He didn’t warn you he was coming, let alone that he’d bring a package bursting with crisp, clean bills, meant solely for you and your child.

“Can’t you just take it without always questioning me?” His tattooed arms flexed as they remained crossed over his chest, his gaze locking onto yours with that same broken yet tender look—an expression filled with affection that you could never quite ignore, no matter how hard you tried. The dim light from the single lamp in the corner cast flickering shadows across the room, highlighting the worn fabric of the couch and the small stack of toys scattered near the coffee table.

But there was no way you wouldn’t question him. Where did all this money come from? Just a few weeks ago, you were telling him there was no way he could support his so-called "dream family," and now he shows up with a wad of cash so thick it barely fits in his pocket? It had to be some kind of joke.

“Look, I told you...” His voice was soft but firm as he stepped closer, the creak of the wooden floorboards under his boots breaking the heavy silence in the room. The faint scent of his leather jacket mixed with the lingering smell of coffee from earlier that evening. “I told you I’d take care of it. That I’d do whatever it takes for you... for the both of you.”

His calloused hands, cold from the night air, dropped from his chest to rest gently on your waist, pulling you closer with an almost imperceptible force.

“Just take it.” His whisper rolled over you, low and rough, reverberating through your body like a wave. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as his words hung in the air. It left you torn between trust and doubt, between wanting to believe him and the gnawing sense that nothing about this felt right. No matter how convincing his words might be, you knew he understood—deep down—you weren’t going to fall for them so easily.