(Ford x Reader) Hickory Pines

CH. 7 The List

I wake up at six in the morning, thanks to Stanford. This has become a regular occurrence. Today marks a month of living here! I groan, annoyed, and shove my face deeper into the couch. Can't he at least keep the lights dim?

"Why do you have to wake up so early?" I mumble, rubbing my eyes. The sound of sloshing hot liquid accompanies Stanford's retort. "Why do you have to sleep so late?" His voice is playful, but I'm not in the mood, so I shove a pillow over my head and groan again.

He chuckles, amused. Over my time here, I've gotten used to many of Stanford's quirks: his need to organize everything (even if it doesn't make sense to me), his habit of clicking his pen as he thinks, his tendency to leave and return at odd hours, and how he lights his face on fire instead of shaving. And then there's the whole "Incident" that keeps him from letting me cook. I could go on, but just thinking about it makes my head hurt.

"Y/N, do you want coffee?" he offers as I slump off the couch. Once Stanford is awake, there's no chance of falling back asleep; he usually makes a racket in his lab. More than once, I've thought animals were dying! Only one of those times was I right.

"Coffee sounds good right now," I agree, balancing on my tiptoes to reach the mug cabinet. I find my favorite cup, which has a smiley star and two goofy thumbs up.

I hold it out to him, and he fills it up. Leaning against the counter, I take a long, tired sip. "Burgh—" I mutter, smacking my lips. I glance at him. "What are you up to today?"

He looks back at me, taking a smaller sip of his coffee. Once done, he replies sarcastically, "The great adventure known as groceries. You?"

I shrug and take another sip, eyeing him. "Novel."

"Right, right..." Stanford responds knowingly, drumming his fingers along the edge of his mug. He sets it down, a hint of impatience in his tone. "Any news about your lease? You said last week your renter would get back to you."

I exhale tiredly, growing annoyed at the thought. Stanford had suggested, more like demanded, that I contact them to see if I could negotiate. "Oh yeah, they got back to me alright..." I scowl at my cup of coffee. "They won't let me cancel early, so I'm stuck here for another twelve months." I roll my eyes, dripping with sarcasm. "Yippee."

Stanford groans, equally frustrated. I can tell we're both feeling the strain. He grits his teeth and exhales through them. "That's nice to know," he mumbles, looking away and picking up his mug again just to have something to do. His fingers curl tightly around the handle.

"I know it's not the answer we were hoping for, but..." I pause, trying to sound reassuring. "Look on the bright side! We aren't crazy yet, and we still have some decent lemons to work with."

He lowers his mug and smiles at me. "Lemonsss," he giggles sleepily, his voice still hoarse from waking up. I repeat, "Lemonsss."

It seems the sleep deprivation is getting to both of us.

"When does the store open again?" I yawn. He glances at his wrist. "Approximately one hour, forty-five minutes, and thirty-ish seconds from now—" He places his free hand in his pocket, a gesture he seems to do often. "Why?"

I set my mug in the sink and rinse it thoroughly, humming as my hands circle the ceramic. "I think it would be a good idea to make a list." He turns to a drawer, opens it, and pulls out a piece of old notebook paper. "I already have one!" he boasts, waving the now-yellowed paper around.

I cross my arms. "Of course you do, but since I'm living here until next autumn, we should make some edits to the list. I can pitch in financially if needed!"

Stanford shakes his head and pats my shoulder as he washes his empty mug next to me. "There's no need. You should keep saving for a new place. I'll handle the finances." He adopts a mildly defensive tone. "And what do you mean changes? My list is fine..."

His face pouts, and I can't help but think he feels insulted that I want to make changes. "It's perfect for you, but I'm starting to miss some of my old habits..." I elaborate, and Stanford looks down, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sets his mug in a drying rack before looking at me and nodding. "Alright—alright. I guess it's only fair."

He leans over and retrieves a small notepad from the same drawer where the list was. As if rehearsed, he also pulls a pen from his coat pocket. I've noticed he always keeps at least three pens on him. Placing the list back, we head to the living room to discuss.

At least, I thought we were going to discuss.

I never would have mentioned making a new list if I'd known it would lead to this. It's turned into a battlefield over what to buy. We argue about specific items and brands. Stanford insists on discussing long-term prices versus short-term ones, even bringing up inflation calculations! By then, I'm just fed up.

We trade passive-aggressive insults about each other's choices, our stubbornness knowing no bounds. I feel completely justified, and judging by Stanford's stone-cold demeanor, it seems I'm not alone. By eight-thirty in the morning, we're both sulking in the living room, backs turned, with our noses in the air, refusing to give in—all over groceries.

I sink deeper into my frustration. I can't imagine sticking around until next autumn if this is how he acts. Stanford mumbles under his breath, "You're not even paying." I scoff, "I offered to, and you know that." He grumbles something indistinguishable in response. Exasperated, he grabs our crumpled list and tosses it into the trash. "This isn't working." He turns to face me, but I still won't look at him. I know he's right, but I refuse to admit it. "Maybe if we just go to the store, it'll be easier," I reply, arms crossed and back turned.

This whole ordeal feels so dramatic. It's just a few changes! Suddenly, a firm hand grips the collar of my shirt. "H-Hey! Put me down!" I protest, but Stanford drags me outside. With a determined glint in his eye, he opens the passenger door and tosses me into the seat. "You're the one who wanted to go. So let's go," he says, shutting the door behind me. I gasp and shout, "I've been manhandled!"

The driver's side door opens, and Stanford takes the wheel, knitting his brow. "It's for the greater good." He jams the key into the ignition, and the engine roars to life.

I sit upright, startled, and buckle my seatbelt. He has a point; I did suggest this... We hit the road in silence, which I've come to expect by now. So much for working on my novel today. I pout and stare out the passenger window. As we drive away, something rustles near the lab catches my eye. Probably just a rabbit.