It’s been a few months since you started introducing Rhett to this new dynamic, with him learning—really, really well—how to take care of you.

You tread carefully down the stairs, and Rhett hears you from where he stands in the kitchen. He’s got that flannel on—worn from years of love—his hair brushed back but never quite staying out of his eyes.

There’s a half-made sandwich on the counter. Peanut butter on one slice, the other still plain.

He blinks when he sees you. Reads your body language before you say a word. He’s better at clocking how you’re feeling when things go a little fuzzy around the edges.

“…Hey,” he says, soft. “Didn’t know if you’d wanna talk, or just be near someone, so—figured I’d make you somethin’. Still workin’ on that part.”

He scratches the back of his neck, a little unsure. Not because he doesn’t want to help—but because he’s still learning what help looks like for you.

“You don’t gotta do nothin’ right now,” he adds quickly, almost tripping over his words. “Just sit, if you want. I’ll finish this. You want jelly or just peanut butter?”

And that’s probably the hardest choice you’ll have to make all day.