Chapter 26 Stormy #2
“Oh no, this needs to be shared,” he presses on, grinning.
“She decided to take this ‘shortcut’ back to camp, right? Of course, she did—it is Harper after all.” He rolls his eyes for effect.
“Anyway, she started scaling this massive rock. Only halfway up, she realised she couldn’t go forward or back.
Just clung there, dramatically sighing while I tried to talk her down. ” Laughter rolls through the group.
“In her defence,” he adds, glancing her way, “she’s never been great at staying still.” He turns to me with a smirk, “ADHD brain, plus mountainside, equals chaos math. But honestly? It’s no surprise, really. It’s not a proper outing until Harper tries to turn it into an expedition.”
Harper’s cheeks flush as she tries to hide behind her cup, but she’s grinning too.
“Next time, you can go collect the firewood yourself.”
Ford gives her a look. “You? Sit still whilst somebody else goes exploring? Yeah, I’d like to see that.”
Harper sighs with theatrical defeat. “Fair. Still, rude.”
Giggling into my wine, I glance up, and Ford catches my eye.
It’s only a moment, a glance through firelight, but it lands.
His smile is soft, no teasing now, just quiet acknowledgement.
As if to say I’ve got you. I changed the subject for you.
I let a small smile tug at the corner of my mouth, answering without words. I know. Thank you.
The mood lifts, the air feels lighter, and the laughter remains. Eventually, Harper and Grace drift off towards their tents, and Ford follows not long after, murmuring an excuse, vanishing into the dark.
Missy and I stay a little longer, sipping wine and sharing quiet thoughts before finally deciding to call it a night.
I unzip the tent door, duck inside, and close it again to change into some leggings and a thick, woolly jumper. I stare at the sleeping bag on the floor with a mix of resignation and quiet dread.
Ideally, I would have liked an air mattress—something with a bit of give.
But Missy had insisted that I get the full camping experience.
Crawling in, I let out a slow breath. The sleeping bag seals in just enough warmth to trick my body into surrender.
The floor beneath me is as unforgiving as I expected—hard, uneven, and stubbornly indifferent to my attempts at comfort.
I’m fairly sure I laid a sleeping mat down earlier, but it might as well be imaginary for all the support it offers.
After some awkward shifting and sighing, I settle into a semi-comfortable angle, my back already protesting.
The stillness begins to cradle me despite it all, and as my eyelids grow heavy, I feel something unfamiliar gleaming beneath the fatigue.
A quiet comfort. Not in the setup or surroundings, but in the strange simplicity of just being here.
By the sense of being surrounded by people who care.
Of Ford and the way that he looked out for me tonight.
Eventually, sleep takes me, my last thought lingering on the warmth behind his smile, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, we can continue to be friends.
Someone towers over me. Their eyes burn, molten black with rage, locked onto mine with terrifying intensity.
Their fists clench at their sides, knuckles stretched tight and white as they fight against their own anger.
They’re shouting, their mouth moves, their face contorts, but I can’t hear a word.
The world slows, distorted, muffled, the roar in my ears louder than the fiercest thunderstorm.
Specks of saliva fly from their mouth, their nostrils flare, their whole body vibrates with fury. I’m on the ground, the cold seeping into my skin as I stare up at them. My heart hammers violently, bile rising in my throat.
I know this feeling. I’ve lived it before.
Sam.
He moves. His fist uncurls …
I jolt awake, my breath caught in my throat.
My skin is clammy and cold, covered in sweat, and my heart is racing wildly in my chest.
Disoriented, I stare into the darkness of my tent, trying to shake the remnants of the nightmare from my mind.
The cold is real, but it’s not what’s making me shiver.
Outside, the trees loom, just shadows pressed against the tent walls, their limbs twitching in the breeze like they’re alive.
The moon casts a pale sheen across the fabric, and I close my eyes, listening to the silence of the night.
But the echo of the dream still rings in my skull, distinct and cruel.
Then I hear the soft rasp of a zip and my pulse spikes as I turn to face the tent door.
Ford crouches just outside, peering in. His hair is dishevelled, as if he’s been roused from sleep. I bolt upright, gripping my sleeping bag tightly against me.
“Hey,” he says tentatively, his voice low and soothing. “It’s just me … I thought I heard you crying?”
I hesitate, reaching up to touch my cheeks. They’re wet. Heat creeps up my neck, and I glance away, suddenly aware of how raw I must look.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he tells me. His voice is rough with the remnants of sleep.
His tone is gentle, careful, like he’s giving me space, letting me choose how much of myself I want to hand over.
“Can I come in?” he asks softly, a flicker of a smile in his voice. “It’s kinda cold out here.”
