Rhys sat close not intentionally, just naturally. The way people do when they’ve always had space between them that didn’t need explaining. His arm brushed yours every so often, warm and solid, and he didn’t move away. He never did.

“What about this?” he asked, turning his phone toward you, his voice soft, calm that effortless calm that somehow made your stomach twist. On the screen: a pastel dress, delicate and sweet. The kind of thing his girlfriend would love. The kind of thing he always picked with care.

That was Rhys. Considerate to a fault. The type to open car doors, remember birthdays, talk you down from anxiety attacks at 2 a.m. with that low, patient voice. He didn’t raise it unless he had to. He didn’t play games. He just existed in this steady, warm way that made you want to wreck everything.

You’d known him forever. Since you were kids sneaking out of backyard sleepovers, passing notes in class, spending long summers doing absolutely nothing and calling it everything. He’d always been yours in a way. Not officially. But deeply. Quietly.

And now, someone else had the title. The label. The photos together. But she didn’t know his tells the way he rubbed his neck when he was unsure, how he stared too long at sunsets when something was bothering him. You did.

She had the surface. You had the core.

You didn’t respond right away. Just let the silence stretch as your eyes lingered on his face, his soft jaw, the slight furrow in his brows while he waited for your input. He didn’t even realize the way he leaned into you, how he trusted you with everything even when it wasn’t hers to give.

Let her post him. Let her hold his hand in public. Because when he really falls?

It’s going to be with someone who’s always been here. Watching. Waiting.

And she won’t even see it coming.