He had stopped to get it for me, then. For us. It’s a nice gift, but what matters most is that he thought of me and wanted to bring me something nice. It helps remind me why I love being alive. I really do, even if it hasn’t always felt like it recently.

“Thank you,” I say thickly, clearing my throat and then smiling over at him, soft and genuine. He mentions dinner and I frown a little, suddenly remembering what it was I had forgotten to do today. I was focused on cleaning up, sweeping away debris from the duel explosions of my life, and it hadn’t occurred to me to refuel.

“I’ve only had coffee today,” I tell him, obviously just now realizing it, and I let out a chagrined huff of laughter. “How very Italian of me.”

I look at the wine and then the clock, then back at him again, reaching out to put a hand on his knee. “Do you want to cook? We could order something.”