“Careful, bug,” I called, but he was already off, shrieking at the sky.
Ford held out his hand, hesitant. “You ready for the grand tour?”
I took it, surprising both of us. He clasped his fingers around mine and squeezed twice.
We went up the steps to the porch, which had been patched with new boards in a few places. Ford unlocked the front door, then stepped aside with an exaggerated flourish.
The entryway was big and mostly empty, save for a battered old boot bench and a pile of Amazon boxes stacked like bricks. To the left, the living room. The floor was a patchwork—someoriginal wood, some new planks with that not-quite-matching color, and one corner that was just raw plywood. There were roller trays and drop cloths everywhere, and the walls were half-finished, one side a bold white, the other still a sad yellow.
Ford looked around, face sheepish. “It’s . . . still a work in progress.”
I turned slow, taking in every detail—the crooked crown molding, the way the new hardwood didn’t quite line up with the old, the subtle scent of fresh paint over a deeper undercurrent of dust and something sweet, almost like cinnamon. I stepped onto the new boards, bare feet enjoying the glossy smoothness. “I love it,” I said, and meant it.
He looked surprised. “You don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not. I like seeing a place mid-transformation. It’s more honest. And you have great bones.” I realized what I’d said, and almost choked. “The house, I mean. Not—you know what I mean.”
He grinned, slow and genuine. “Well, I do try.”
Noah’s footsteps pounded behind us. “Can I see the backyard?”
“In a minute, bud,” Ford called, then turned to me. “Want something to drink?”
I nodded. “Yeah, actually.”
He led us down a hallway where the new hardwood continued, meeting a battered linoleum that belonged in a crime scene. The kitchen was vast, almost too big, with a wall of windows facing west and a butcher-block island stacked with tools, mail, and a half-assembled espresso machine.
Ford rummaged through the fridge, then popped up with a bottle of Pinot Noir in one hand and a juice box in the other.
I stared at the juice box, then him, then the juice box again. “You bought those for Noah.”
He went red, but didn’t deny it. “Figured he’d be thirsty after all the—” He gestured at the blur of toddler still rampaging up and down the hallway.
“That’s really sweet,” I said. And it was. It might have been a little thing, but it was real. He made space for us, for my son, in his fridge. He thought of us. I didn’t quite know what to do with that information except swoon a little.
He poured me a glass of wine, then handed Noah the juice box, already poked through with the straw. “You want to see something cool?” Ford asked, and Noah nodded like his head was on a hinge.
Ford led us through a set of French doors at the back of the kitchen. I expected a deck or maybe a mudroom, but instead we stepped out onto a sprawling patio made of irregular flagstone and old brick. The air was sharp, the scent of juniper and cut grass everywhere. Beyond the patio, the yard opened up in a gentle slope that ran forever, broken only by the edge of the pasture, the barn, and the horizon itself.
Sunset painted everything gold and pink, the last light catching on the tall grasses and sending streaks of color across the patio.
Noah let out a squeal and broke into a run, arms outstretched. “So much SPACE!”
Ford and I followed at a slower pace, the wine warm in my hand, his elbow just barely brushing mine. For the first time since I left my old life, I felt completely unafraid.
He watched Noah for a minute, then turned to me. “I know it’s a mess. I just— I wanted to fix it up. I want it to be somewhere people want to come to.” He paused. “I want it to be home. Eventually.”
I watched Noah race in wide, looping circles, nothing but sky and grass and freedom. I looked at the lines of Ford’s face, at theway the light caught on his stubble, at the scars on his knuckles and the calluses on his palms.
“It already feels like home,” I said, voice small but certain.
Ford’s eyes flicked down, then back up, and in them I saw something gentle, unguarded. Like he wanted to believe it, too.
We stood there for a long moment, watching the world turn pink and then blue, the silence soft and full of possibility.
The yard directly behind the house was easily the size of a football field, and within ten seconds Noah had covered half of it, his little legs pumping, sneakers flapping. He whooped at every weed, every bug, every uneven patch of dirt. It was pure, undiluted freedom, and I couldn’t stop grinning at the sight.
I followed him, careful not to spill my wine, while Ford lagged behind with his hands in his pockets. The sky was turning that deep, luminous blue that only happened right before true night, and the air was so clear it felt like a dare. I closed my eyes and let the breeze lift my hair, filling my lungs with the sharp, grassy cold.
