He climbs up beside me and reaches for the brown paper bag, pulling out two golden pastries, handing one to me.
“Coconut macaroons,” he says. “Mom made them fresh this morning. Thought they might go well with your umm … coconut obsession.” He smirks.
I smile, touched beyond words.
“Ford … this is perfect.”
I take one and bite into it. It’s soft and chewy, rich with coconut and just a hint of vanilla.
A soft hum escapes my lips, eyes fluttering shut for a second as I savour it.
“They’re amazing,” I murmur, licking a bit of sugar from my thumb.
Ford smiles beside me, but I catch the flicker in his eyes, the way they flare, just slightly, watching me lick my thumb. It’s subtle. But it’s there. And it makes my pulse skip.
We eat in comfortable silence—the kind that doesn’t need filling.
We share bites of pastry and sip coconut water, the fire crackling nearby and the lake glowing pink beneath the sky. The breeze brushes against my skin like a whisper, soft and cool, and the world feels quiet.
After a while, Ford speaks, voice low.
“I used to come here with my dad,” he says, with his eyes on the water. “We’d swim, skim rocks, eat s’mores on the tailgate. It was our spot.”
I glance at him and watch the way the firelight catches the softness in his expression.
“After he passed, I stopped coming. For a long time. But lately … I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about him more, thinking about the things I used to enjoy. Thought maybe it was time to come back.”
My chest tightens, but not painfully. It’s the kind of ache that comes with being trusted and let in.
“I’m glad you brought me here,” I say, voice quiet.
He looks at me then, really looks, and nods. “I wanted you to see it. It’s special to me.”
I reach for his hand, threading my fingers through his, and lean my head gently against his shoulder. We sit like that, wrapped in blankets with the fire warming our feet and the lake reflecting the last blush of sunset. And for the first time in a long time, I feel completely at peace.
Then he nudges me gently with his shoulder, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“So,” he says, mouth half-full, “if you had to pick one snack to survive on for the rest of your life, what would it be?”
I laugh, brushing a crumb from my lip.
“That’s a ridiculous question.”
“Exactly,” he replies, grinning. “Answer it.”
We talk for a while, falling into easy banter as we curl up in the back of the truck, tossing silly questions back and forth. The coconut macaroonsare dangerously moreish, and Ford keeps sneaking glances at me every time I hum my enjoyment—like he’s cataloguing the moment.
Our conversation drifts from snack hierarchies to ridiculous hypotheticals. Would you rather have fingers made of spaghetti or toes that sing every time you walk? What’s the worst haircut you’ve ever had? Do ducks have feelings? It’s nonsense. Pure, delightful nonsense. And I love it.
I love the way Ford laughs, low and unguarded.
I love the way he looks at me like he’s memorising my expressions.
I love how easy it feels, how light.
But most of all, I love learning his quiet details. Every time he lets me in—lets me see the real him—it feels like something rare.
And it makes me want to tuck myself into the quiet he carries and never leave. Not because he’s perfect, but because he’s real. Because every new piece I discover only makes me want to know more.
