Chapter 20
Desmond Coyle?
I get home from another day at the yard—hands still smelling like steel and flux, back tight, boots muddy—and everything inside the apartment hits me in that slow, steady way I’ve gotten used to.
Our new normal.
Brielle’s at the stove, back to me, hair pulled up in one of those messy knots she pretends is accidental but always makes me wanna bury my hands in it.
She’s stirring something that smells like garlic and butter and heaven.
There’s music low on her phone, some soft acoustic thing she hums along to, bare foot tapping gently against the floor.
And right by her leg—clinging to her sweats, wobbling like a drunk baby deer—is Leon.
He’s in that phase where he thinks he can walk across the whole damn world on his own two tiny feet, but his body hasn’t gotten the memo yet.
Arms out, one fist grabbing her pant leg, knees bending like they’re made of jelly.
He lets out a whine when she tries to nudge him back a little, like how dare you, woman, I am a grown man of one year.
I lean against the doorframe for a second, just taking it in. Brielle’s soft murmur, Leon’s babbles, the smell of dinner. The sound of home.
“Hey,” I call out, voice rough from the cold air outside and a long-ass day.
Leon squeals—actually squeals—and starts wobbling toward me like he’s sprinting a marathon on roller skates.
Brielle looks over her shoulder, eyes lighting up in that way that still knocks something loose in my damn ribs. “Hey, babe,” she says, smiling wide. “You’re home.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, dropping my tool bag by the door and crouching to catch Leon before he faceplants into my shin. “Barely survived, but I made it.”
Leon smashes his hands against my cheeks like he’s trying to knead bread. His whole face goes bright. “Da-da-da-da!”
And… yeah. That still hits me. Every time. Right behind the sternum.
“Yeah, little man,” I rasp, kissing the top of his fuzzy head. “I’m right here.”
Brielle twists back to the stove, giving the pan a little shake, and the scent hits me harder—onions, herbs, something creamy. She always cooks like she’s feeding an army, not two adults and a tiny human.
“How was work?” she asks, still stirring, voice warm.
“Same old,” I say, grabbing Leon under the arms when he tries to eat my hoodie string. “Welds behaved, pipes didn’t. Barney complained about his wife again. Usual.”
She snorts. “Did you give him actual advice or did you tell him to suck it up again?”
“I gave him great advice,” I say, straightening up and kissing her temple from behind. “Told him to buy flowers instead of bitching to me.”
She smiles, leaning the smallest bit into me like she can’t help it. “That’s shockingly good advice, actually.”
“Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises,” I mutter, hand brushing along her hip without thinking. “What’re we making?”
“Chicken pasta,” she says, glancing up at me with this soft pride, like she’s happy she managed it while also wrangling our tiny hurricane. “And Leon helped.”
Leon, currently chewing on my hoodie string, looks wildly proud of himself.
“He helped, huh?” I chuckle. “What’d he do? Supervise? Offer moral support?”
“He stirred the spoon,” she says, smiling down at him. “For three whole seconds. Before trying to eat it.”
“Sounds like him.”
She laughs—soft, bright, that sound that fills the whole damn apartment better than any lamp ever could.
I set Leon on the floor to let him toddle again, and he immediately beelines for the cabinet he’s not supposed to open.
“Hey—nope,” I call, swooping him up under one arm like a football. “You’re fast, but not that fast.”
He giggles like he thinks this is a game.
Brielle glances at us—at me holding Leon under one arm like he weighs nothing, at him losing his whole tiny mind laughing—and something shifts across her face. Softens. Goes warm around the edges. Quiet. Full. Like she’s soaking in a moment she doesn’t ever want to forget.
And right then, while she’s looking at us like that, this thought I’ve been chewing on for weeks twists hard in my chest again.
Lately, I’ve got something on my damn mind.
Something big. Heavy. The kind of thought a man doesn’t just shrug off.
Brielle and I already act like a couple.
Hell—half the time we’re damn near a family without saying a word about it.
She sleeps in my bed every night. She kisses me good morning, makes me lunch, wears those tiny shorts around the apartment like she’s trying to test my sanity.
She takes care of Leon like he’s hers, like she was built from the ground up to be his safe spot.
She knows what snacks I like. Knows what nights I sleep like shit.
Knows how to pull me back to earth when my brain starts spinning too fast.
She’s basically my wife at this point.
But I want to make it right.
Tie it down. Tie us down.
Put something solid around the life we’ve built in these busted walls and warm mornings.
But proposing? Hell. That’s a whole different beast.
