I pause, letting the silence settle.
“And I see it,” I add quietly. “I see it in you. Even if you don’t.”
He doesn’t speak right away, but his grip on my hand tightens.
And then he leans in, pressing a kiss to my temple. The lake ripples along with a gentle breeze and I shiver, the chill of the water catching up to me. Ford brushes a strand of wet hair from my face, his thumb stroking my cheek.
“Let’s get you home,” he tells me. “You’re freezing.”
I nod, still breathless and still wrapped in the feeling of him. And as we swim back to shore, I know something’s shifted. Not just between us. But inside me.
I’m not small anymore.
I’m not quiet.
I’m free.
46
Ford
She shivers againas we reach the shore, pulling her arms around herself as her hair drips down her back. I grab one of the blankets from the truck bed and wrap it around her shoulders, pulling her close and into my arms, before placing her into the passenger seat.
The drive back is quiet, but not awkward. We’re silently bathing in the moments we’ve just had together—revelling in them.
I crank up the heaters and rest my hand on her cool thigh for the entire journey.
When I pull up outside her place, I hesitate. I don’t want to push. But then she turns to me, eyes soft and sure.
“Come in?” she asks.
I nod, heart racing with anticipation, and I follow her.
She unlocks the door, and we step inside. The warmth of the cottage wraps around us like a second blanket, comforting and familiar. Buddy trots off without ceremony, curling into a spot on the couch,already settled.
Stormy doesn’t speak. She just turns and takes my hand. Her grip is cool, and purposeful, and her fingers lace tightly with mine. She leads me up the stairs, and I follow without question. There’s no rush in her steps or hesitation. Just quiet certainty.
I feel it in the way her thumb brushes mine. In the way her shoulders stay relaxed. In the way she doesn’t look back, because she knows I’m already hers.
When we reach the bathroom, she flicks on the light and reaches to turn on the shower.
Steam still clings to the edges of the mirror from earlier, and the room smells faintly of coconut and vanilla shampoo.
She turns to me, eyes searching, lips parted. Then she steps forwards.
Her hands find the buttons of my shirt, and she carefully tugs them open.
She glances up for a second, cheeks a soft shade of pink, either from the flush of warm air or the heat rising between us.
She’s close. So close.
Her warm breath is on my chest as she slides the shirt down past my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Her fingers trail down my chest, slowly, with intention, tracing each and every muscle. I tense as they graze my lower stomach, just above my waistband. Not from nerves. From the sheer intensity of her touch. It’s gentle, like she’s memorising me by heart.
I reach for the straps of her dress, slipping them off her shoulders.
She watches, eyes bright and steady, and I could fall to my knees with the way she’s looking at me. I place a soft kiss on her lips, my hand cupping her cheek. Then she turns, gathering her hair over one shoulder. My hands fumble for a moment as I untie her dress at the back, and then time slows as the fabric slips down, pooling at her feet.
And I stop.
