The words come out easy, no weight or ceremony attached. Just fact, stated plainly, like mentioning the weather or what we're having for dinner.
His smile spreads slow and sure. "Just occurred to you?"
"Just felt like saying it."
He kisses my forehead, lips lingering against my skin. "Good timing. I was starting to think you were only here for my superior kitchen organization."
"Your kitchen organization is terrible."
"But you love me anyway."
"Against all evidence of good judgment."
We stand there for a moment, comfortable in the quiet space between conversation and whatever comes next. No urgency, no crisis demanding immediate attention. Just Tuesday morning in a kitchen that smells like coffee and feels like home.
"Oh, I'm seeing Dr. Winters at two, by the way. Just to establish care. I’ll stop at the market on my way back."
I stretchin the morning light filtering through Caleb's bedroom window, cataloguing the way my body feels against the sheets. Not searching for flaws or bracing for judgment—just noticing. The soft curve of my stomach rises and falls with each breath. My thighs, substantial and strong, take up space without apology. The little mole on my left shoulder that I used to hide under strategic necklines catches the sunlight like a beauty mark.
"What are you thinking about?" Caleb's voice rumbles against my ear, warm and sleep-rough.
"My body." I turn to face him, watching his eyebrows lift. "Not like that. Just... cataloguing."
"Cataloguing what?"
I trace a finger along his collarbone. "The way my pinky toe is slightly crooked from when I broke it at twelve. How my left breast is a half-size larger than my right—which apparently is completely normal, but teenage me was convinced I was deformed. The scar on my knee from falling off my bike. The way my hair does this weird cowlick thing at the back that no amount of product can tame."
Caleb's hand finds the cowlick in question, fingers threading through the rebellious strands. "I love that cowlick."
"You love everything about me. You're biased."
"Guilty as charged." His thumb traces the small scar bisecting my left eyebrow. "Tell me about this one."
"Chicken pox. I was seven and couldn't stop scratching." I catch his hand, press it flat against my cheek. "I used to hate that scar. Thought it made me look damaged."
"And now?"
"Now it's just part of my face. Like everything else." The words come easily, without the old undercurrent of defensiveness. "I'm not trying to love my body or hate it. I'm just... inhabiting it."
"That sounds revolutionary."
"It is." I laugh, and the sound fills the room without restraint. "For me, anyway."
The laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep, unguarded and genuine. Not the careful, measured responses I used to craft, but pure joy finding its voice. I used to ration happiness, parceling it out in small doses while waiting for the inevitable crash. Now it flows freely, abundant and unafraid.
"I'm happy," I announce, as if the words themselves are a revelation.
"Good." Caleb's smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. "You should be."
"No, I mean really happy. Not relieved-the-crisis-is-over happy or grateful-nothing-terrible-happened happy. Just... happy."
"What's the difference?"
I consider this, watching dust motes dance in the morning light. "The other kinds always had conditions. This doesn't. It just is."
I walkthrough Moonhaven's main street at midday, shoulders squared, chin level. The autumn light catches the storefront windows, and I don't hurry past them anymore. Jackson waves from the bakery. I wave back, unhurried.
"Ellie!" Thomas Reed calls from the library steps. "Got those historical records you requested."