Chapter 8 #3
Leon giggles again, and Desmond shoots him a look.
“Don’t start,” he tells the baby.
Leon blows a spit bubble.
I bite back another laugh, warmth curling low in my chest.
This is dangerous.
And sweet.
And so painfully normal that I don’t know what to do with it.
But for tonight, at least…
I let myself enjoy it.
I set Leon in his high chair with a chew toy—one of those soft rubber ones shaped like a dinosaur. He immediately tries to eat the tail first, babbling to himself like he’s giving us commentary.
Then I circle around the counter to where Desmond’s hovering beside the stove like a man trying to negotiate with a pan.
“I’ll do the chopping,” I say, reaching for the onion.
He steps aside, hands raised in surrender. “Be my guest. Onions and I… don’t get along.”
I laugh quietly and start slicing—onion, then garlic, then a couple bell peppers I found in the crisper that were suspiciously close to retirement. He watches like I’m performing witchcraft.
“There,” I say, sliding everything neatly into one pile.
He nods, grabs the cutting board, dumps the whole thing into the pan, and starts stirring like a man trying to outrun his own incompetence.
Then he reaches for the canned tomatoes.
And tilts it over the pan.
“No—wait,” I say quickly, touching his wrist.
He freezes, can mid-air. “What? What’d I do?”
“You have to let the onion and garlic cook and brown a bit first.”
He frowns, genuinely confused. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I nod, trying not to smile too wide. “That way it has more flavor.”
He looks at the pan like it betrayed him. “Nobody told me that.”
“Did you ever… ask?” I tease gently.
He shoots me a narrow-eyed look. “I mean, I figured you just dump everything in and hope for the best.”
I giggle—actual giggle, which surprises even me. “That explains a lot.”
He points the wooden spoon at me, mock stern. “Hey. Watch it. You’re insulting years of bachelor survival cooking.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” I say, taking the spoon from him before he scorches the garlic. “Survival?”
He shrugs, leaning one hip on the counter, watching me work like it’s oddly relaxing. “Well, I survived. Not sure about anyone who ever had to taste it.”
I shake my head, smiling at the pan. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here.”
Something shifts in the room—small, warm, quiet.
He dips his head, voice rough but soft. “Yeah. It is.”
And for some reason, that simple sentence hits deeper than anything fancy ever could.
We cook, simple pasta with some garlic chicken, I got Leon on my lap with a bottle while I fork pasta into my mouth. “How was today?” I ask.
Desmond blinks for a second. “My day?”
I nod. “Yeah, you know, did something happened at your work?”
We fall into an easy rhythm after that. Simple pasta.
Garlic chicken. Nothing fancy, but it smells good and feels warm, and that’s more than enough for me.
By the time we sit down to eat, I’ve got Leon propped on my lap with a bottle tucked in his fists.
He kicks his little feet while I try to navigate pasta with one free hand.
I twirl a forkful and glance across the table. “How was today?”
Desmond blinks, mid-chew. “My day?”
I nod. “Yeah. You know… did anything happen at work?”
He leans back a little, like the question caught him off guard. “Huh. Nobody ever asks me that.”
That makes me frown. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He huffs out a small laugh. “Usually it’s just ‘Hey man, weld faster,’ or ‘Shift’s starting,’ or ‘You’re late.’ Not exactly deep conversation.”
I smile into Leon’s soft hair. “Well… I’m asking.”
He studies me for a second. Not suspicious—just surprised, like he’s not used to somebody being genuinely interested.
“Day was… alright,” he says finally. “Boss was on my case again. One of the new guys messed up a seam and somehow it became my fault.” He stabs a piece of chicken. “But that’s just Monday. Nothing special.”
“Sounds stressful,” I say gently.
He shrugs, but it’s a tired one. “It’s a job. Pays the bills. Mostly.” His eyes flick to me. “Today was easier, though.”
“Because of me?” I joke, a little shy.
He doesn’t take the bait. He answers seriously.
“Yeah,” he says. “Coming home to this… to you two? Makes it easier.”
My breath catches in my throat.
He keeps going, softer now. “Walking in and seeing you with him in that playpen? Felt like the whole place… opened up a little.”
I look down fast, cheeks warming, because I don’t know how to hold something that kind.
Leon finishes his bottle with a satisfied sigh, and Desmond watches us both like he’s seeing something he’s been missing for a long time.
“You know,” I murmur, rubbing Leon’s back, “you’re allowed to talk about your day. Even the hard parts.”
He tilts his head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I meet his eyes. “I won’t bite.”
His mouth curves, just barely. “That’s good to know.”
I laugh softly. “So? Anything else? Did that guy mess up more than one seam?”
He snorts. “Don’t get me started.”
And just like that, he starts talking. Not a lot. Not dramatic. Just… honest. Rough-edged. Real.
And I listen.
Really listen.
Because somehow… I like to hear him talk like that.