Chapter 7 #2
I huff a quiet, humorless breath. “Because people don’t just turn into a mess for no reason. And in the week you’ve been here?” I tilt my head toward her, make her look at me. “You’ve done more for less than anyone I’ve ever hired.”
She looks down again, like the compliment stings instead of lifts.
“You cook,” I go on, slower now, “you clean, you show up on time, you take care of my kid like he’s yours. You stayed late without asking for a damn thing. Hell, you even washed bottles I didn’t know were dirty.” I shake my head. “And I’m paying you crumbs for all that.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. “That’s not true,” she whispers.
“It is,” I say, leaning a little closer, not enough to crowd her but enough that she feels the steadiness behind the words. “So whatever happened before you got here? Whoever made you think you’re the problem?” I shrug one shoulder. “They’re full of shit.”
Her eyes flick up to mine then—quick, startled, like she wasn’t expecting me to stand so firmly in her corner.
“You don’t know me,” she says softly.
“Maybe not,” I admit. “But I know what decent looks like. And you’ve been nothing but that in my house.”
She looks away fast, blinking hard, like the compliment cracked something she’s been holding together with tape and grit. Like kindness hits her deeper than anything cruel ever did.
And that…
That makes something in my chest twist.
Sharp. Hot. Protective in a way that feels damn near primal.
“I just—” she starts, voice thin, “I had a bad uh… boyfriend.”
The word bad sits wrong. Too small. Too soft for whatever’s behind her eyes. She chokes on the last bit like the air caught on a bruise.
I don’t say anything.
Can’t.
Because if I open my mouth right now, all that’ll come out is rage. Hot. Ugly. Aimed at a ghost I’ve never met but already want to break in half.
She stirs the coffee slow, slow, like she’s buying time or bracing for impact.
“When I messed up he got…” she swallows, jaw tightening, “…angry.”
That word is too soft too.
Way too soft.
Angry is what you get when you spill a drink. Angry is what you feel when your boss piles more work on your plate.
What she means isn’t angry.
It’s something darker.
Bigger.
Familiar in ways I wish it wasn’t.
My grip on Leon tightens instinctively. Just a little. Not enough to wake him. But enough that I feel the urge in my hands—the want to take this invisible man by the throat.
I set my jaw, hard. “Angry how?” I manage, voice low, controlled, even though everything in me is screaming.
She lifts her shoulder—the smallest shrug I’ve ever seen. “Just… angry.”
But her eyes flick away. Fast.
Like she’s hiding whole chapters behind that one word.
She reaches for the mugs, keeping her movements small, steady, practiced.
Too practiced.
“Everyone messes up sometimes,” she adds, voice thin as thread. “I just… messed up too much, I guess.”
My vision goes hot around the edges.
I have to breathe—slow, deep—to keep from punching the counter.
“Brielle,” I say, and my voice scrapes out rougher than I mean, “you didn’t ‘mess up too much.’ You don’t deserve to get hurt because some grown man can’t control his damn temper.”
She flinches at the word hurt, like it dragged a memory to the surface.
She won’t look at me now.
Just curls her fingers around the mug, knuckles white, holding on like it’s the only solid thing she has.
“He wasn’t always like that,” she whispers, like she’s defending a ghost. “He started small. Little comments. Little… things.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t even realize how bad it got until—”
Her voice breaks right in the middle.
She snaps her mouth shut, pressing her lips together like she’s physically trying to hold the story in.
And I feel something in me crack.
Quietly. Silently.
Very, very real.
“Brielle,” I say again, softer this time. “Whatever he did… that’s on him. Not you.”
She squeezes her eyes shut, just for a second, like the words hit a bruise she’s never let anyone touch.
When she opens them, they shine.
And she looks so damn small and tired standing in my kitchen, coffee steaming on the counter, my kid warm and sleeping against my chest. Too much truth sitting between us. Too much she shouldn’t have to carry alone.
“Anyway,” she says quickly, blinking like she’s trying to wipe the tears back into her skull, “I’m just… I’m just telling you because I think you deserve to know who you’re putting in your house.”
Her voice wavers, then steadies in that way people do when they’re trying to sound braver than they feel.
“I— I don’t want you thinking I’d ever do something to harm you or Leon.”
That hits me wrong.
Hard.
Like a punch I didn’t see coming.
I step closer before I even realize I’m doing it, my free hand bracing on the counter beside her mug.
“Hey,” I say, low, sharp, not at her but at the idea she even has to say this. “Look at me.”
She hesitates, then lifts her eyes.
That’s all it takes to see how scared she is—not of me, but of being misunderstood. Being seen wrong. Being judged for shit that was never her fault.
“You’re not a threat,” I say. “You never were.”
She shakes her head, voice small. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I answer, steady as steel. “I’ve watched you with my kid for a week. That tells me everything I need to know.”
She opens her mouth, but I keep going.
“You’re gentle. You’re patient. You talk to him like he matters. You hold him like he’s made of something worth protecting. People like that don’t hurt kids. They don’t hurt people.”
Her breath catches, like she wasn’t ready for that kind of clarity.
“I just don’t want you to think I’m trouble,” she whispers.
“You’re not,” I say. “And if you were, I’d know.”
Her brow pinches. “How?”
I shift Leon on my shoulder so she sees his relaxed little face, his tiny hand fisted in my shirt.
“Because he tells me,” I say simply.
She stares at the baby for a long second. “Kids… kids don’t tell you that.”
“They do,” I say. “Not with words. With how they act. Leon lights up around you. He reaches for you. He settles with you faster than with anyone else, including me on half my bad days.”
I let out a breath. “That’s not something a dangerous person can fake.”
Her lips tremble—barely—but it’s there. A crack she tries to swallow back down.
“I’m still… I’m still sorting myself out,” she murmurs.
I snort under my breath, not mocking—just blunt. “That makes two of us.”
She looks up, startled like she wasn’t expecting me to admit anything.
“I’ve been sorting my shit since the day Leon’s mom walked out,” I say. “Trying to figure out how to be two people at once. How to keep the lights on. How to not screw this kid up worse than life already has.”
Her brows pull together, sympathy flickering there, but she keeps quiet.
“You know who made it better?” I ask.
She blinks. Slow. Unsure. “Who?”
“You,” I say.
It lands heavy. Real. No decoration.
Her breath stutters. Like the word hit her in a place she didn’t have armor for.
I keep going, voice low but steady. “You walked into my life when everything felt like it was fraying at the edges. And somehow, without even trying, you made the whole damn place hold together.”
She shakes her head, barely. “I didn’t do anything—”
“You did,” I cut in. “Every day. You showed up. You showed up when you had nothing. When you were fighting your own shit. And you still took care of my kid like he was yours.”
She presses her lips together, eyes glossy again.
“That matters,” I say. “More than you think.”
She looks down at her hands, wringing them slow, like she doesn’t know where to put a kindness that direct.
“I’m not used to helping,” she whispers. “I’m used to ruining things.”
My jaw ticks.
“You didn’t ruin a damn thing here,” I say. “If anything? You’re the only reason this place feels like a home again.”
She lets out a shaky breath. Not crying. Not breaking. Just… letting herself feel seen for a second.
And it hits me again, sharp and protective:
Who the hell let her go on this long thinking she was the problem?
Because if I ever meet the guy—
he’s gonna wish he stayed angry somewhere else.