He’s trying to lighten the mood, but I notice the concern beneath. It slides under the tension in my body, and I soften, like his worry is brushing against my fractured edges and smoothing them out.
I hesitate for only a moment before I nod.
I just … I don’t think I want to be alone.
Not halfway up a mountain, with that dream still clinging to me, with nothing but shadows and silence pressing in from all sides.
I’m not scared, not exactly, but there’s an eeriness to the night, something in the stillness that feels too aware.
Then I hear a soft crack, like a branch shifting, distant but distinct. I freeze, breath hitching, eyes darting towards the tent wall.
“Probably just a fox,” he murmurs, gently.
I let out a small, embarrassed laugh and lean forwards, reaching for the zip.
Ford climbs in awkwardly. His size is a challenge in the cramped space. It’s all knees grazing against fabric and elbows catching on folds.
Eventually, he settles beside me—not too close, not too far. Just there. Solid and present. He doesn’t crowd me, doesn’t push, just lets the quiet settle between us. His hand brushes the edge of the sleeping bag, not quite touching me, but close enough to feel reassured.
“Was it a bad dream?” he asks.
It’s not really a question, more like he already knows and just wants me to know he’s here.
I nod but say nothing more, and he doesn’t ask me to.
We sit in silence for a short while, the last remaining flames of the fire outside casting faint, flickering shadows against the canvas of my tent.
After a bit, the words claw their way up, jagged and unwelcome.
I don’t want to say them. I don’t want to give them shape.
But they press against my chest, aching to be known.
“My ex,” I manage, voice thin. “Sam. He … he wasn’t …”
I swallow. Try again.
“He wasn’t a good man. That’s why I left London … and sometimes I dream about him.”
I stare at the canvas wall, watching the shadows dance. I don’t say more. I can’t. The memories are too sharp. Saying his name feels like dragging glass across my skin.
Ford is still, his expression darkening. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t demand more details, just watches me carefully, absorbing my words.
And maybe that’s why the words came at all.
His family … the way they welcomed me, the way they laughed and bickered and made space for me as if I belonged, it cracked something open.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was floating outside of everything.
Maybe sharing this won’t break me. Maybe it’s okay to let someone see the bruises I’ve been hiding.
“Are you okay?” he asks at last.
I glance at him. His fingers move slightly, like he wants to reach out, to offer something. Comfort, maybe … but he holds himself back.
I shake my head faintly, then exhale.
“I know that probably sounded a little messy … I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says, low. “You’re not the one who should be.”
His jaw tightens, just barely, and I press my lips together, gaze dropping to my lap.
“Normally I can’t go back to sleep after dreaming about him. That’s why I’m always up early each morning, reading in the garden.”
“You must be exhausted.”
“Just a little,” I say, letting out a soft laugh and pulling my sleeves down over my hands, like I can tuck the tiredness away.
Ford nods slowly.
Then, he speaks gently—almost unsure, “I’ll keep you company, if you want?”
A pause. He shifts, eyes flicking down, then back up.
“And look, about the other week …” His voice drops.
“Again … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that to you. And I can’t tell you how much I regret it … it’s been eating away at me …”
I stop him before he can continue.
“Ford, you already apologised. It’s fine.”
But even as I say it, something twists inside me. I hesitate, then correct myself.
“Well … I mean, no. It’s not fine. The way you spoke to me … it hurt, Ford.”
He opens his mouth, maybe to explain, but I keep going.
“I accept your apology. I do. But I won’t tolerate anything like that again … Not anymore.”
Then I look at him. Really look. Searching his face for something true. And somehow, I know … he meant it. The apology. His eyes meet mine, and I see it there. The regret.
He places his hand on mine, his fingers curling around with gentle pressure. “You won’t have to. I swear.”
A pause and then, “I hated myself for it, instantly. Not just because I hurt you, but because I saw the look in your eyes and knew I’d made you feel unsafe. That’s not who I am, who I want to be …”
He swallows hard, gaze steady now, like he’s holding himself accountable in real time.
Something shifts in me. It’s the first time a man has ever apologised to me like that.
Not just out of guilt, not to manipulate, or to make himself feel better.
Just … because he knew he’d hurt me. And maybe that’s why I can forgive him, not because the words were perfect, but because he didn’t dress them up or ask for anything in return. He let them be rough, honest, and real.
But forgiveness isn’t the same as forgetting. It’s not a clean slate. It’s a choice to keep the door cracked open, just wide enough to see if he’ll walk through it differently this time.
I’ve been here before, offered grace to men who mistook it for permission. Who saw softness and tried to bend it and said sorry as if it were a shortcut.
But Ford’s apology doesn’t feel like that. It feels like a reckoning. Like he’s standing in the wreckage of his own words and choosing not to look away.
And maybe … maybe that’s the kind of sorry I can believe in.