“Your presence,” he says simply, handing me a can.
The words knock the air out of my lungs. There’s no hesitation in his voice, no dramatics. Just the quiet, undeniable truth.
I swallow, my fingers trembling slightly as I pop open the can.
We sip in silence for a while, the cool metal pressed against my palm, the taste of cherry settling on my tongue. I don’t tell him that I still like it—the taste of it. That it reminds me of the way we used to be. It reminds me of the happy times, of all the little things we celebrated.
“I used to think about this,” Rhys says after a while, gazing at the stars above us. “What it’d be like to have you here again.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
He scoffs, his gaze dropping to the can in his hand. He studies it, scraping at the brand name. “I fin
