“I do,” I reply, voice steady. “You guys didn’t have to let me in. Didn’t have to help me. But you did. And your mum, your sisters, Jensen … they’ve been so kind. So welcoming. I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect any of this.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then he huffs a soft laugh.
“Kind and welcoming, huh? You sure you’re talking about me?”
I grin.
“Okay, fine. You were about as welcoming as a locked barn door.”
He groans, “Ouch.”
“Grumpy, suspicious, and about as chatty as a rock.”
He laughs, full and warm.
“Alright, alright. I get it. I sucked.”
“But you got better,” I say, smiling. “Thank you.”
He smirks.
“Guess I’m not completely hopeless, huh?” Then his voice drops, more serious. “I’m glad you’re here, Stormy. Really glad.”
I let out a breath, soft and shaky.
“I’ve never really had … this. A family that feels solid and safe. Mine was always kind of fractured. My mum and sister were everything to me, but it was just the three of us, really. And after they passed …” I pause, swallowing the ache. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel part of something again. Not like this. It means more than I can explain.”
His thumb stills over mine, then resumes its slow circular caresses.
“You do belong,” he murmurs quietly. “They see it, and I see it.”
I blink against the sudden sting in my eyes, but I don’t look away.
He hesitates, then asks in a low voice, “I know about your mom and sister. But … do you mind if I ask what happened with your dad? Why don’t you see him anymore?”
There’s no pressure in his tone, just genuine interest. A space he’s holding open—if I want to step into it.
I glance away, my gaze catching the sunlight that’s fractured across the dressing table mirror, sharp and scattered. Then I look back at him. His face is open, soft, and waiting.
“He wasn’t a very nice man,” I say. “Not to me. Not to any of us.”
Ford doesn’t speak right away. He just nods like he’s giving me room.
“He could be cruel,” I continue. “Not always. There were moments when he wasn’t. When he almost felt like the dad that I wanted him to be. But they were rare, and they didn’t make up for the rest.”
Ford’s jaw tightens, and he reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with a gentleness that contradicts the storm in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he apologises. “No one should have to grow up like that.”
I nod, but the ache in my chest tightens.
“I keep telling myself I’m better off without him. That cutting him out was the right thing to do. And I know it was. But sometimes … I still feel that ache. Not for him, exactly. Just for the idea of him. The version of a father I never had.”
Ford watches me, and I know that he sees the turmoil written across my face—the guilt, the doubt, the worry that remains even when I know I’ve done the right thing. He exhales, like he’s trying to keep his own emotions in check before he speaks.
“Stormy, listen to me. You don’t owe him a damn thing. A father is supposed to protect, to love, and to lift you up—not tear you down and make you feel like you have to justify why you walked away … You did the right thing.”
I blink, eyes stinging.
