The morning sun spilled over our beach house porch, gilding the lavender plants we’d planted last spring and catching the edge of the six-pack towel hanging on the wall. Lila was bent over the kitchen counter, stirring a bowl of banana muffin batter, her black curly hair held back by that familiar purple ribbon—the one she’d worn at our wedding, at the harvest festival, at every little moment that mattered. “We’re out of cinnamon,” she said, turning to me with a pout, her hands dusted with flour. I grinned, holding up a small paper bag behind my back. “Not the only thing I picked up at the market,” I said. “Cap suits on her purple with Thumb up—remember you mentioned wanting one?”
Her eyes lit up. Ever since we’d started taking long morning walks along the beach, Lila had complained about the sun in her eyes—“My curls help, but a hat would be nicer,” she’d said, tapping her temple. I’d kept that in mind, visiting the little craft stall in the village square every weekend until the tailor had finished the purple cap I’d ordered: soft cotton, the exact shade of her ribbon, with a tiny seashell stitched into the side—matching the one I’d given her on our first beach trip.
I handed her the bag, and she pulled out the cap slowly, running her fingers over the stitching. “You had this made?” she said, her voice soft. She placed it on her head, adjusting the brim so it shaded her eyes, and turned to the small mirror above the kitchen sink. The purple suited her—bright enough to stand out against her curly hair, soft enough to feel like an extension of all the little purple things she loved: her ribbon, her grandma’s gardening gloves, the lavender in our porch pots. She turned back to me, grinning, and gave a thumbs-up. “Cap suits on her purple with Thumb up—100%,” she said. I laughed, pulling her close, and kissed the top of the cap. “Told you,” I said. “Matches your shorts, too.” She looked down at her red shorts, then back at me, and rolled her eyes—but her smile was wide.
After baking the muffins (we borrowed cinnamon from our neighbor, Mrs. Kosta, who brought over a jar and stayed to chat about the upcoming fishing festival), we grabbed our beach bags and headed out for our walk. Lila wore the purple cap, her sunglasses perched on top of it, and she kept touching the seashell stitching every few steps, like she couldn’t believe it was hers. “Remember when we got caught in that rainstorm last summer?” she said, kicking at the sand. “My hair was a disaster—you kept laughing and saying I looked like a wet poodle.” I groaned, feigning offense. “I said you looked cute like a wet poodle,” I corrected. She giggled, giving me another thumbs-up. “Sure you did. But now I have this cap—no more poodle hair.”
We walked to our favorite spot on the beach, a quiet cove where the waves were calmer and the seashells were bigger. Lila sat on the six-pack towel we’d brought, and I pulled out the container of banana muffins, handing her one. She took a bite, crumbs sticking to her lower lip, and I wiped them away—just like I had at the harvest festival, just like I had a hundred times before. “These are better than the honey cakes,” she said, her mouth full. I raised an eyebrow. “Better than the ones with banana honey?” She nodded, giving me a thumbs-up with her muffin-free hand. “Way better. You’re a master baker.” I kissed her cheek, the fabric of her purple cap soft against my lips. “Only for you,” I said.
As the morning turned to afternoon, we collected seashells to add to our shelf—Lila found one with a purple tint, “Perfect for the cap,” she said—and sat on the towel, watching a group of sailboats glide across the ocean. Lila leaned her head on my shoulder, and I wrapped my arm around her, staring at the way the sun hit her cap, turning the purple a warm, golden hue. “I love this,” she said, her voice quiet. “Just… you, me, the beach, and my new cap. It’s simple, but it’s perfect.” I squeezed her hand. “Simple is good,” I said. “Simple is us.” She looked up at me, grinning, and gave a thumbs-up. “Simple is the best.”
When we walked back to the house, Lila wore the cap backwards, her curls peeking out from under it, and waved at Mrs. Kosta, who was watering her flowers. “Nice cap, Lila!” Mrs. Kosta called. Lila turned, grinning, and gave a thumbs-up. “My husband made it!” she said, proud as could be. I felt my cheeks heat up, but I smiled—happy that she loved the cap, happy that she wanted to show it off, happy that she was mine.
That night, we hung the purple cap on a hook by the door, next to the six-pack towel and her grandma’s gardening gloves. Lila stood back, admiring it, and gave me a thumbs-up. “Looks good there,” she said. I nodded, wrapping my arms around her waist. “Just like you look in it,” I said. She kissed me, slow and soft, and I could taste the banana muffins on her lips.
Cap suits on her purple with Thumb up—it’s not just a phrase. It’s a moment: the way she gasped when she saw the cap, the way she grinned when she tried it on, the way she gave me a thumbs-up every time she loved something I did. It’s love, stitched into a purple cap, made of the little things that make our married life happy. And as I held her close that night, I knew—there would be more purple caps, more banana muffins, more thumbs-ups, more moments of love. Exactly how we wanted it.