I only ever did that once—when I was eighteen and dumb and hopeful and thought loving somebody meant you could fix ’em.
I took extra shifts I didn’t have to spare just to buy Lizzie a rock she bragged about for three days before she started complaining it wasn’t big enough.
I bent the knee thinking that was the start of a future, not the start of a slow damn landslide.
With Brielle… it’s different. Everything’s different.
For starters, I don’t even know if she wants to marry someday. She never drops hints. Never leaves magazines open on the counter showing off rings. Never talks about weddings or dresses or any of that shit Lizzie used to casually bring up twice a week just to make sure I “got the message.”
Brielle doesn’t do that.
She doesn’t ask for anything.
Half the time she can’t even accept a sandwich without apologizing for taking resources.
So yeah—if she wants marriage? I don’t know. I’ve never heard her say a word about it. Not even a joke. Not even looking at other people’s kids like she’s imagining one of her own someday.
But I look at her now—barefoot, dinner simmering on the stove, watching me hold Leon like I’ve done it a thousand times—and something tightens in my chest so hard it damn near hurts.
Because I can picture it.
Her in white. Or hell, her in anything. I don’t give a damn about the dress.
I can picture her walking toward me.
I can picture Leon in some tiny suit that it’s gonna get dirty in less than five minutes.
I can picture her last name being mine.
And I want that. I want it more than I’ve wanted anything in a long damn time.
But wanting it doesn’t mean she does.
So when dinner rolls around, and Brielle’s plating pasta and humming under her breath, I decide to… test the waters. Just a little. Put a feeler out without flashing the damn neon MARRY ME sign across my forehead.
I fork into my bowl, clear my throat like I’m about to deliver some news that ain’t news at all.
“This new guy—Leroy,” I say, real casual-like, “announced he’s engaged this week.”
She glances up, twirling pasta on her fork. “Oh? That’s nice.”
“Yeah,” I nod, pretending to be more focused on my plate than I am. “Showed us pictures. Went all out. Down on one knee over some mountain or cliff or whatever the hell it was.”
Brielle smiles softly. Not big. Not dreamy. Just… polite.
“It’s a big step,” she says, taking another bite.
A big step.
That’s all she gives me.
No sparkle in her eyes. No curious follow-up like did she say yes? or what did the ring look like? No shift in her voice hinting she’s thinking about herself in that situation. Nothing that tells me she’s picturing her hand in mine in front of anybody.
Just a simple, neutral statement.
“It’s a big step.”
And I nod like I’m not listening for every damn syllable she says next.
“Yeah,” I say, leaning back in my chair, tapping my thumb against my bowl, “Guess it is.”
She smiles again—small, distracted. Leon slaps a piece of pasta onto his tray, and she immediately goes into mom-mode, wiping his face, cooing at him, completely unaware that I’m over here trying to read her like she’s a map and I’m lost in the woods.
I watch her tuck a curl behind her ear, calm as the ocean, not a flicker of nerves or dreams or longing on her face.
And I think—
Hell. I have no damn clue what this girl wants.
But I need to. I want to. So I push a little—not enough to spook her, just enough to get a glimpse inside that head she keeps locked up tight.
“You ever… uhm, thought of something like that?” I ask, poking at my pasta like the answer’s buried in the damn noodles.
She chews a bit, eyes lowering. “I dunno. I never been the type people marry.”
I stop breathing for a second.
My fork hangs in midair.
“…What?” I ask, a hell of a lot rougher than I mean to.
She shrugs—small, tired, like she’s saying the sky’s blue or water’s wet. “It’s just… I’ve always been like the fun mistake or the distraction. I’m not the type guys go for when they think about settling down and stuff.”
My chest goes tight—tight enough it hurts.
Because she says it so matter-of-fact. Like it’s a rule she memorized so she wouldn’t screw up the test. Like she’s been told this exact line so many times she doesn’t even question it anymore.
I set my fork down slowly, carefully, like if I’m not gentle with it I’ll break something in her.
“What do you mean?” I say again, quieter this time, but sharper. “Who the hell told you that?”
She doesn’t look at me. Just pokes a piece of pasta with her fork.
“Des… it’s just the way it’s always been. I’m the girl guys date before they find the one they actually want to bring home. I’m… fun for a while. But not the serious choice.”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I mean, look at my track record.”
I swear something hot and ugly climbs my spine—anger, real anger, but not at her. At the idiots before me. At the assholes who made her think she’s disposable. At every piece of shit who made this beautiful, steady-hearted girl believe she’s anything less than worth choosing.
Worth promising.
Worth keeping.
I lean forward, forearms braced on the table.