Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
L andyn
Ford steps into the room, and then we just stand there looking at each other—me barefoot and in my pajamas, him still fully dressed. I try to still my hammering heart. Everything is fine, I tell it. This is totally normal.
Except it’s not.
There’s nothing normal about the way Ford looks at me. Like he wants to touch me, but he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he does.
“I’m not here to start anything,” he says quietly, his hands in his pockets like he’s trying to keep them from reaching for me. “I just…wanted to be with you.”
The simple honesty of it makes my chest ache. I nod, because God, I get that too. “Me too.”
The air is thick with silence. I walk to the bed and sit down on the far side, curling my legs beneath me. He follows, slower, lowering himself to sit beside me. The mattress shifts, our shoulders just barely brushing.
“Do you remember the first time we went camping?” I ask .
He looks over at me. “Silver Lake.”
I smile faintly. “You thought I’d be okay sleeping in a tent.”
“I got you an air mattress and I brought my duvet from home for us because you were worried you’d be too cold in your sleeping bag.”
“And I was right. I stole the whole duvet in the middle of the night. Along with your hoodie.”
He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I froze for three hours.”
We sit in that memory for a minute, warmed by it, then I lie back against the pillows, and without asking, he does too.
We don’t touch. We just stare up at the ceiling, like maybe we’ll find the answers up there.
After a while, his fingers find mine. At first, just a small brush of his pinky against mine, but then I lace my fingers through his. I shiver when his thumb sweeps gently across the back of my hand.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I whisper.
“Me too,” he says. “I’m not ready to let you go again.”
I close my eyes, afraid that if I speak, I’ll say too much, and even though I want this—him—more than I can explain, I’m still terrified of what happens when the secret I’m keeping finally finds the light.
But right now, in this bed, in this small, quiet space carved out of a mountain town far from everything real—he’s here.
With me. And for tonight, maybe that’s enough.
“Can I stay here tonight?” he asks.
I nod once. “Yeah. You can.”
His shoulders ease, just barely. Like even though he knew the answer, part of him still needed to hear it.
We move slowly. He stands beside the bed and draws back the covers, and I slip beneath them as he turns off the overhead light, the room dark now with just a sliver of moonlight slicing through the midnight sky through the sheer curtains.
He kicks off his shoes and then pulls his shirt over his head and sets it neatly on the chair in the corner before unbuttoning his jeans. He undresses quietly, his movements slow and controlled. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before, and I guess we have, in another lifetime.
My breath catches. The sight of him—half-dressed and standing in the soft light in only his boxer briefs—is incredible.
His body is all sharp planes and defined muscle, broad across the shoulders, cut down his stomach.
There’s a fine dusting of hair covering his pecs and leading into his navy boxer briefs.
He runs a hand through his thick hair, his jaw flexing just slightly as he glances at the bed, and at me.
I don’t look away. Not this time.
There is meaning in this moment, like something sacred is passing between us. Not just lust. Not even longing. Just the aching, quiet awe of seeing someone you never stopped loving in their most unguarded form.
Ford climbs into bed beside me without a word, the mattress shifting under his weight, and I draw the covers up over both of us, my heart pounding in my chest like I’ve been holding my breath since the day I left him.
And then we’re here…side by side with only inches between us.
I lie on my side, facing the window, and then, softly, hesitantly, he says, “I think about it sometimes.”
“Think about what?”
“If we’d done it differently.” His voice is rough, like he doesn’t trust it. “If I’d found you. If you’d stayed.”
The air tightens. But I don’t look at him.
“Me too,” I whisper .
There’s a pause. “Do you regret it? Leaving?”
Yes. No.
Every single day.
“I think…I did what I thought I had to do,” I say instead.
He doesn’t press. He never does.
After a beat, his arm slides around my waist, warm and firm, pulling me gently back into his chest. I let my body settle into his—spooned perfectly, like we’ve always belonged here, just like this. His hand rests just below my ribs, his breath brushing against the back of my neck, slow and steady.
We say nothing more, but I feel everything.
Then I close my eyes and fall asleep in the arms of the only man who’s ever made me feel safe.
I wake slowly.
The morning light slips through the curtains, barely touching the edges of the bed. Ford’s arm is heavy around my waist, his chest pressed warm to my back, our legs tangled beneath the sheets.
I don’t want to move. I don’t want to ruin the rare peace of this moment, but then his arm tightens around me, his nose brushes the back of my neck, and his voice is soft in my ear.
“You always made me sleep like this,” he murmurs.
I smile against the pillow. “I don’t remember you complaining.”
“I liked it.” He pauses. “Still do.”
I shift just enough to turn toward him, our faces only inches apart. His hair’s a mess, his eyes still heavy from sleep. He looks like something I dreamed up.
“I missed this,” I whisper, my fingers lightly brushing his chest.
His eyes search mine. “Me too.”
