Chapter 9
Desmond Coyle?
Tuesday hits too early, like always. My brain’s not even booted up yet when I wander into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep outta my eyes, scratching my chest, half-dressed and not giving a damn.
And there she is.
Brielle.
Already up, already moving, already doing that thing she does—making herself small and useful at the same time.
She’s clicking lids off containers, lining things up on the counter like it’s some kind of science.
Hair in a messy knot. One of her old shirts slipping off her shoulder, collar stretched out just enough to make a man notice.
She doesn’t hear me right away, too focused.
“Morning,” I say, voice rough as gravel, still not fully human.
She looks up—then straight down.
Then lower.
And boom—her face goes pink.
Right. I forgot I’m shirtless.
“Uh—mor… morning,” she stammers, spinning toward the fridge like she’s under attack. Opens it so fast the condiments rattle.
I lean on the doorframe, half-smirking through the fog in my head. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” I grunt.
“You didn’t scare me,” she says way too quick, still eyeballing the milk like it holds the meaning of life.
“You sure?” I ask, lifting a brow. “You look like I walked in holding a chainsaw.”
She makes this quiet, nervous little laugh, and I swear it makes something twist low in my gut. “No chainsaw. Just… no shirt.”
“Yeah.” I stretch a little, yawning. “Forgot it.”
She still won’t turn around.
And I know I should be a gentleman. Throw on a flannel. Give her a break.
But hell if it doesn’t feel good—being seen. Watched. Getting that kind of reaction out of a woman like her, even if she’s trying hard not to show it.
It’s been a long time since anyone looked at me like that.
A long damn time.
She clears her throat, voice small. “I was just… making breakfast. There’s eggs if you want. And coffee.”
I move closer, reaching for the mug she already set out like she knew I’d show up. “You always up this early?” I ask, sipping.
“Used to it,” she says, still turned away. “Sleeping in the car doesn’t give you the luxury.”
That quiet little truth cuts deeper than I expect.
I glance down at the counter. She’s got containers out. Plastic lids snapped off, portioned like a damn meal prep service.
“What’s all this?”
She finally turns, still not quite looking at me. “I made you lunch,” she says, quick and simple like it’s nothing. “You told me yesterday you’ve been paying twelve bucks a day for cafeteria sandwiches at work.”
I blink. “I did say that.”
She shrugs. “Figured it’d be more cost-effective if you brought something from home.”
I look at the container. Rice, some chicken, chopped veggies, smells real good. Homemade good.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“I know.”
“You also didn’t have to blush like you saw me naked, but here we are.”
That earns me a half-glare, half-smile from her. “I wasn’t blushing.”
“Sure you weren’t.”
“Eat your eggs, Desmond.”
I chuckle, shaking my head, heart knocking a little harder in my chest than I’d like to admit.
She’s sweet. Tough. Always moving. Always doing. But underneath all that quiet? She’s just as rattled by this thing—whatever this is—as I am.
And me?
I’m rattled in all the best and worst ways.
When I head out the door for work, Leon’s already in her arms, drowsy and fed, that soft baby weight resting against her like he belongs there. I lean down, drop a kiss on his warm cheek. Brielle watches, and she smiles—gentle, quiet, like it snuck up on her.
And then she holds out the thermal bag, the one she packed like clockwork now. I take it from her, our fingers brushing just a second longer than they need to.
That’s when the thought hits me.
Quick and low and dangerous.
I want to kiss her.
Not polite. Not friendly. Not a thank-you-for-the-lunch kind of thing.
I want to lean in, tilt her chin up, and kiss her full—slow and deep, just to see what she does. Just to see if she’d melt or pull away. Just to know if she tastes like the way she’s been softening this house since she walked in. Like warmth and second chances.
Hell, maybe I just want to prove I’m not the only one feeling this weight between us.
But I don’t move.
I just take the bag, nod like it’s any other day, and step out the door.
Because one kiss changes everything.
And I’m not sure either of us is ready for that.
----
Brielle Shaw
It’s been a week since I essentially moved in with Desmond and Leon.
A week since my life stopped fitting into the trunk of my car.
A week since I stopped waking up stiff and freezing in the backseat.
A week of floors that don’t shake when a semi drives by.
And somehow, we’ve settled into a rhythm.
I pack Desmond’s lunch in the mornings.
I run a load of laundry when Leon naps.
I tidy up, wipe counters, keep the place from feeling like the world’s on fire.
He still pays me—
every day—
leaves the forty bucks on the coffee table like clockwork, even though I’m the one getting the better end of this deal. He won’t hear it any other way. I’ve tried.
