“Especially then.”
She turns slightly, her hands moving up my cheek. “Even when I refuse to let you handle everything yourself?”
I grin.
“That’s my favorite part.”
She laughs, the sound bubbling up without effort. “You say that now. Wait until I start investigating the town council’s budget allocation.”
“Terrifying.” I infuse my voice with mock gravity. “Should I prepare for exile?”
“Only if you try to hide the records from me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The ease of our conversation,the way we can joke about the very things that once drove wedges between us, feels like a minor miracle. No eggshells to navigate. No careful omissions. Just us, choosing each other daily without the weight of obligation or the pressure of fate.
“Caleb?” Ellie asks.
“Mmm?”
She traces the edge of my badge, forgotten on the side table beside my keys and wallet.
“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if I’d never come to Moonhaven?”
“Sometimes.” I can feel her comforting weight on my chest as breaths rise and fall.
“And?”
“And I think we would have found each other eventually. Maybe not the same way, maybe not as quickly, but…” I shrug. “Some things feel inevitable, even when they’re chosen.”
The distinction matters more than it should. Inevitable implies surrender, but chosen implies agency. We’re here because we decided to be, not because biology or fate demanded it.
“I have something to tell you.” I can tell she was second-guessing her choice to speak and the words have spilled out.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’m listening.”
She opens her mouth, then stops. Outside, the rain slows to a mist. The house settles around us. Nothing presses. Nothing demands.
She rests her palm against my stomach again, more deliberately this time, and breathes.
She turns to meet my gaze. Six months ago, she would’ve tried to calculate the consequences before speaking.
“I’ve been feeling… different,” she begin, choosing each word with care. “Not wrong. Not scared. Just aware.”
I can feel my brow furrowing, not with concern, but focus.
“I thought it was stress,” she continues. “Then I thought it was relief. Then I realized I was running out of explanations that made sense.”
Her hands stay where they are.
I tighten my hold on her, understanding dawning slowly, beautifully, without panic.
The future stretches open in front of us — not guaranteed, not fragile, but possible in a way that feels solid instead of terrifying.
“I really did go to that doctor’s appointment to establish care, but… while I was there I mentioned how I’d been feeling… different. And they ran a test,” she says softly.
She exhales, long and careful, like someone grounding herself before stepping into something sacred.
I take a breath.
And, weirdly, the truth doesn’t feel like a risk.
It feels like a beginning.