He reached out, slow and careful, and rested his hand on my knee. It was warm and solid and didn’t feel like a claim—just a point of contact, grounding me to the present.
“I promise you,” Ford said, “I would never take your power away. Not ever. Your power is one of the things I love most about you. And the truth is . . . you’re my hero.”
I let myself believe it. Just for a minute.
“I guess I don’t know how to accept help without feeling like I owe someone,” I said. “It’s dumb. I know it’s dumb.”
“It’s not dumb,” Ford said, and there was no hesitation in it. “You survived something I can’t even imagine. You did it all on your own. That’s not dumb, Lily. That’s strong.”
My eyes stung, and I blinked hard, willing the tears not to fall. I hated crying in front of people, but with Ford, it didn’t feel humiliating. It just felt . . . safe.
He squeezed my knee, not letting go.
“I care about you,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “You and Noah. And if I ever do something that makes you feel trapped, I want you to tell me. Even if it’s yelling. Even if it’s throwing things. I’ll listen.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out as a hiccup. “I’ve got good aim.”
He grinned, the dimple in his cheek appearing for the first time tonight. “I bet you do.”
For a while, we just sat, side by side, the pillow now forgotten and Ford’s hand still on my knee. The world inside was just the two of us, breathing the same stale, heater-warmed air. I could feel the tension draining from my body, leaving something softer in its wake.
I looked at him, really looked, and saw that he meant every word. He wasn’t afraid of my past, or my baggage, or even my sharpest edges.
He just wanted me.
And for the first time, maybe ever, I wanted to be wanted.
I rested my head on his shoulder, and he let me, holding me close but not too tight. Not a cage, not a leash. Just an anchor.
We stayed like that, letting the minutes pass, the silence no longer something to fear.
Eventually, I whispered, “Thank you.”
He didn’t answer, just kissed the top of my head, lips lingering against my hairline.
I closed my eyes and let the sound of his heartbeat, steady and slow, drown out the last of the noise in my head.
Somewhere between the sound of the heater and the silence in the apartment, everything shifted. I couldn’t say when it happened, only that it did—a quiet pivot from comfort to heat, from sharing oxygen to wanting more of it, and all of it tangled up in the ache I’d been holding at bay for weeks.
Ford’s hand rested on my knee, not a question, not a demand, just there, grounding me. The last time someone touched me like this, it was to make a point. Now it just made my skin burn, in a good way.
He turned, just enough that I could see the sharp edge of his jaw. I could tell he was waiting for me to make the next move, and that was almost too much—like the power had passed from him to me in a single, unspoken agreement.
I put my hand over his, and the moment it happened, we both laughed a little, a nervous, exhale-laugh that might have been relief or just the absurdity of how easy it was.
“I really want to kiss you right now,” Ford said, low and rough.
The tension, the nerves, the years of second-guessing—all of it burned away with those words. “Okay,” I whispered. “Do it.”
He leaned in, slow and careful, his lips brushing mine before he pressed them there for real. It was a gentle kiss at first, just the press and release of mouths testing the waters, but it built fast. He moved his hand, sliding up my thigh, and I felt every inch of him—solid, warm, and so fucking real.
I kissed him back, letting the heat spiral. His mouth tasted like the cheap whiskey from earlier, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It made me feel reckless, like maybe I could want things again without paying for it later.
His other hand came up, cupping my jaw, thumb tracing my cheek. I parted my lips and he took that as the invitation it was, tongue tracing the seam of my mouth, and I let him in. He was good at this. Not the rehearsed, porn-star stuff, but the slow, hungry kind that made you want to climb inside someone’s skin.
He pulled back for a second, just enough to look me in the eye. “Still okay?” he asked, breath ghosting over my face.
“Yes,” I said, maybe too fast.
