Page 17 of Only for Tonight

“Right.” She shuts off the water and steps back—just a half step, but enough to put air between us. “I have to work later too. Could you drop us off on the way?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

I emailed my manager last night about Ryleigh’s heating bill. Asked him to find out what she owed and pay it. I’m not telling her this. She would combust.

We pack up Ella’s things—bottles, formula, diapers, the Boppy pillow. Everything fits in the diaper bag with room to spare, which tells me she has about a third of what she actually needs.

The ride to her place is quiet. Not the awkward kind—more like we’ve used up the easy conversation and what’s left is everything we don’t know how to say. Ella’s quiet in the back. Ryleigh’s watching the city go by through the passenger window, and the morning light is catching the side of her face—the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, one loose strand of hair against her skin—and I have to make myself look at the road.

Her neighborhood hits different in daylight. Cracked sidewalks. An overflowing dumpster at the curb. Security bars on the ground-floor windows. I pull up to her building and park.

We walk to her door together. She unlocks it, pushes it open, and turns to face me.

About a foot of space between us. She has to tip her chin up to meet my eyes, and the height difference hits me all over again. She’s so small standing here with a baby carrier in one hand and a bag over her shoulder. Not fragile—Ryleigh is the furthest thing from fragile—but small. And alone.

“Thanks again, Alexei.” Her voice is softer than last night. “I don’t know how I could ever repay you for . . .”

I hold up a hand. “It was no trouble. If anything, I owe you for those eggs.”

She smiles—real, unguarded, no walls—and it lands somewhere behind my ribs and just stays there.

She takes Ella’s carrier from me and steps inside. “Have a good practice.”

“Thanks.”

This is the part where I leave. Where I say take care and walk away like a normal person who did a nice thing for a stranger and moves on. That’s how this works. I know how this works.

But I’m standing here.

She’s in the doorway in yesterday’s clothes, holding a baby who isn’t hers, about to go back into an apartment that might not have heat, and she’s looking at me with those blue eyes like she’s fine, like she’s handled worse, like she doesn’t need a thing from anyone.

“Ryleigh.”

“Yeah?”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. There are about ten things trying to get through—stay, come back, give me your number, let me help, tell me you’ll be okay—and they all pile up in my throat until none of them can make it past.

She tilts her head slightly, watching me struggle, and something soft moves through her expression. Patient. Like she can see me trying, and she’s not going to rush me.

“Take care of yourself,” I finally say. “Both of you.”

She nods. “We will.”

The door closes. Quiet click. Nothing dramatic.

I stand there a beat too long, staring at chipped paint and a crooked apartment number, before making myself turn and walk to the car.

I get in. Pull the door shut.

And just sit there.

Hands on the steering wheel. Engine off. The morning is cold and gray, and I can see her apartment through the windshield—third window from the left.

The light comes on. Just a soft yellow glow behind the curtain.

She’s inside. She’s moving around. She’s fine.

So why does it feel like I left something in that apartment that I’m going to need back?