Page 44 of Escorting the Bodyguard
“I’m sorry,” he says into the stillness, his voice rough with emotion. “For leaving. For being afraid. For making you think, even for a second, that you weren’t worth staying for.”
I press a kiss to his chest, tasting salt and the faint residue of his cologne. “You’re here now.”
“I’m here now,” he agrees, his arms tightening around me. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
I wake to sunlight streaming through my bedroom windows and Ford already awake beside me, watching me with soft eyes.
My heart kicks. Instinct screamsfix yourself. Hair, breath, face—something. Anything. The familiar panic of being seen as less than perfect floods through me.
I start to shift away, reaching for the edge of the comforter, but his hand slides to my waist.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, voice low and a little raspy. “You’re beautiful.”
Just like that, the panic fades. I settle back against him, letting myself be seen.
“Morning,” I whisper.
“Morning.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “How are you feeling?”
“Good.” I stretch against him, enjoying the solid warmth of his body, the way his hand automatically adjusts to stay connected to our baby. “Really good.”
He disappears to the kitchen and returns with coffee—decaf for me, full strength for him—and we settle back into bed like this is something we do every Sunday morning. He’s wearing just his boxers, and though I catch him glancing down at his scars once, he doesn’t reach for a shirt. Progress. I’m wrapped in the sheet, hair a disaster, completely bare-faced.
“TheTimes?” he asks, reaching for the newspaper I keep meaning to cancel but never get around to.
“You read me the headlines,” I say, curling against his side. “I’ll provide commentary.”
We spend an hour like this—normal couple things that feel different now. He reads about political scandals while I mock the fashion pages. I steal sections of the paper while he steals sips of my coffee after his is empty.
It’s domestic and easy and everything I didn’t know I was missing.
“Want to go look at baby stuff today?” Ford asks casually, but his eyes are serious when they meet mine.
“Yeah,” I say, throat suddenly tight with emotion. “I’d like that.”
The baby boutique is overwhelming in the best possible way—tiny clothes and impossibly small shoes, cribs that look like they belong in fairy tales, more gear than I ever imagined one small human could possibly need.
Ford throws himself into research mode. He studies car seat safety ratings like they’re classified documents and grills the sales associate about changing table safety standards. When he finds the baby monitor display, he’s all focus, asking about range and reliability like he’s planning a mission.
“You know the baby won’t be here for months, right?” I tease as he compares the features of different models.
“I want to be prepared,” he says seriously, then picks up a pair of socks from a nearby display. He holds them in his palm, staring down at them, and something shifts in his expression. His voice catches slightly. “Jesus. They’re so small.”
My heart does something funny watching him. The man who once planned combat extractions is completely undone by baby socks. My ex-Army Ranger. Mine.
We’re looking at strollers when he crouches beside me, his hand covering mine where it rests on my belly. The saleswoman has wandered off to help another couple, and we’re alone among the baby furniture, surrounded by the promise of the life we’re building.
“I missed the beginning,” he says quietly, eyes meeting mine. There’s regret there, but also determination. “But I’m here for everything that comes next.”
Instead of words, I cover his hand with both of mine. For the first time since he left me on that Brooklyn street corner, I believe in us. Not just the idea of us, but the reality. The daily choice to stay, to build something together, to love each other through the hard parts.
“You’re here now,” I say, echoing the words from last night.
“I’m here now,” he confirms, and this time when he says it, it sounds like a vow.
Ford tucks the tiny socks into the crook of his arm like they’re mission-critical. When we finally step out into the afternoon light, I don’t wonder if this will last. I know it will. Because this time, we’re not just falling. We’re choosing.
Epilogue
