And, at the foot of the bed, an empty bookshelf waited, all three shelves ready for a library we didn’t have yet.
I turned, mouth open, but Ford just shrugged. “Found the sheets on clearance. Figured he’d like them.”
Noah wiggled free of my arms and face-planted onto the bed. “Dinosaurs” he announced, then rolled to the edge, where a stuffed horse sat propped against the pillow. “A horse like Pebbles!” he yelled, and hugged it with fierce determination.
I blinked hard. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
Ford looked a little shy. “It wasn’t a big deal. I just wanted him to feel at home.”
I helped Noah out of his overalls and into his too-small Paw Patrol pajamas, which barely made it to his wrists. Ford watched, perched on the edge of the desk chair, spinning back and forth like a teenager about to get scolded. When Noah was settled, I tucked the blanket around him and handed over the horse.
Ford gestured at a thin paperback on the nightstand. “I found one of those Golden Books at the grocery store. You want me to read it to him?”
Noah’s eyes shot open. “Yes mama, can Ford read me a story?”
I nodded, swallowing a lump in my throat. “That’d be great.”
Ford sat on the floor, cross-legged. He opened the book—The Poky Little Puppy—and launched straight into it, deep voice rolling through every sentence. He did different voices for the mother and the puppies, and when he said “Poky,” he made it sound like the highest honor in the world.
Noah was asleep before page six.
Ford finished the story anyway, then closed the book and set it gently on the nightstand. He stood, motioned for me to follow, and together we tiptoed out of the room. He closed the door with a careful click.
We stood in the hallway for a second, listening to the quiet.
He looked at me, something in his eyes that was softer than I’d ever seen. “You okay?”
I nodded, unsure what to do with the feeling expanding inside my chest. “Yeah. That was really nice.”
He took my hand, so casual and sure it startled me. His fingers were warm and rough, but the touch was gentle.
“Come with me,” he said, and led me down the hall to his bedroom.
Ford didn’t rush anything. We sat together on the edge of the bed, and when he turned toward me, his eyes were dark, but there was no hunger or demand—just need, plain and raw.
He kissed me, one hand threading through my hair, the other resting at my waist. I let myself lean into him, letting my guard down an inch at a time. When his lips brushed the corner of my mouth, I felt myself smile.
He lay back, bringing me with him. I stretched alongside him, body lined up to his. He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, the tip of my nose. When he reached my mouth, I opened to him, and he kissed me the way I’d always wanted—like he meant it, like he was never letting go.
He ran his fingers along my jaw, slow and careful. “You’re so goddamn beautiful, Lily,” he whispered, like it was a secret.
“You’re crazy.”
His lips curved up. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change the truth.”
I let myself believe him, even for just a second.
When his hand slid beneath my shirt, he went slow, mapping every inch of my skin. His palm was rough but his touch was gentle, reverent.
I tugged at his shirt, and he let me pull it off. The tattoos on his arms caught the faint light, black lines curling over muscle and bone. He watched my eyes track the ink, and smiled like he was proud of what I saw.
I ran my hands along his chest, feeling the warmth and the steady thump of his heart. He shivered under my touch, and the sound he made—half laugh, half groan—sparked something bold in me.
I pulled my own shirt off, tossing it somewhere near the foot of the bed. Ford’s eyes went soft, then hot, as he took me in. He reached out, tracing the scar at my side with a fingertip.
He bent his head, kissing the line from start to finish. “Does it hurt?” he asked, voice low.
“No. Especially not when you touch it,” I said.
