Maybe moving in together was a mistake.
She hands you a mug of coffee, grinning at you over the kitchen counter. Something Costa Rican she brought home because she thought you'd like it (you can't remember the last time anyone did anything just because they thought you'd like it and it warms you in places you've gotten used to suppressing). Her smile's infectious, and you grin back, savoring the rich caffeine. (Savoring her.)
This is perfect. Ordinary, you guess, for some people, but the blissful kind of ordinary that always seems out of your reach.
You've tried. Your childhood didn't teach you much about love and caring, but you picked up a few half-learned aspirations from Derek's family (and the empty place in your gut), and you tried. The couple of months you spent with Addison; the lifetime you thought you wanted to spend with Lexie. It all swirls around in your head and your heart: the stuff you got wrong, the things they didn't understand about you, the hopes you got up and then had to stuff back down.
But with Callie? It's effortless. A bubble of security where she cares about you and you care about her and nothing ever feels like pressure or misunderstanding, and even things that go wrong for a while get fixed.
It's what you thought you missed out on. It's safe. It's . . . perfect. And that's why you're thinking it's maybe a mistake that you moved in together.
Because a little more of this and it's not a mistake you're going to be able to stop making.