Chapter 25 Stormy
Stormy
I’m wrapped up in a blanket, legs crossed on the sofa, laptop balanced on my knees, when there’s a knock at the door.
Missy maybe. She’s been coming around a lot lately to help, but I’m sure she said she had work today, so I hesitate before uncurling myself slowly and padding over to open it, the floor cool beneath my bare feet.
Ford stands there, a toolbox in his hand, his eyes steady but unsure. I blink at him, still clutching the blanket around my shoulders like it might shield me from whatever this is.
“Hey,” I say, voice thinner than I mean it to be. I’m confused.
Ford shifts the toolbox in his hand, eyes flicking past me into the room before settling back on my face.
“Yeah. Uh, hey.” He clears his throat. “Jensen said your sink’s acting up,” His voice is gentler than I expect. No edge, no grumble. Just … pleasant.
I’m thrown by the softness after the way he last spoke to me. “Oh, no, it’s fine … I can sort it myself.”
He shifts his weight.
“Just thought I’d lend a hand …” He pauses, like he’s debating whether to say more and then lifts the toolbox slightly, “I’ve … got the time. If you’ll let me.”
I hesitate. I’m not sure what this is. Is it some kind of peace offering? A guilt trip? Either way, I’m not going to turn down the free help. Truth is, I haven’t had time to deal with it myself, and it has been annoying me.
I step back, letting him in before I can second-guess it and he walks in, not like he owns the place, more like he’s hoping I won’t send him back out.
I follow him over to the sink
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, leaning against the counter opposite.
“I know.”
He crouches in front of the cabinet and starts clearing out the clutter beneath the sink. His voice strains slightly as he lowers himself onto his back.
“I’d like to help.”
I hover, unsure what to do with myself. He doesn’t say much, just works, focused and quiet. His sleeves are pushed up, forearms flexing with each movement. When he shifts, his shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin and the sharp lines of his stomach.
I catch myself staring.
He glances at me, and our eyes meet.
I look away fast, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“Why’re you here, Ford?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “Thought you told me to stay away.”
He pauses, hand stilling on the wrench.
“I did,” he says softly. “But I shouldn’t have.”
I nod, not sure what to say to that, and turn away before he can add anything else.
I pad back to the sofa and sink back into the warmth. The laptop waits where I left it, screen still glowing, and I curl into my spot, legs tucked under me, trying to focus.
Ford works quietly, the occasional clink of metal and low grunt breaking the silence. I try not to listen, but it’s impossible not to notice the way his presence shifts the air in the room.
I catch myself smiling at something he mutters. It’s barely audible, just a curse or a comment to his wrench, but it slips past my guard. I look away, eyes flicking to the ceiling, but the corners of my mouth betray me. I shake it off. It’s nothing. Just noise.
But the truth is, these small things, his quiet focus, the way he talks to inanimate objects like they’re old friends, they’re getting to me more than I want them to. Sneaking in under the part of me that’s supposed to be cautious. The part that remembers how he left things last time.
So, I remind myself not to read into it. Not to soften. Not to let a hint of warmth undo weeks of trying to stay steady.
Eventually, I hear him shifting, the soft clatter of tools being packed away.
“All right,” he says, voice a little louder now. “That should be better.”
I close my laptop and stand, walking over. He’s still crouched, tucking things into his toolbox.
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it.
But as I step up to the sink and turn the tap to check, my elbow knocks one of his tools off the side. It clatters to the floor and lands squarely on the top of my bare foot.
“Shit,” I hiss, stumbling back. And a small, pathetic sound slips out, half moan, half whimper, before I can stop it.
Ford shoots up quickly, banging his head on the underside of the counter.
“Fuck. Are you … Did that hit you?”
I look at him, my eyes welling up, because Jesus, that hurt. I can’t speak, so I just nod.
I glance down and there’s already a faint purple mark beginning to bloom, and a thin scratch beads with blood.
Finally, I find my voice, “It’s fine.”
But a small, traitorous tear slips past my lashes.
“Let me see,” he orders, voice low but urgent.
