Chapter 53 Stormy
Stormy
It’s early evening, the kind that creeps in slow and soft.
The sun was out all morning, but now the sky has turned a moody grey and the clouds are thickening, as if they’re deciding whether to cry or just sulk.
Inside the bookshop, it’s dim enough that I’ve had to switch on the overhead lights.
Their warm glow casts soft shadows across the half-painted walls and scattered boxes.
Ford’s here again. He’s been finding time to help out in the evenings, showing up with paint-streaked jeans and that quiet steadiness I’ve come to rely on more than I expected.
He’s painting the far wall with his sleeves rolled up.
His forearms flex with each stroke. I pretend not to notice. I fail.
“You missed a spot,” I tease, nodding towards a perfectly painted section.
He glances over his shoulder, eyes narrowing playfully.
“You sure? Or are you just finding excuses to stare?”
I laugh, cheeks warm.
“Maybe both.”
He grins, and for a moment, the world feels so light and easy
We’ve been taking things slow. Well … if you can call sex most nights and a never-ending text thread ‘slow.’ But really, we’ve just been enjoying each other and letting this thing between us unfold without pressure, without overthinking.
And so far? It’s going ridiculously well.
So well that I’ve got this stupid, permanent grin plastered across my face. I feel like I’m walking around with sunshine in my chest, and no one can wipe it off,
I’m sorting through a box of fantasy novels, stacking them by author when my phone buzzes. I glance down, expecting Missy. Or maybe a delivery update for the books arriving today.
But it’s not.
Sam: You still think you’re better off without me?
The words hit like a slap, and my chest tightens. The air feels suddenly too thick, like its stuck in my throat, and I just want to puke.
I already decided I wasn’t going to let men like this control my life. I meant it and I still do.
But this feels different than Will.
Will was sharp and sudden, a betrayal that cut deep but clean. Sam’s damage was slower. Quieter. It was years of erosion and second-guessing myself.
I guess it’s harder to step away from that kind of pain—the kind that gets into your bones.
So, I stand there frozen, with my fingers still curled around a book and staring at the screen.
Ford notices. Of course he does. He sets the roller down and crosses the room, wiping his hands on a rag.
“What’s wrong?”
I swallow hard and turn the screen towards him.
“It’s Sam.”
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at me, really looks. Then he moves closer, standing beside me like a wall I didn’t know I needed.
“Y’know, I’m not telling you what to do,” he says, voice low but firm. “But as long as you still have him on your phone … he still has a hold over you.”
His hand strokes gentle circles against my back, and I lean into him, soaking up the quiet protectiveness radiating from him. The truth of his words lands like a stone in my chest.
He’s not trying to control me. I know he’s not. He even said it himself; he’s not telling me what to do. He’s trying to remind me I’m allowed to choose peace.
I look down at the message again. My thumb hovers over the screen.
Ford doesn’t push. He just waits.
And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe.
To know that he’s there to support me, whatever I choose.
I can’t erase all the hurt and pain, but I have to give myself a fighting chance.
I know I already made the choice to walk away.
But this isn’t just about walking, it’s about untangling.
And Sam’s the kind of knot that takes time to loosen.
“You’re right,” I whisper. “I don’t want him in my pocket anymore.”
Ford nods with quiet approval in his eyes. Then he reaches out, gently brushing his fingers against mine.
“You deserve better,” he says.
I smile, small but real. I do deserve better, and I think I’ve found it.
Then I block his number.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel free.
It’s still going to take time to completely heal. But that’s okay.
Ford doesn’t say anything. He just steps closer and wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a side hug. Then he presses a soft kiss to the top of my head. I lean into him for a breath, letting the quiet settle. Then the low rumble of an engine outside breaks the moment.
Ford glances toward the window.
“Van’s here.”
He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze before letting go.
“I wonder how many of those books are emotionally unavailable protagonists just waiting for someone to walk into their lives and ruin their solitude.”
I laugh, the sound bubbling up before I can stop it. “Probably all of them.”
He smirks.
“Figures. You do have a type.”
He looks up at the sky as he reaches the door, pulling it open.
“Come on. Let’s go rescue your books before they get rained on.”
We head outside together. The air is hot and humid tonight, and the grey clouds loom over us.
The van doors groan open, revealing a mess of boxes stacked like a game of literary Jenga.
Books, mugs, bookmarks, and a few crates of indie merch fill the space, looking like they’ve been packed in a hurry.
I scan the pile, already mentally sorting what needs to go in first. I take another glance at the heavy clouds above.
