“Ford?” I call out, voice rough and uncertain.
He stops, glances over his shoulder, and then turns.
And just like that, I’m wide awake.
I pull the door open a little wider, but keep myself tucked behind it, one arm curled around the edge like a shield. The morning light still stings, but it’s not the brightness that makes me squint now, it’s him.
Ford walks toward me, easy and unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he moves, broad shoulders, steady gaze, like he knows exactly how he looks and doesn’t apologize for it. I wish I’d taken another thirty seconds to make myself look at least a little more human before answering the door.
He reaches the door, and I forget how tall he is until he’s right in front of me, towering over me like a statue.
His eyes flit down, just briefly, but I feel it like a caress. They catch on the strip of skin showing between my rumpled crop top and shorts, and I instinctively tug my robe tighter around myself, fingers fumbling at the sash.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, voice low, trying to sound casual but failing.
He clears his throat, and when his eyes meet mine again, they’re unreadable. He holds out a set of keys, dangling from his fingers like an offering.
“You dropped these,” he says. “They were out here.”
I suck in a breath. They’re mine. My stupid keys.
“Oh. Uh … thanks,” I murmur, blinking as I try to stitch together the fragments of last night.
I reach out, and our hands brush. His palm is warm, rough with callouses, and my fingers hesitate for a second too long. My gaze lifts from the keys to his eyes, and something shifts in the air between us.
The weight of Ford’s stare remains for longer than it should before he clears his throat again, shifting his weight.
“Y’know,” he says, voice low but edged with something vaguely disapproving, “probably not the safest move, leaving your keys out here like that. And you should really be locking your door at night.”
I blink, caught off guard by the comment. It’s not mean, exactly, just … Ford, I guess.
“Ahh … yeah. My bad,” I say, suddenly feeling like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew. “Sorry.”
He nods, like that’s all he needed to say, and starts to turn, but then I notice his other hand. There’s something in it. A small blister pack, crumpled slightly at the edges.
He follows my line of sight and seems to remember it all at once.
“Oh … right,” he mutters, lifting it between his fingers. “Thought you might need these.” He rubs the back of his neck and looks away like it’s no big deal. “After those shots Missy and Jensen were feeding you last night.”
It’s tossed out like a casual observation, but I feel the words land differently.
“Didn’t see any in your grocery bags when I brought them in yesterday, so …”
I stare at the painkillers, then at him.
It’s such a small thing. Barely a gesture. But it’s thoughtful in a way that catches me off guard.
“Thanks,” I reply, softer this time. But then I raise an eyebrow, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “Snooping through my bags, were you?”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Just observant.”
I take them, but before I can reply, a low groan echoes from inside the house.
Ford’s brow lifts, just slightly. He glances past me, then down at what I’m wearing—shorts, crop top, robe barely tied—and I see his eyes darken as the pieces fall into place. Or at least, the pieces he thinks he’s seeing.
He straightens a little, jaw tightening.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” he says, voice clipped. “I’ll let you get back to … whatever.”
