Page 83 of The Wright Man

"I ain't never liked that nigga, and I damn sure don't trust this sudden rebrand. And ain't a damn thing he could do to undo how he treated you after... Everything."

I nodded to myself, even though she couldn't see it. "I know, Tee."

Tina's voice softened. "I just don't wanna see you lose yourself again trying to make a dead thing breathe."

"I know," I repeated, voice quieter now.

I opened my mouth to respond, but something caught me. Or rather—I caught something.

I'd turned the wrong way and wandered straight into the baby section.

"Shit," I whispered under my breath.

I usually avoided it. On purpose. I knew better. But I'd been too wrapped up in Tina's chaos and my own overthinking to notice where my feet were taking me.

The shelves were lined with soft pastels and tiny socks. Onesies with smiling clouds. A "Daddy's Favorite" bib with a baby elephant on it.

A little cotton onesie caught my eye. It was hanging on a display rack, soft and light pink, with "Little Miracle" embroidered in tiny, gold thread across the front.

My hand moved before I could stop it, fingers brushing the fabric like it might whisper back. Like it might remember the nursery I once sketched. The baby names I once said out loud.

My throat tightened.

I let go quickly and walked away, forcing myself to breathe. To keep moving.

Tina was still talking, her voice a comfort in the fog. Something about putting bleach in Gavin's cologne bottle.

I laughed, shakily. "You're evil."

"Better than stupid," she replied. "Where you at now?"

"Baking aisle," I muttered, turning sharply after grabbing the powdered sugar and vanilla extract I needed.

I was halfway through a breath when I slammed into something solid.

Correction—someone.

Big. Warm. Familiar.

Strong hands caught me by the arms, steadying me before I could stumble. Firm but gentle.

My head snapped up.

Maleek.

"Hey, Angel," he said, voice low and warm.

"Hey, Leek," I said, the smile spreading across my face before I could stop it.

I hated how happy I was to see him. Hated it, and felt it everywhere at once—low in my belly, tight in my chest, buzzing under my skin.

He looked good. Too good.

The fit was simple—anime t-shirt, grey sweatpants (Jesus Christ), and those scuffed-up combat boots he swore gave him better arch support than sneakers. A look I'd seen a thousand times over the years. But now? It hit different. Way different. His chest filled out the shirt like he'd finally grown into it. The sweatpants clung in the right places, and the sleeves on that shirt were fighting for their life.

I suddenly became hyper-aware of how I looked. My braid-out was fresh at least—my curls were soft and coiled, falling around my shoulders like I actually did something to them on purpose. But the rest? Light blue cami. Black yoga pants. Nike slides. The standard Target run uniform. Cute, but nothing life-changing.

He looked at me like I was worth the full price of whatever was in his cart. Like rearranging his entire afternoon was not even a question.