Disoriented, I stare into the darkness of my tent, trying to shake the remnants of the nightmare from my mind. The cold is real, but it’s not what’s making me shiver. Outside, the trees loom, just shadows pressed against the tent walls, their limbs twitching in the breeze like they’re alive. The moon casts a pale sheen across the fabric, and I close my eyes, listening to the silence of the night. But the echo of the dream still rings in my skull, distinct and cruel.
Then I hear the soft rasp of a zip and my pulse spikes as I turn to face the tent door.
Ford crouches just outside, peering in. His hair is dishevelled, as if he’s been roused from sleep. I bolt upright, gripping my sleeping bag tightly against me.
“Hey,” he says tentatively, his voice low and soothing. “It’s just me … I thought I heard you crying?”
I hesitate, reaching up to touch my cheeks. They’re wet. Heat creeps up my neck, and I glance away, suddenly aware of how raw I must look.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he tells me. His voice is rough with the remnants of sleep.
His tone is gentle, careful, like he’s giving me space, letting me choose how much of myself I want to hand over.
“Can I come in?” he asks softly, a flicker of a smile in his voice. “It’s kinda cold out here.”
He’s trying to lighten the mood, but I notice the concern beneath. It slides under the tension in my body, and I soften, like his worry is brushing against my fractured edges and smoothing them out.
I hesitate for only a moment before I nod. I just … I don’t think I want to be alone. Not halfway up a mountain, with that dream still clinging to me, with nothing but shadows and silence pressing in from all sides. I’m not scared, not exactly, but there’s an eeriness to the night, something in the stillness that feels too aware.
Then I hear a soft crack, like a branch shifting, distant but distinct. I freeze, breath hitching, eyes darting towards the tent wall.
“Probably just a fox,” he murmurs, gently.
I let out a small, embarrassed laugh and lean forwards, reaching for the zip.
Ford climbs in awkwardly. His size is a challenge in the cramped space. It’s all knees grazing against fabric and elbows catching on folds.
Eventually, he settles beside me—not too close, not too far. Just there. Solid and present. He doesn’t crowd me, doesn’t push, just lets the quiet settle between us. His hand brushes the edge of the sleeping bag, not quite touching me, but close enough to feel reassured.
“Was it a bad dream?” he asks.
It’s not really a question, more like he already knows and just wants me to know he’s here.
I nod but say nothing more, and he doesn’t ask me to.
We sit in silence for a short while, the last remaining flames of the fire outside casting faint, flickering shadows against the canvas of my tent. After a bit, the words claw their way up, jagged and unwelcome. I don’t want to say them. I don’t want to give them shape. But they press against my chest, aching to be known.
“My ex,” I manage, voice thin. “Sam. He … he wasn’t …”
I swallow. Try again.
“He wasn’t a good man. That’s why I left London … and sometimes I dream about him.”
I stare at the canvas wall, watching the shadows dance. I don’t say more. I can’t. The memories are too sharp. Saying his name feels like dragging glass across my skin.
Ford is still, his expression darkening. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t demand more details, just watches me carefully, absorbing my words.
And maybe that’s why the words came at all.
His family … the way they welcomed me, the way they laughed and bickered and made space for me as if I belonged, it cracked something open. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was floating outside of everything. Maybe sharing this won’t break me. Maybe it’s okay to let someone see the bruises I’ve been hiding.
“Are you okay?” he asks at last.
I glance at him. His fingers move slightly, like he wants to reach out, to offer something. Comfort, maybe … but he holds himself back.
I shake my head faintly, then exhale.
“I know that probably sounded a little messy … I’m sorry.”
