“Don’t be sorry,” he says, low. “You’re not the one who should be.”
His jaw tightens, just barely, and I press my lips together, gaze dropping to my lap.
“Normally I can’t go back to sleep after dreaming about him. That’s why I’m always up early each morning, reading in the garden.”
“You must be exhausted.”
“Just a little,” I say, letting out a soft laugh and pulling my sleeves down over my hands, like I can tuck the tiredness away.
Ford nods slowly.
Then, he speaks gently—almost unsure, “I’ll keep you company, if you want?”
A pause. He shifts, eyes flicking down, then back up.
“And look, about the other week …” His voice drops.
“Again … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that to you. And I can’t tell you how much I regret it … it’s been eating away at me …”
I stop him before he can continue.
“Ford, you already apologised. It’s fine.”
But even as I say it, something twists inside me. I hesitate, then correct myself.
“Well … I mean, no. It’s notfine. The way you spoke to me … it hurt, Ford.”
He opens his mouth, maybe to explain, but I keep going.
“I accept your apology. I do. But I won’t tolerate anything like that again … Not anymore.”
Then I look at him. Really look. Searching his face for something true. And somehow, I know … he meant it. The apology. His eyes meet mine, and I see it there. The regret.
He places his hand on mine, his fingers curling around with gentle pressure. “You won’t have to. I swear.”
A pause and then, “I hated myself for it, instantly. Not just because I hurt you, but because I saw the look in your eyes and knew I’d made you feel unsafe. That’s not who I am, who I want to be …”
He swallows hard, gaze steady now, like he’s holding himself accountable in real time.
Something shifts in me. It’s the first time a man has ever apologised to me like that. Not just out of guilt, not to manipulate, or to make himself feel better. Just … because he knew he’d hurt me. And maybe that’s why I can forgive him, not because the words were perfect, but because he didn’t dress them up or ask for anything in return. He let them be rough, honest, and real.
But forgiveness isn’t the same as forgetting. It’s not a clean slate. It’s a choice to keep the door cracked open, just wide enough to see if he’ll walk through it differently this time.
I’ve been here before, offered grace to men who mistook it for permission. Who saw softness and tried to bend it and said sorry as if it were a shortcut.
But Ford’s apology doesn’t feel like that. It feels like a reckoning. Like he’s standing in the wreckage of his own words and choosing not to look away.
And maybe … maybe that’s the kind of sorry I can believe in.
27
Stormy
Iwake to the slow rhythm of steady breathing behind me and the gentle weight of an arm draped around my waist. At some point in the night, we must’ve drifted off and ended up like this, his body warm against my back, his presence quiet and comforting.
I think back to last night. We didn’t rush to sleep. We talked—really talked. Not about the hard things, but about books. The ones that pulled me in and held me close. I couldn’t stop talking. Everything I loved about them came tumbling out, and he listened. Maybe he was trying to preoccupy my mind, steer it somewhere calmer. But it didn’t feel like a distraction for distraction's sake; it felt like he was genuinely interested. His hold is loose on me. Not gripping or tight, just enough to let me know he’s there, and that I’m not alone. There’s space to move, to breathe, and yet I don’t. I stay nestled in that soft stillness and let the reassurance of it settle into my bones.
And I like it, having him close.
