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Probably thinks I’m some rich guy on a white-knight ego trip.

She’s not entirely wrong.

When we get closer to her neighborhood, I spot a superstore that’s all lit up on the corner, one of those twenty-four-hour places. I pull into the parking lot and park the car.

Ryleigh’s gaze swings to mine, and I can sense the question on her parted lips.

I recall a piece of advice a coach gave me once about how people would come out of the woodwork asking for money once I signed my first big contract. He recommended that instead of giving out cash, I should give them what they need—you know, like paying an electric bill versus handing someone a hundred bucks.

“Why are you stopping here? My place is still a few blocks away.” She gives me a curious look.

“Let’s get the stuff you need.” Plus, if she’s lying about the baby, now would be the time to come clean.

She swallows, and for a second, I think she’s going to argue. I can practically see the refusal forming behind her eyes—jaw tightening, chin lifting just slightly. But then she looks at the store, looks back at me, and something in her shoulders gives.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

The store is aggressively bright after the dimness of the car—fluorescent lights humming overhead, tile floor sticky in spots. It’s mostly empty at this hour—a bored cashier scrolling through her phone, a stock boy pushing a pallet down an aisle, and the two of us: an overgrown linebacker and a tiny woman in a jacket meant for October.

I grab a cart, and we wander toward the baby section. Ryleigh leads, walking with purpose even though I can tell she’s not entirely sure where she’s going. She finds the diaper aisle first and stops, scanning the shelves with her arms crossed.

“There are like forty different kinds,” she mutters, reaching for a pack and flipping it over to check the price.

“What size is she in?”

“I have no idea.” She chews her lip. “She’s . . . pretty small.”

I reach past her and grab a pack of size ones. “These should work.”

Ryleigh takes them from me, checks the price, and sets them back on the shelf. She reaches for a smaller pack on the bottom shelf instead—store brand, maybe sixteen diapers. “These are fine.”

I know how quickly babies go through diapers. That pack will last two days, three if she’s lucky. I open my mouth to say something, then clamp it shut. I should let her do this her way.

She places the small pack in the cart and moves down the aisle without looking back, and I follow, pushing the cart behind her. The way she navigates the store—chin up, no hesitation, reaching for the cheapest option of everything—tells me she’s done this kind of math a thousand times. The math of need versus what she can actually afford. She’s practiced at it. Efficient.

It also tells me she’s been doing it alone for a long time.

Next, we find baby formula, and Ryleigh selects a yellow tub of the stuff, then freezes when she sees the price.

“Are you kidding me?” She holds the tub up and looks at me like I’m personally responsible. “Thirty-seven dollars?”

“Babies are expensive.”

“Yeah, no kidding. I could eat for a week on thirty-seven dollars.” She sets it in the cart with a sigh that seems to come from somewhere deep, then stares at the shelf for another second. I can see her doing the calculations—how long one tub will last, how many she’d need, what else she’d have to give up to buy a second one. Babies go through formula even faster than diapers, and she needs at least two or three of those tubs.

She turns away from the shelf with just the one.

I stay quiet. It’s killing me, but I stay quiet.

“What else do you need?” I ask, turning to face her.

Under the bright lights, I can see how truly beautiful she is for the first time. Her hair is the color of deep honey. It looked brown outside, but here in the light, shades of gold run through the soft waves. Her skin is like porcelain, soft and creamy, and her eyes are the most striking shade of blue, fringed in thick black lashes. Stunning. The kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you—that gets prettier the longer you look.

As if she can sense me staring, she chews on her lower lip and shakes her head. “I’m really not sure. I don’t know the first thing about babies. She cries a lot, and I…”

“How old is she?”

“Two months.”