Page 27 of This Life of Mine

As usual, by closing time we’re sold out of cinnamon rolls and every other baked good.

The last display case sits almost bare, crumbs and empty trays telling the story of a successful day.

Ube Magicturned out to be that—a magical hit. The energy it brought into the shop lingers.

The evening descends as I wipe down counters, sweep floors, and move through our well-practiced closing routine.

There’s a comfortable tiredness in my bones that comes from doing work that feels deserved.

The lights throughout the shop soften, the espresso machine goes quiet, and we all begin to exhale as we prepare to lock up within the next couple of hours.

As I reach into my pocket to check the time, my phone buzzes in my hand.

A text from EJ.

I glance at my screen, a small smile tugging at my lips, part curiosity, part anticipation, already guessing the direction the message will take.

Before I open EJ’s message, I also see a text come through from an unknown number.

I open it.

Absolutely not.

Every time I block his number, Cole gets a new one. He probably heard an earful from Cassie about our encounter and wants to bitch me out.

Not happening.

I ignore Cole and open EJ’s message, and reply.

I exhale a soft laugh at our banter.

EJ manages to instill confidence into my day through brief, well-timed messages that linger far longer than they should. Nowhere near romantic or tender. Just something to remind me that my body occupies a permanent, unapologetic space in his thoughts.

Messages like—

Still thinking about the way you move.

That dress yesterday? Fuck Me.

You don’t know what you do to me.

Each message lands like a spark, lighting something warm and electric in me.

I’m not oblivious to the fact that he probably sends those messages to a dozen other women too. I honestly don’t care.

I at least enjoy what he copies, pastes and sends to me. I’m not overthinking it because he’s a damn good lay.

With him, I’m sexy. Desired. And that’s fine by me. Especially since that hasn’t always been the case.

My relationship with my body has been complicated. For years, I was taught to treat it like something shameful. Too much. Too obvious. My breasts were too big, my ass too noticeable—features that invited attention were wrong.

I learned to cover up without being asked. Double sports bras to flatten my chest. Looser shirts. Longer coats.

I had a constant awareness of how I took up space.

Your body is a temple. Sacred. Private. Only for me.

What he, as in Cole, really meant, was I own you so don’t fucking show off.