve been together. We just finally said it out loud.”
Her smile blooms—slow and bright and devastating.
“I’m your man,” I say, brushing my thumb across her bottom lip. “You’re my girl. And Leon’s got two adults taking care of him instead of one.”
She lets out a watery laugh. “I like the sound of that.”
“I like it too.” I pull her fully against me, arms wrapping around her waist, lifting her just a little until her toes barely touch the floor. “Now you gonna kiss me, or you want me to stand here making speeches all morning?”
She laughs—really laughs—and leans up to kiss me, soft at first, then deeper, fuller, like she finally let herself believe she’s allowed to.
And I kiss her back like she’s already home.
The rest of the day… hell, it’s different in a way I don’t know how to name yet. Good different. Strange different. The kind that settles under your ribs and makes a man feel like he’s walking around with warm cement poured into his chest.
After breakfast, Brielle sits beside me on the couch, pulling her legs up under her the way she always does, Leon plopped happily between us like a chubby little referee.