His hand slides down my thigh, slow and sure, and then dips beneath the sheet, grazing over the top of my underwear. “I always loved waking up to you,” he says quietly, and I inhale sharply. “And I never forgot how you’d wake up to me.”
I let out a shaky breath. “You’re dangerous, Ford Winters.”
He kisses me once, soft and slow, then he pulls back.
“Shower?” he murmurs.
I nod, heart already racing.
He rises from the bed and crosses the room to the bathroom, pausing at the door to glance back. “Come on, June.”
The nickname, that voice. I’m already sliding out of bed, following him.
He flicks the bathroom light on and turns the water to hot.
Steam begins to build instantly, fogging the mirror.
He turns back to me and starts to undress me slowly.
First my T-shirt, peeling it off inch by inch.
Then my underwear, which he slides down my legs, hands warm as they trace along my thighs.
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, voice low. “You always were.”
I dip my fingers inside the waistband of his boxers brushing through the soft hair at his groin before sliding them lower and pushing the fabric down over his erection. He steps out of his boxers, and my breath catches.
He’s already hard.
His cock is thick and full, flushed at the tip, curving up toward his stomach and nearly touching his navel. And God—it’s perfect. Of course, it’s perfect. I remember what it felt like inside me.
His eyes darken as he sees the way I look at him. He cups my jaw and tilts my face to his again, kissing me slow and deep. Then he leads me into the shower, one hand resting on my lower back. The water is hot, cascading over our shoulders, steam curling between our bodies.
Ford reaches for the shampoo, lathering it between his palms, then gently begins to wash my hair. His fingers stroke my scalp in circles, massaging. After he rinses it out, he kisses the top of my head. “Turn around.”
I do.
His hand trails down my spine, resting low on my hip before slipping between my thighs from behind.
I gasp, my hands braced against the tile wall as his fingers slide along the slick center of me, his hard cock bobbing against my back.
“Can I touch you?” He asks, the question stealing air from my lungs.
“Please.”
His hand moves slowly down my stomach, attentively, like he’s relearning the shape of me. Heat rushes to my skin, my pulse fluttering in places I’d forgotten could ache like this. All I can do is stand here and let him touch me like he’s remembering every part of me that he used to know by heart.
His hand doesn’t stop. It trails lower as my body arches toward his hand, my thighs parting, and when his fingers slide between them, I swear my knees wobble.
“Still so fucking soft,” he mutters as his fingers slide through my folds, slow and deliberate, until he pushes one finger inside. My breath catches as my body clenches around the sudden fullness .
“Still so wet,” he murmurs, voice thick.
He slides two fingers into me next, curling them just right as his palm presses against that spot that makes my whole body jolt forward. “Ford?—”
“I’ve got you,” he breathes against my ear. “I’ve been dreaming about this. About touching you like this again. Making you fall apart for me.”
I arch back into him, the pressure building fast and wild.
His fingers move in that slow, deliberate rhythm that only he knows. That only he ever got right. My body tightens, legs shaking.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, one arm wrapped around my waist now, holding me up, guiding me through the release. “Come for me, baby.”
And I do. My body unravels under the heat and steam, remembering the way he knows exactly how to hold me together as I fall apart. Wrecked. And when it’s over, he presses his lips to the back of my neck and whispers my name like it means something again.
I’m still catching my breath—my hands pressed to the tile, his arm around my waist, holding me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. My muscles are loose, my heart racing. I’ve never felt so undone and so safe at the same time.
I turn in his arms slowly, water running down my back, and press my hand to his chest. His heart pounds beneath it.
“My turn to touch you,” I whisper, glancing down, already reaching, but his hand catches mine gently.
“Not today,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with restraint. “This was about you.”
“But—”
He cuts me off with a kiss, soft and lingering. “You gave me what I wanted,” he says against my lips. “I just wanted to take care of you. I wanted to see you again. ”
His words make my chest ache because I know what he means, and I know what I’m still hiding.
I nod slowly, resting my forehead against his.
We stay like that for another moment—bare skin, warm water, nothing between us but the truths we haven’t said yet.
He turns off the shower and reaches for a towel, wrapping it around me before grabbing one for himself.
Back in the room, I sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the comforter into my lap.
Ford leans against the dresser across from me, towel slung low on his hips, water glistening on his chest. His eyes stay on me, like he’s trying to memorize this version of me before it slips away again.
“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” I say softly, not quite looking at him.
“Like what?”
“Like I never left,” I admit. “Like you’re still…” I trail off, biting my bottom lip.
He walks toward me slowly and crouches in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “I never stopped being yours,” he says quietly. “Even when you were gone.”
The words gut me because I want to say them back. I want to say, me too , but I’m still hiding so much. Instead, I reach for him, my fingers brushing his cheek. “Thank you for last night.”
He doesn’t move. He just nods once and says, “Anytime, June.”
And I swear he means it.