Chapter 20 #2
“Brielle,” I say, rough like gravel, “don’t ever call yourself a mistake.”
She blinks, startled at the tone.
“I mean it,” I go on, voice low. “Don’t ever say that shit again. Not in this house. Not to me. Not to yourself.”
Her lips press together, eyes flicking up then away like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to believe me.
I drag a hand over my jaw, huff out a breath. “You think I’d let some ‘fun distraction’ sleep in my bed? Raise my boy? Cook for us, laugh with us, live with us?” I shake my head. “Baby, I don’t even let Justin in my house half the time, and that bastard’s known me ten years.”
She snorts—barely—but her eyes soften.
I keep going.
“You’re not the girl before the real thing. You’re not the warm-up act.” My voice drops even lower, thick enough I barely recognize it. “You’re the real thing. You hear me?”
Her breath catches—tiny, sharp—like the words hit someplace she didn’t have armor for.
“…Okay,” she whispers, swallowing. “Uhm—why are you asking me all of this?”
There it is.
The question I’ve been walking circles around all damn week.
I drag a hand down my face, rub the back of my neck because suddenly I feel like a teenager again, sweaty-palmed and stupid. “I— I just wanted to know what you feel about it,” I mutter. “Like maybe… marrying me someday.”
Her fork slips. Clinks against the plate.
I force myself to keep talking before I lose my nerve. “Maybe us having a kid or something. Together. I mean— not that we need to rush it or anything—hell, we got our hands full with this one—” I gesture vaguely toward Leon who’s smearing food all over“—but just… someday.”
Her eyes go wide. Huge. Blue like the damn ocean, like she’s trying to make sure she heard me right and failing.
“You…” she starts, voice small. “You’re asking me that?”
“Yeah,” I say, because now that it’s out, it’s out. No stuffing it back in my chest. “I am.”
She blinks fast—once, twice—like her brain’s buffering.
“Desmond,” she whispers, leaning back like she needs space to breathe, “you— you can’t just— you want to marry me? Like… me me?”
Something in me cracks right down the middle.
I lean in, elbows on the table, eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, you you. The girl who helped raise my boy. Who fixed up my home. Who laughs in my kitchen. Who makes my whole damn day better just by existing in it. That you.”
Her lips part—trembling. “But I’m not— I mean… I’m not wife material. Or— or mother material. I barely got my life together six months ago.” She laughs but it’s thin, shaky. “You deserve someone who’s… more.”
I shake my head immediately. “Brielle, baby… you are more. To me.” I tap my chest. “Right here. More than I ever knew I needed.”
She swallows—slow, shaky—and her eyes go soft in a way that damn near guts me.
And then she whispers, barely audible, like she’s afraid the words might break if she says them too loud:
“I’d love… I’d love to marry you.”
For a second, I swear the world tilts. My brain blanks. My breath stops like someone shoved a fist straight into my lungs.
I stand up so fast my chair scrapes. “Really?” My voice comes out rough, damn near hoarse.
She nods, quick and small, then gets up and steps right into me like she’s magnetized. Her arms wrap around my waist, her face burying itself into my neck, warm breath hitting my skin.
“I love you, Des…” she murmurs, voice trembling, “I’d be the luckiest girl in the world to have you as my husband.”
My hands go to her back instantly—one on her spine, one on the back of her head, holding her close because I don’t know what else to do with everything hitting me at once.
“Baby…” I whisper into her hair, and damn, my throat is tight. “You got no idea how long I been wanting to hear you say that.”
She squeezes me harder, fingers bunching in my shirt. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I breathe, kissing the side of her head, slow and lingering. “Yeah, sweetheart. Really. Thought maybe I’d scare you off if I said it out loud.”
She lets out this tiny laugh—wet around the edges. “You? Scare me off? Desmond, I live in your bed and steal your shirts. I’m not going anywhere.”
I chuckle, low and disbelieving, forehead falling against hers. “Still… marriage is big. Didn’t wanna push you.”
“You didn’t,” she says quickly, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. “You made me feel like… like I’m wanted. Like I belong. I never felt that before.”
I cup her cheek, thumb brushing the warm flush there. “You do belong. With me. With Leon. With us.”
Her eyes shine—no fear this time. Just hope. Real hope. Blinding, damn near holy.
And because my dumbass mouth works faster than my brain, I add, “I still gotta figure out a ring, like… see what I can buy and stuff—”
She shuts me up by kissing me—soft but firm, like she’s pressing the truth straight into my mouth.
When she pulls back, her forehead rests on mine, breath warm against my lips.
“I don’t need a ring, babe,” she murmurs. “I got you. And our baby. I’m rich enough.”
I huff out a breath—half a scoff, half something else that hits too deep. “Sweetheart, you can’t say shit like that to me. Makes me wanna run out tonight and buy you the biggest damn diamond in the county.”
She gives this tiny smile, shaking her head. “I don’t care about diamonds.”
“You should,” I say, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You deserve nice things. Real nice. Not the scraps you’ve been given.”
“Desmond…” she whispers, looking up at me like I hung the moon. “The nicest thing I’ve ever had is standing right in front of me.”
My chest tightens, brutal and warm. “Brielle…”
She slides her hands up my arms, fingers tracing the veins there like she’s memorizing me. “If you asked me with a paper ring—hell, a string, a twist-tie, anything—I’d say yes. A ring doesn’t make us real.” Her voice softens, almost shaking. “You do.”
I swallow hard, jaw clenching. “Still wanna get you one,” I say, voice low, stubborn. “Something you can look at and know you’re mine. And I’m yours.”
Her smile widens—small, shy, pure. “Then take your time. I’m already promised.”
“Promised?” I repeat, something primal sparking low in my gut. “Yeah?”
She nods. “Yeah. Yours. Completely.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and pull her in, crushing her to my chest with one arm, my other hand sliding into her hair.
“You keep sayin’ things like that,” I murmur into the soft curve of her neck, “you’re gonna have me bending the knee before breakfast tomorrow.”
She laughs—quiet, breathless, warm against my throat. “Then I’ll practice saying yes again.”
I grin against her skin, tightening my hold.
“Good,” I rumble. “You’re gonna be saying it a lot.”