“Okay,” I mutter, more to myself than to Ford. “Let’s move.”
He doesn’t answer, just grabs a box and starts towards the shop. I follow with my arms full and boots thudding against the pavement. My pink summer dress clings to my back, and my hair sticks to my neck.
We carry the boxes inside together, stacking them near the counter.
I grab a box cutter from the drawer and slice open the top of one of the packages—just to check, of course. Inside, nestled between bubble wrap and brown paper, are stacks of books, some with matte covers, some glossy, all of them unfamiliar and full of promise.
I lift one out. It’s a slim paperback with a moody forest on the cover. Tucked just beneath it is a folded note, handwritten on thick cream paper.
I unfold it carefully.
“Stormy,
Thank you for making space for voices like mine. This story saved me while I was writing it, I hope it finds someone who needs it just as much.
With gratitude,
E. Drew.”
I blink, throat tightening.
Ford leans over, reading the note upside down.
“Looks like you’re already changing lives.”
I run my thumb over the edge of the paper. My heart is full and aching in the best way. “I just wanted to give people a place to feel seen.”
He nods.
“You’re doing that.”
Then he nudges the box with his foot.
“Now let’s find the one with the emotionally unavailable protagonist. I want to see if he’s as broody as advertised.”
I laugh, and the sound echoes softly through the shop. “You mean, you want to see if he’s competition?”
Ford smirks.
“Please. I’d win on forearms alone.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m still smiling.
He shrugs unapologetically.
I glance at his arms and let my voice drop just enough to make him look twice.
“You know, if you keep showing off those forearms, I’m going to start thinking you’re trying to seduce me.”
Ford’s smirk deepens. “And if I am?”
I step closer with the box still in my hands and tilt my head. “Then you’re doing a terrible job. I’m still fully clothed.”
He laughs, low and warm, and leans in to press a quick kiss into my hair.
“Give it time.”
We head for the door together, shoulder to shoulder. His arm brushes mine like a promise.
Outside, the sky’s darker now, low and heavy, like it’s been holding its breath all evening.
The first drop hits my cheek like a warning.
Then comes the downpour—sudden, heavy, and relentless.
Within seconds, we’re soaked. The van driver shouts something about needing to leave, waving his arms like he’s trying to swat the rain away.
My heart kicks up. I grab a box of paperbacks and sprint, trying to shield it with my arms.
“They’re going to get ruined,” I mutter, half-panicked. “We should’ve covered them. Why didn’t we cover them?”
I burst back into the shop, depositing the box just inside the doorway with water dripping from my arms.
I turn to run back, and freeze.
Ford is standing in a puddle with rain streaming down his face and his shirt plastered to his chest. He looks like he belongs to the storm. Water splashes up around him, and he grins, wild and soaked and completely unbothered. Then, without a word, he kicks the puddle.
“Ford,” I gasp, half laughing, half horrified.
He doesn’t smile, but his eyes glint with something wicked. He steps towards me, guiding me near the shop, and directly under the leaky gutter. A stream of cold water pours onto my head. I shriek, sputtering.
“You absolute menace!”
He shrugs, completely unfazed.
“You were spiralling.”
I blink at him, stunned. Then I laugh. A real laugh.
The rain keeps falling, soaking us both, and suddenly the rush doesn’t matter. The books will survive. The van driver can wait. This moment—this ridiculous, soggy, perfect moment—is mine.
Ford reaches for my hand, tugging me gently towards him. He doesn’t say anything, just holds me close. We don’t dance, not really. But we sway. My forehead rests against his chest, and his chin brushes my wet hair. His arms wrap around me.
I’ve always thought love was about finding someone who stays through the storm. Someone solid and safe. But maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it’s about finding someone who dances with me in the rain. Who doesn’t just hold me together but reminds me how to fall apart and still feel joy.
I look up at him, and smile. “Thanks for ruining my outfit,” I whisper.
He smirks.
“It’s a shame it wasn’t white.”
I elbow him, and he pulls me closer.
And just like that, the storm doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.
Because this … this messy, imperfect, rain-soaked life … I’m not facing it alone.
He doesn’t just stay.
He dances.
And maybe love isn’t as sudden as a boom of thunder or a streak of lightning. Maybe it’s this slow, steady thing that sneaks up on you in the middle of a downpour. The kind of thing that finds you when you’re soaked and laughing and not looking for it at all.
I don’t say it. Not yet.
But I think about it.
I think about it as we stand there, soaked and swaying.
I think about it as I let myself fall just a little more.