Page 85 of The Wright Man

There was a beat. A breath too long. Then he said it.

"Imma have to come over and get a taste."

I blinked. My brain short-circuited.

Why the hell did he have to phrase it like that?

I must've paused too long because he smirked again, biting his lip like he knew what he just did to me.

"Of course," I said quickly, brushing imaginary lint off my cami. "You know where the porch is."

"Always," he said, voice low and easy.

And just like that, I needed to rehydrate. Or sit down. Or walk into oncoming traffic. Something.

After a beat, Maleek reached for the basket in my hand.

"Lemme get that," he said, already sliding it out of my grip.

I held on, protesting on reflex. "No, Maleek, I've got it—"

"Ah ah," he cut me off, giving me that signature "don't play with me" look as he took the basket anyway. "You already know you don't carry anything heavier than your purse when I'm around. Dana Wright taught me better than that."

My chest twinged at the mention of his mother. She really had raised him right.

I let him take it, falling into step beside him as we continued down the aisle. We moved easily together, like we always had—me nudging the cart, him carrying my basket like it weighed nothing. Every few steps, he'd toss something into his own cart—protein powder, frozen chicken, almond milk, a ridiculous amount of eggs. It was all very domestic. Too domestic.

The kind of casual routine you only fall into with someone who knows exactly where they fit beside you.

We talked while we shopped. He told me about cleaning out the house—how he'd finally made it through the den, and how he still had a mountain of things to clear out of his old bedroom. I told him about Alicia calling out last-minute this morning and how Kia almost fought somebody's mama for getting too loud with me over box braids yesterday. The usual chaos.

At checkout, I tried to hand the cashier my card, but Maleek beat me to it.

"Leek—"

"Nope," he said, tapping his card with the practiced ease of a man who had no intention of arguing. "It's on me."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You think you're so chivalrous."

"Always."

He carried the bags out to my car without being asked, loading them gently into the trunk while I stood beside him, heart too full and hands too empty. The sun was hot but breezy, that weird in-between Maryland weather where it's too warm for a jacket but it also might rain. A few birds chirped in a tree nearby. Somewhere, a kid was screaming at a shopping cart.

We closed the trunk, and a beat of silence settled between us.

Then he said it.

"I'm going to see him."

I didn't have to ask who. The weight in his voice made it obvious.

I sucked in a breath. "Oh... when?"

"Tomorrow morning," he said, eyes drifting somewhere far away. "It's long overdue."

I nodded slowly, trying not to let the heaviness of it sit too deep in my chest. "I see him every now and then. Try not to let too much time pass. I put money on his books when I can. Daddy does too, every paycheck."

His lips twitched—somewhere between a smile and a wince. "It was damn near impossible to talk to him on the phone when I was overseas. Different time zones, dropped calls, fifteen-minute limits. But we write. A lot."