My car is parked out front now.
Just… parked.
Not a home.
Not a secret I’m scared he’ll notice.
And Desmond and I sort of… became something.
Friends? Maybe.
Roommates? Kind of.
Something between the lines, maybe, something that I pretend I don’t see too clearly.
We talk more now.
Real talking, the kind where you look at someone and feel like they’re listening.
We eat dinner together.
Breakfast, too—bleary-eyed, scraping toast, trying not to burn bacon.
And I hate how much I’ve come to look forward to it.
To him.
It’s still hard as hell to look at him when he comes out of the bedroom shirtless in the mornings—that part hasn’t gotten easier.
Not even a little. He walks out rubbing sleep from his eyes, hair a mess, chest bare, flannel slung over his shoulder, and I swear my soul tries to exit my body every time.
I keep my eyes on the toaster like it’s performing surgery.
He pretends he doesn’t notice.
I pretend I’m not blushing hard enough to heat the whole apartment.
And through all of it—
the chores, the meals, the quiet moments—
I’m scared of how safe it feels here.
Scared of how easy it is to breathe.
Scared of how good it feels to matter in someone’s daily life.
Scared of how quickly “temporary” started feeling like “home.”
It’s Friday, late afternoon light spilling across the carpet, and I’m sitting on the floor with Leon bouncing happily in my lap when the front door clicks open.
“Hey,” Desmond calls out, voice rough from work, tired but warm in that way it always is when he sees us.
I look up, smiling before I can stop myself. “Hey. Welcome back.”
Leon hears his dad and squeals loud enough to shake the windows, little legs kicking like he’s training for a marathon.
Desmond’s whole face softens. “Yeah, buddy, I missed you too,” he says, dropping his keys on the counter.
He kneels down beside us, boots still on, reaching out to ruffle Leon’s hair. The baby lunges for him like he’s been starved of Desmond’s attention for hours instead of minutes.
“You two been holding down the fort?” he asks, looking at me with that small, crooked half-smile that always hits a little too low in my stomach.
I shrug lightly, bouncing Leon once more before handing him over. “Mostly. We had a very intense debate earlier about whether socks belong on feet or in mouths.”
“Oh yeah?” Desmond smirks, taking the baby into his arms. “Who won?”
“Leon,” I deadpan.
“Figures. Kid’s got strong opinions.”
He stands, settling Leon on his hip, and looks down at me still sitting on the carpet. His gaze lingers for a second too long, warm in a way that makes my chest flutter and my palms sweat.
“How was he today?” he asks softly.
“Good,” I say, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “Clingy. But in a cute way.”
“That’s his specialty,” he chuckles. Then his voice dips a little. “And you? How was your day?”
The question hits somewhere tender.
I smile, small. Careful. “Good too.”
“Yeah?” he asks, eyebrow lifting like he’s checking if I actually mean it.
“Yeah,” I repeat, quieter this time. “It was… nice.”
Desmond nods, eyes still on mine.
I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how close he is, how warm the room feels with him in it. “I, uh… made dinner,” I say. “Those steaks with onions you said you missed.”
For a second he just blinks.
Then his whole face lights up, bright and boyish in a way I’ve never seen on him after a long shift. “You’re kidding me.”
I shake my head. “Nope. They’re resting on the counter right now. I hope I didn’t screw them up.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, the kind that comes from the chest, not the throat. “Brielle, I haven’t had a real steak in… hell, I don’t even know how long.”
“Well,” I say softly, “you said your old man used to make them that way, so I found a recipe that looked close and… tried.”
He stares at me again, but different this time—
slower, softer, like he’s trying to understand something I don’t know how to say out loud.
“You didn’t have to go to all that trouble,” he says, voice low.
“I know,” I murmur, twisting my fingers in the hem of my shirt. “I wanted to.”
He shifts Leon on his hip, eyes still locked on me. “You keep doing that.”
My stomach flips. “Doing what?”
“Things nobody’s done for me in a long time.”
The words hit me deep. Too deep.
I force a tiny smile. “Dinner isn’t that big a deal.”
“It is to me,” he says.
And the way he says it—quiet, honest—
makes my heart beat a little faster, a little higher in my throat.
Leon grabs a fistful of his dad’s shirt and squeals like he’s adding his two cents.
Desmond chuckles and kisses the top of his head, then looks back at me.
“C’mon,” he says gently. “Show me what you made.”
And for the first time in days—
maybe weeks—
I don’t feel like a storm he let in.
I feel like something warm he came home to.