I hesitate, heart thudding, not sure if it’s from the pain or the way he’s looking at me now.
He crouches again, gently taking my foot in his hands. His fingers are careful, almost hesitant, like he’s afraid of hurting me more, and his brows knit as he examines the damage.
“Damn. That’s already bruising. You sure you’re okay?”
I nod, worrying my lip between my teeth as the pain throbs through my foot.
It hurts, but I try not to let it show. I’ve trained myself not to.
With my dad, with Sam, pain was leverage.
If I cried, they pushed harder. If I flinched, they smiled.
I learned early that weakness wasn’t safe, it was ammunition.
So now, even when it’s real, even when it’s just a bruised foot and Ford crouched in front of me with concern in his eyes, I hold it in.
He lowers it gently, then rises in front of me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him.
“Okay. Sit,” he says, nodding toward the counter.
“No, it’s fine. Really.” I shift my weight to my uninjured foot. “It just caught me weird”
He gives me a gentle, yet firm, look.
“Don’t argue. Just … sit.”
There’s something in his voice that breaks through the guard I’ve built. It’s not pushy or commanding, just quietly caring. So, I do it. I push myself up onto the counter, the edge cool beneath my thighs, and he steps closer, eyes scanning my foot again.
“Where’s your first aid stuff?”
“Top cupboard,” I say, pointing behind him.
He turns and opens it, rummages for a moment before pulling out the box. He sets it down beside me, flipping the lid open.
He moves in front of me, sliding between my knees. The space between us is charged. His fingers hover over the supplies, then reach for an antiseptic wipe.
I watch him, heart thudding, unsure where to look.
His hands are rough, yet gentle when he tilts my foot into the light. He studies the reddened skin, brushing his thumb just beside it, but not touching the scratch itself. I catch my breath.
“This might sting,” he says, opening the wipe.
I flinch when it touches the mark, and his shoulders go tense. “Sorry,” he murmurs, quieter now. “Almost done.”
I nod even though he’s not looking at me. He’s apologising for helping, for trying to fix something he didn’t do. For caring, gently and without blame.
He’s not yelling. Not accusing. Not telling me it’s my fault.
I’ve spent years bracing for the moment kindness turns sharp. But this, this is soft. It’s steady. It’s … safe.
But he won’t meet my eyes, like he knows that if he does, we’ll both acknowledge the weight sitting between us. His fingers hover a little longer than necessary when he places a plaster over the sore.
When he finally lifts his head, I’m already watching him.
And he knows.
I see it in the way his expression softens, just for a second, and then he clears his throat, still holding my foot like it’s something fragile.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,” he says quietly. “Back at the field with Jensen. I was … angry. But not at you.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t.
His fingers are warm against my skin, and I feel just the lightest stroke of his thumb against the inside of my ankle.
My breath stutters, and I swear my pulse skips.
“I took it out on you,” he adds, voice low. “And I hate that I did. There’s no excuse for it.”
I swallow hard. The air is thick between us.
There’s something raw in his expression—regret, maybe. Or something close to it.
I give him a small smile.
Not because it’s okay.
But because I needed to hear it.
I glance down at my foot, still cradled in his hands. His thumb rests just above my ankle, unmoving now, but he hasn’t let go.
He notices me looking. His gaze follows mine, and for a second, we’re both just staring at the same spot, like neither of us knows what to do next.
The silence stretches too long, and I clear my throat, trying to break the tension.
“You sure you don’t need first aid yourself?” I ask, tilting my head. “You hit your head pretty hard under there.”
His mouth twitches, then he lets out a quiet laugh. It’s low and rough, but it’s real.
“Nah. Just bruised my pride.”
I smile, and the tension loosens just a little.
Then he finally lets go of my foot, stepping back, but the warmth of his touch endures like a ghost.
I watch him pack away the first aid kit, his movements slower now, like he’s not sure what comes next.
I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed seeing him around until now. With him here, it’s suddenly obvious.
His apology wasn’t perfect. What he did wasn’t right.
But the regret in his voice felt real.
Tangible.
Like it cost him something to say it.
And maybe that’s enough for now.