Chapter 17 #2
“Yeah well, I didn’t expect to walk into a dance party,” I shoot back. “Caught me off guard. Never seen someone celebrate getting a job by spinning in circles ’til the baby nearly takes flight.”
She flushes, laughing under her breath as Leon pats her cheek. “I was excited.”
“No kidding,” I say, softening. “Good thing I came home when I did. Another five minutes and you two would’ve developed your own weather system in here.”
She swats at my arm with her free hand. “Stop it.”
“Can’t,” I smirk. “Too wet to behave.”
She groans. “Desmond, go change before you get sick.”
“I don’t get sick.”
She arches a brow. “Every man says that right before they end up shivering under three blankets claiming they’re dying.”
I narrow my eyes. “Okay, who told you about my twenties?”
Her laugh bursts out—bright, genuine, the kind that hits me somewhere stupid and deep.
She nudges her chin toward the hall. “Go. Dry off. I’ll warm dinner and— oh!” She shakes Leon’s little hands up and down like he’s celebrating with her all over again. “And then I’ll tell you everything about the job.”
I lean in, kiss her forehead—just a quick, rough brush, because if I stay longer I’ll soak her through.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “You’re telling me every detail, sweetheart. But only after you towel this kid off.”
She glances down at Leon, who’s now damp from hugging me. “Oh my God—Leon! You’re wet too!”
The kid giggles like it’s the best part of his day.
And for a second, standing there drenched, clothes sticking to me, rain still dripping off my hair—
I swear I’ve never felt warmer.
----
Brielle Shaw
This new job… honestly, it feels unreal in the best way.
Monday morning I started at nine, which meant I actually had time to sit with Desmond at breakfast, pack his lunch box, and not feel like I was scrambling through the day before it even began.
He kept calling it my “big day,” hovering around me like he was the one sending me off to school.
It was cute. And embarrassing. And sweet in a way I don’t think I’ll ever get used to.
He’s been nothing but supportive. No teasing, no doubts, no weird comments about whether I can handle it.
Just… proud. Straight-up proud. He kissed the top of my head before he left, squeezed my waist, told me I’d “knock it out of the park,” which made my stomach twist because no one’s ever said something like that to me without expecting me to fail right after.
And Leon actually behaved. A miracle. He babbled in his playpen while I logged in, only fussed around lunchtime, and even then it was just that soft, hungry whine he does, not the full meltdown I worried about.
I kept checking over my shoulder at him, convinced he’d explode the second someone called, but he didn’t.
It was… calm. Manageable. Almost normal.
The job itself isn’t glamorous. Not even close.
Mostly I listen to people complain about their service, or walk them through resetting passwords, or help them figure out why their invoice is wrong.
It’s a lot of “I understand your frustration, sir,” and “Can you try unplugging the modem?”
but honestly? I don’t mind. It’s steady.
Predictable. And every time I get off a difficult call without crying or shutting down, something warm settles in my chest.
Because I’m doing it.
I’m working.
I’m contributing.
I’m not just living off Desmond’s kindness or waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For the first time in a long time, I feel… capable. Like maybe I’m allowed to have a routine. A life. Something that doesn’t fall apart every time I breathe wrong. And every time Des asks me, “How’s it going?” with that proud glint in his eye, I feel this tiny spark of something.
Hope, maybe.
When I clock out at six, my throat is a little scratchy from talking all day and my brain feels full of customer-service phrases I never want to hear again…
but it was a good first day. Really good.
My manager even said I picked things up fast, which might’ve been a generic compliment, but God, it felt nice to hear anyway.
Like I wasn’t a burden. Like I wasn’t already behind.
The evening settles around the apartment quiet and warm.
I chop vegetables for soup—carrots, celery, potatoes, little cubes of beef—because the weather’s been dropping and I want something comforting.
Something Leon can gum without looking like he’s surviving a war.
The whole kitchen smells like broth and thyme, and for a minute I let myself pretend this is a normal life.
A stable one. A life where people come home from work to warm food and happy babies and someone waiting for them.
And then the door opens.
Desmond steps in, hair wet from the drizzle outside, boots heavy on the mat. He spots me over by the stove and that smile—God—his whole face changes when he looks at me now. Softer around the edges, warmer. Like I’m something good he gets to come home to instead of a problem he has to solve.
“Hey, miss employee of the day,” he says, walking toward me with this stupidly proud grin. His hazel eyes have that sparkle again—the one that feels like sunlight right on my chest. “I got you something.”
My mouth actually lifts without me telling it to. “You did?”
“It’s not much,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his blonde hair, embarrassed in this endearing, rugged way he doesn’t even realize he has. He sets a small cardboard box on the counter. “Just a little something to celebrate my girl’s first day at the job.”
My girl.
Those two words slide right under my ribs and settle somewhere warm and dangerous.
He opens the box, lifting the lid—and it’s a cake.
A small grocery-store cake with chocolate frosting and tiny pastel flowers piped along the edges.
It’s simple. Sweet. A little lopsided on one side like it went through the hands of a distracted teenager, but it’s adorable.
The kind of thing people buy for milestones they actually care about.
My breath catches.
Because nobody has ever… celebrated me. Not like this. Not for something this small. Not for a first day or a try or an effort. I’m used to my wins going unnoticed, or worse—being twisted into something that somehow inconveniences someone else.
But Desmond is standing here looking proud enough to burst over the fact that I answered phones for eight hours.
My eyes sting before I can stop them.
He sees it instantly, steps closer, his voice dropping gentle. “Hey—hey, what’s that face for? It’s just cake.”
“I know,” I whisper, shaking my head, smiling through it anyway. “It’s just… no one’s ever gotten me a ‘first day’ anything before.”
His jaw flexes, like it means more to him than he expected it to.
“Well,” he murmurs, thumb brushing my cheekbone in a featherlight sweep, “get used to it. Because we’re celebrating all your days now.”
And the soup bubbles softly behind us, warm and steady, while something in me melts just a little more than it should.