She leans into me, barely, but it’s enough. Enough to wreck me. Enough to vow that I’d let the world burn before I let her get hurt again.
“You’re safe with me. And if you let me … I’ll prove it. Every damn day.”
Stormy presses her forehead to mine then. Her breaths are still shallow and uneven. But then she pulls back and exhales, deflating.
“I don’t know what to do, Ford,” she whispers, her voice small. “Nobody wants me here.”
My jaw tightens. Not at her—never at her. At the ache in her voice.
“Bullshit.” My voice is firm, but not unkind. “I want you here.” I tilt her face up so she can see the truth in my eyes.
“Missy wants you here. Mom does. Hell, the whole damn ranch wants you here, Stormy. Whether they say it out loud or not,” I pause, trying to steady my voice. “Please don’t walk away from this. Not because of them, because of him.”
"I don’t know, Ford. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I don’t belong here."
"No. I don’t accept that."
Stormy blinks, startled by my conviction.
"They’re scared because you’re new. Because you’re doing something different. But you’re not wrong for being here. You’re not wrong for wanting this. And if they can’t see that yet, then we’ll make them see."
She shakes her head. "Ford, it’s not that easy …"
“I know,” I say, my voice catching. “I know it’s not. And I hate that you had to go through this. But Stormy … you didn’t deserve what happened today. And you sure as hell don’t deserve to feel like you’re alone in it.”
I pull her close again, my hand cradling the back of her head.
“We’ll figure this out,” I promise.
“I’ll help you. You don’t have to do this alone.”
40
Stormy
Sitting at my dressing table, I angle the mirror so that the late sunlight kisses it instead of blinding me. The surface is cluttered in that curated chaos that I like to pretend doesn’t matter; foundation bottles and earrings I probably won’t wear, a mug of peppermint tea half-empty and cold.
My one and only tube of lipstick lies uncapped beside it, waiting for me to decide if I feel brave enough to wear it tonight.
Ford said we could skip the date. He said he’d understand if tonight felt too heavy after everything. But I told him I want to go. If I stay home and curl inward, or if I let Will’s shadow snuff out my light, then he wins. All the bad men I left behind in London win. And I’m tired of being the fallout. I want to be the fight. My fingers tremble slightly as I blend a small amount of foundation onto my face. There's a kind of power in choosing to dress up anyway, in declaring that I deserve sweetness after the storm.
Missy’s supposed to be on her way. I texted her, said I needed help, but didn’t say what with. I want her to help me decide: the pink dress with an open back, tight at the bodice and floaty at the hips, or the black one thatfeels like armour, hugging me like a second skin. But what I really need to tell her is that something’s happening, and I have no idea how she’ll take it. She’ll be here soon, and when she walks through that door, I’ll ask her which dress makes me look like I could rewrite my own story. Just as long as she is happy with her brother being the male protagonist.
The front door flies open downstairs, loud and dramatic like a gunshot cracking across the quiet evening.
“Stormy,” Missy calls, voice breathless.
“I’m up here,” I shout back, steadying my mascara wand as I lean closer to the mirror, trying not to jab myself in the eye from the shock.
“Are you okay? What happened? Did you fall? Did you get a weird rash?”
Missy’s voice rises with every question, and footsteps pound as she runs up the stairs and into my bedroom like she’s sprinting into battle.
I blink at her through the mirror, mascara wand frozen mid-swipe.
“… What?”
“You said you needed help but didn’t say what with, and I panicked,” she says, dropping her bag onto my bed like it personally offended her. “I thought you were in trouble. Like literal blood and tears trouble.”
