Between Brothers

Chapter 1 - 207.4

The number on the scale stared back at me.

"207.4"

My bare toes curled against the cold plastic like I could somehow shrink away from it. I already knew what it would say. I had known for weeks. Still, seeing it in hard black digits made my stomach twist.

I stepped off, then back on. The number didn't change.

In the mirror across from the bathroom sink, a different version of me used to exist. Two years ago I had been lighter—not small, never small, but lighter. Clothes fit differently. I could cross my legs without thinking about how much space I took up. I could look at photos without immediately flipping my phone over.

Now the mirror showed soft arms, a full stomach that rested over the waistband of my sleep shorts, thighs that brushed together when I walked. My wavy brown hair was pulled into a messy knot, and my brown eyes looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

I turned sideways, then quickly faced forward again. Looking too long only made the insecurity louder.

Alex's toothbrush sat in the cup beside mine. His oversized hoodie hung on the back of the door. Evidence of the life we were building. A good life. A safe one. He never made me feel like my body was a problem. If anything, he reached for me more when I was soft and warm against him.

But the scale didn't care about that.

I exhaled and stepped off it for good, pushing the number out of sight with my foot. The bathroom still smelled faintly of his cologne from this morning. He'd left early for a meeting, kissing the side of my head and telling me he'd try to swing by for lunch if he could get away.

That was enough to get me moving.

I pulled his hoodie on over my sleep shorts and walked out into the kitchen. Sunlight cut across the counter in clean lines. The apartment was still new enough that it sometimes surprised me it was ours—open living room, soft gray couch, the throw blanket Alex bought because I always got cold, our shoes lined up by the door. It wasn't huge, but it felt steady. Like something we were growing into instead of just surviving inside of.

I opened the fridge and started pulling things out for his lunch. Turkey, the sharp cheddar he liked, the bread that actually had some texture to it. My hands moved on autopilot while my mind stayed half-stuck on the scale.

Ever since his promotion, everything had changed in quiet ways. He could work hybrid now. The money was better. Better enough that I didn't have to stay full-time at the animal clinic anymore. I still picked up part-time shifts when they needed me, but most days I had space. Real space. Room to breathe after years of running myself thin.

I was grateful for that more than I knew how to say. Grateful for him. Alex never made a big speech about it. He just saw that I was burning out and quietly built a life that gave me room to come back to myself. Some days the slower pace still felt strange. The silence used to be filled with barking dogs and the smell of disinfectant and the constant weight of other people's emergencies. Now the hours stretched, and I was still learning what to do with them.

I layered his sandwich the way he liked it, cut it cleanly, and packed it with the little container of fruit he always forgot to eat unless it was already in front of him. I set a sticky note on top of the container without thinking too hard about it.

You're getting lunch whether you like it or not.

It was dumb. He would probably smile at it anyway.

I leaned against the counter once everything was ready, arms crossed over the soft middle the mirror had just reminded me of. The gratitude and the insecurity sat in me at the same time, tangled up. I loved the life he had made possible for us. I loved him for never looking at me like I was a project.

I just didn't want to keep flinching from my own reflection.

When his key finally turned in the door a little after noon, I was still standing there in his hoodie, lunch packed, heart doing that small nervous thing it did whenever I was about to ask him for something that mattered.