"Can I ask you something?" I say.
He nods.
"The water. Last night. Four times?"
His expression shifts. The closest thing to sheepish I've seen on his face, which on his face looks like a very slight adjustment around the eyes. "You needed water."
"I was asleep."
"You would have needed it when you woke up."
"I had a glass on the nightstand already."
A pause. "I didn't know that."
"So you brought more."
"Yes."
I look at him. At the scars and the careful stillness and the brown eyes that give away more than the rest of him.
"You're going to keep doing this," I say. "The water. The apples. The blankets."
He considers.
"Yes," he says.
"Okay," I say.
He looks at me.
"I'm not going to fight it," I clarify. "I'm just noting that it's going to happen."
His face settles. Relaxes in a way that tells me he was waiting for the argument and is surprised not to get it.
We go back to looking at the trees.
After a while his hand appears on the armrest between our chairs. Palm up, not reaching, just there.
I put my hand in his.
His fingers close around mine with that same careful deliberateness from yesterday. He knows exactly how much larger he is and he compensates for it.
The porch is quiet.
Inside, Finn and Malcolm are arguing about something inconsequential. Alex's chair scraping. The sounds of a house that is full for the first time in a while.
My chest does something soft and complicated.
"Rhys," I say.
He looks at me.
"Thank you. For coming."
He's quiet.
"There was no version," he says slowly, "where I didn't."
