Page 25 of Only for Tonight

I pick up my toast. She burps Ella on her shoulder and stares out the window at the skyline, and the quiet between us stretches.

Practice runs long. Coach is riding everyone because Sunday’s game is against San Francisco and they’ve been on a tear, and apparently the best strategy for facing a hot team is to run wind sprints until someone’s lunch makes a reappearance. Doug takes one for the team during the second set.

“Nice commitment, Douglas,” Coach says without blinking.

Weston catches up to me at the water station. He’s been giving me looks all week. Pointed, curious, increasingly annoyed that I’m not volunteering information.

“You’ve been in a suspiciously good mood,” he says.

“I’m always in a good mood.”

“You’ve literally never been in a good mood. You yelled at a vending machine last Tuesday.” He caps his bottle. “You’ve been whistling in the locker room. Since when do you whistle?”

“Maybe I’m just a happy guy, Wes.”

He stares at me. I stare back. He shakes his head and jogs back to the field, and I’m relieved, because if he’d pushed I would’ve had to tell him something, and the truth—that I rearranged my entire morning around a woman and a baby who aren’t mine and I’m happier than I’ve been in years—isn’t a sentence I’m ready to say out loud.

I shower. Change. Drive home.

The apartment is quiet when I step inside. Kitchen spotless—she always cleans, every surface wiped, dishes put away, like she’s trying to be invisible. She’s the least invisible person I’ve ever met.

I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and pad into the living room.

They’re on the couch.

Ryleigh’s on her side, one arm tucked under a pillow, the other draped around Ella, who’s curled on her chest with her fist clutching a handful of Ryleigh’s shirt. A bottle sits half-finished on the coffee table next to Ryleigh’s phone. The TV’s on—some cooking competition, volume almost off.

They’re both asleep.

I stop walking.

Ryleigh’s face when she sleeps is a different face entirely. The tension in her jaw—the one she thinks nobody sees, the constant clench that says I’m fine, I’m handling it—is gone. Her lips are parted. Her lashes rest against her cheeks. She looks young and soft and unguarded in a way I’ve never seen from her while she’s awake, and standing here watching her, I feel like I’m seeing something I wasn’t supposed to see. Something private. Something she keeps hidden under all that armor.

Her hand cups the back of Ella’s head, fingers spread through the baby’s fine hair. Protective. Even unconscious.

I pull the throw blanket from the armchair and drape it over both of them carefully—Ryleigh’s bare legs, Ella’s tiny body—pulling it up to Ryleigh’s shoulder. My hand hovers near her face. One strand of hair has fallen across her cheekbone, and I could brush it away so easily. Just a touch. She’d never even know.

My fingers twitch.

I pull my hand back and stand up straight.

After a second, Ella stirs. Her face scrunches—the pre-cry warning, the thirty-second countdown—and I scoop her up before the real thing starts.

She blinks at me, disoriented, her lip already going.

“Hey, I’ve got you.” I settle her against my shoulder and carry her down the hall. “Ryleigh’s sleeping. Let’s let her rest, okay?”

Ella grabs my shirt and yawns.

I change her, give her a pacifier, and rock her in the chair by the window until her body goes heavy and her grip on my collar loosens. Lay her down on her back in the crib. She’s out within minutes, one arm thrown overhead, tiny chest rising and falling.

When I come back out, Ryleigh hasn’t moved. I sit in the armchair and watch her for another few minutes that I’ll never tell another living soul about, and then I make myself get up and heat leftovers.

She pads into the kitchen around eight, barefoot, hair flattened on one side, a crease from the pillow running across her cheek.

“Hey.” Her voice is rough from sleep. She rubs her eyes. “Guess I fell asleep.” She blinks, looks around, registering the quiet apartment. “Where’s Ella?”

“She’s in her crib.”