Chapter 18 #2
He’s got a teether in one hand and her bracelet in the other, switching between gnawing and waving his fists around like he’s arguing a case in baby court.
She pushes her hair behind her ear, nervous but stubborn, and says:
“Okay… so, expenses.”
I blink at her. “Expenses?”
She nods, determined in that soft way of hers. “Yes. I want to go over what the bills look like, how much groceries cost, diapers, utilities… all of it. I wanna make sure I’m helping where I can.”
I huff a breath out through my nose. Not annoyed—just… knocked sideways by it.
Because not once in my whole damn marriage did Lizzie ever sit down to talk about money without it turning into a fight.
Or a guilt trip. Or a lecture about how she “shouldn’t have to worry about all that,” right before she dropped three hundred bucks on nail kits and some monthly subscription box she forgot to cancel.
But Brielle?
She’s got a notepad.
A pen tucked behind her ear.
And a tiny crease in her forehead like she’s studying for a test she actually wants to take.
“It’s unnecessary,” I say, leaning back, stretching an arm across the couch behind her. “I’ve got all that covered.”
“I know,” she says, glancing at me with this shy, stubborn smile. “But I want to do my part. Even if it’s small. I want to be responsible for something. It matters to me.”
And goddamn if that doesn’t hit somewhere deep.
“Alright,” I murmur, giving her thigh a squeeze. “If it matters to you, we’ll do it.”
Her smile softens. “Thank you.”
She starts writing numbers down, asking me things like:
“How much is your electric bill usually?”
“What about Leon’s formula per month?”
“What’s the average grocery run?”
“Do you have anything on auto-pay I should know about?”
All calm. All steady. No edge. No accusatory tone. Just… wanting to help.
Leon keeps grabbing her pen, so she switches him a teether toy and kisses his cheek every couple minutes. And every time she does, he giggles and leans into her like she’s made of sunshine.
At one point, she glances to me and says gently, “Hey… you okay? You look far away.”
I drag my gaze off her and shake my head. “Just thinkin’.”
“About what?” she asks, voice warm.
“About how I’m not used to this,” I admit. “Someone wanting to… share the weight. Didn’t know what it felt like ’til now.”
Her expression softens—like she gets it. Not pity. Just understanding.
“I’m not here to make things harder,” she says quietly. “I wanna make things easier. For you. For Leon. For us.”
That word—us—hits me like a punch wrapped in velvet.
I clear my throat, nod once. “Yeah. You’re doing that.”
She beams. Actually beams. Like the idea of helping with bills is exciting to her.
“You’re good at this stuff,” I murmur, watching the way she organizes everything neatly. “Better than I ever was.”
She laughs. “Better than you? I dunno. I’m just trying.”
“Well,” I say, leaning in, brushing my knuckles across her back, “trying looks damn good on you.”
Her cheeks go pink, but she doesn’t hide from it anymore. She just nudges her knee against mine and keeps writing.
Leon yawns. Burrito-rolls sideways. Ends up flopped against my leg like a drunk tiny man. Brielle shifts him upright; I toss a blanket over his feet.
And the three of us sit there—going over bills, numbers, needs, plans—like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like a family does.
And for the first time in a long, long time…
I don’t feel like I’m carrying everything alone.
Night ends the way nights usually end nowadays—quiet, warm, and weirdly… whole.
Brielle’s at the table beside Leon’s high chair, sleeves pushed up, hair in that messy little bun she does when she’s focused.
She’s trying to guide his spoon toward his mouth, but the kid’s got other plans.
He smears stew everywhere—chin, tray, his damn eyebrow—and every time he gets a chunk near his lips he acts like he just solved fire.
“Buddy,” I say, watching the carnage from across the table, “you’re supposed to eat the food, not laminate yourself in it.”
Brielle snorts, trying not to laugh as Leon flings a rice-covered carrot piece straight into orbit.
“He’s exploring textures,” she says, wiping his cheek. “That’s a normal part of sensory development.”
“Pretty sure it’s a normal part of destroying my kitchen,” I mutter, scooping another spoonful of stew into my own bowl.
She made it earlier—stew that smells like comfort itself. Potatoes, carrots, chunks of beef that fall apart the moment my spoon hits them. She threw in herbs she bought with her own paycheck—rosemary, thyme, something else I didn’t catch because I was too busy watching her be proud of herself.
The weather outside’s gone cold, Ironvale wind howling at the windows, rain tapping the glass. Inside, though? It’s warm. Smells good. Feels… lived in.
Feels like home in a way it hasn’t in years.
She leans in closer to Leon, guiding his hand gently. “Okay, baby, ready? Spoon. Mouth. We can do this.”
Leon blows a raspberry and somehow gets stew on her cheek.
She freezes. I freeze.
Then she bursts out laughing—head falling back, eyes bright, cheeks pink from the cold kitchen air and baby chaos.
And goddamn, I swear my heart expands a full size watching her like that.
I reach over with a napkin, thumb brushing her face as I wipe off the smear. “He got you good.”
She gives me that soft, crooked smile. “Price of doing business.”
“You make it look easy,” I say before I can stop myself.
She blushes. Looks down. But her hand drifts across the table and finds mine—barely brushing, just enough to say she heard me.
“You help a lot too,” she murmurs.
I grunt, pretending it’s no big deal, but my chest goes tight anyway. “I’m just keepin’ him from eating the furniture.”
“That counts,” she says softly.
Leon bangs his spoon on the tray, demanding attention again. Brielle laughs and leans in to help him scoop another bite.
I watch them—her patience, her gentleness, the way she praises him for getting maybe ten percent of the food into his actual mouth.
I watch the way Leon leans toward her without realizing it, like her voice is gravity.
I watch her smile at him like he’s hers.
And something in me settles so deeply it feels like an anchor hitting the ocean floor.
This is our night now.
Stew on the stove.
Baby squealing.
Brielle glowing.
And me—sitting there in the middle of all of it—feeling like a man who stumbled into the best part of his life without ever planning to.
After bathtime, after Leon’s down and the monitor’s lit soft blue on the nightstand, it’s just us.
Just Brielle and me, limbs tangled, mouths hot, breath coming fast. The kind of kissing that doesn’t give a shit about technique—sloppy and starved, teeth knocking, tongues slick. She climbs into my lap like it’s her right, not a question, not a hesitation. Like she owns it now.
And yeah. She does.
I’m at the edge of the bed, boxers shoved down, cock already hard and leaking against my stomach. Her thighs are tight around my hips, tank top bunched up under her tits, hair mess from the steam of the shower, cheeks flushed from chasing our kid around all day.
And this—this is the part that kills me.
She’s not performing. Not putting on a show. Not playing at sexy.
She is.
Messy, wild, soaked. Moving like she knows exactly how she wants to feel me.
And I love it.
She starts slow—rollin’ her hips like she’s settin’ the pace of her own heartbeat.
Nip at my earlobe, tongue dragging hot across my skin, hands braced on my shoulders like she’s steadying herself for a fall she wants to take.
I lean back just enough to get a look—mirror across the room catching the full goddamn picture.
And fuck me, it’s a sight.