I catch myself smiling at something he mutters. It’s barely audible, just a curse or a comment to his wrench, but it slips past my guard. I look away, eyes flicking to the ceiling, but the corners of my mouth betray me. I shake it off. It’s nothing. Just noise.
But the truth is, these small things, his quiet focus, the way he talks to inanimate objects like they’re old friends, they’re getting to me more than I want them to. Sneaking in under the part of me that’s supposed to be cautious. The part that remembers how he left things last time.
So, I remind myself not to read into it. Not to soften. Not to let a hint of warmth undo weeks of trying to stay steady.
Eventually, I hear him shifting, the soft clatter of tools being packed away.
“All right,” he says, voice a little louder now. “That should be better.”
I close my laptop and stand, walking over. He’s still crouched, tucking things into his toolbox.
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it.
But as I step up to the sink and turn the tap to check, my elbow knocks one of his tools off the side. It clatters to the floor and lands squarely on the top of my bare foot.
“Shit,” I hiss, stumbling back. And a small, pathetic sound slips out, half moan, half whimper, before I can stop it.
Ford shoots up quickly, banging his head on the underside of the counter.
“Fuck. Are you … Did that hit you?”
I look at him, my eyes welling up, because Jesus, that hurt. I can’t speak, so I just nod.
I glance down and there’s already a faint purple mark beginning to bloom, and a thin scratch beads with blood.
Finally, I find my voice, “It’s fine.”
But a small, traitorous tear slips past my lashes.
“Let me see,” he orders, voice low but urgent.
I hesitate, heart thudding, not sure if it’s from the pain or the way he’s looking at me now.
He crouches again, gently taking my foot in his hands. His fingers are careful, almost hesitant, like he’s afraid of hurting me more, and his brows knit as he examines the damage.
“Damn. That’s already bruising. You sure you’re okay?”
I nod, worrying my lip between my teeth as the pain throbs through my foot. It hurts, but I try not to let it show. I’ve trained myself not to. With my dad, with Sam, pain was leverage. If I cried, they pushed harder. If I flinched, they smiled. I learned early that weakness wasn’t safe, it was ammunition. So now, even when it’s real, even when it’s just a bruised foot and Ford crouched in front of me with concern in his eyes, I hold it in.
He lowers it gently, then rises in front of me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him.
“Okay. Sit,” he says, nodding toward the counter.
“No, it’s fine. Really.” I shift my weight to my uninjured foot. “It just caught me weird”
He gives me a gentle, yet firm, look.
“Don’t argue. Just … sit.”
There’s something in his voice that breaks through the guard I’ve built. It’s not pushy or commanding, just quietly caring. So, I do it. I push myself up onto the counter, the edge cool beneath my thighs, and he steps closer, eyes scanning my foot again.
“Where’s your first aid stuff?”
“Top cupboard,” I say, pointing behind him.
He turns and opens it, rummages for a moment before pulling out the box. He sets it down beside me, flipping the lid open.
He moves in front of me, sliding between my knees. The space between us is charged. His fingers hover over the supplies, then reach for an antiseptic wipe.
