(Ford x Reader) Hickory Pines

CH. 27 The Unexpected

Y/N POV

I take Stanford's hand and lead him up the stairway. His fingers tense around mine—uncertain, yet determined to cling to something tangible. The gesture sparks a flicker of worry in me, but I push it aside for now. I gesture toward the fort.

Stanford takes the lead, dropping to all fours before scurrying inside. I follow close behind.

"I'm surprised you managed to pry him from his work," Fiddleford says with a lighthearted snicker, making me chuckle.

"As am I," I reply in jest—though it barely is one.

Fiddleford tosses a pillow my way. I catch it one-handed, tuck it behind me, and lean back into it for comfort.

Stanford shimmies around on the oh-so-familiar comforter. I hum inwardly, wondering if his posterior is still grateful.

"Sooo..." I dawdle, reaching for the pitcher of lemonade I'd mentioned earlier. "When were you planning to tell me you spoiled my novel?"

I glance at Stanford, my expression falling as I catch the glossed-over look in his eyes. He snaps back to reality.

"Hm?" he exclaims. "Oh! I haven't spoiled too much..." He rubs the back of his neck bashfully.

"Uh huh..." Fiddleford mocks. "I know the entire plotline, Ford."

Stanford waves him off, guffawing aloud. He gingerly accepts the glass of lemonade I've poured for him and takes a sip.

"Sure... but they might change a few things in the next draft," he counters.

I shrug. "Maybe."

Then I hand another glass to Fiddleford, who thanks me and swirls the contents as if it were fine wine.

"Though I'm unsure," I add. "I really like the plot I have so far."

I finally pour myself a glass, and set the pitcher down.

"Actually, it's strange—" I muse, letting my words curl into the dead air.

The two fix their gazes on me, Stanford leaning in.

"For someone so focused on his work..."

I pause, just long enough for the silence to tighten.

"You seem highly interested in mine."

Once the punch hits, I bat my eyes. Stanford stammers, tugging at the hem of his shirt collar. Fiddleford snickers, laughter bubbling under his breath.

"I am merely interested in tracking your progress!" Stanford proclaims, his voice warbling before it gradually smooths out. "To ensure you're meeting your goals in time for your departure next year..."

I cringe at the reminder, sinking a little lower. Fiddleford pats my shoulder gently.

"Speaking of... we've only got half a year left," Ford says, then adds with a pointed look, "How are your finances?"

I take a languid sip of lemonade, staying silent.

He sighs and removes his glasses, rubbing slow circles on the square frames.

"I figured as much," he murmurs.

"Though... at this point, I wouldn't mind helping you out again. I could... maybe pull together the funds and buy you a place, once my work is finished—once the journal's published. But that might be a while. Well past your lease."

I perk up, and Fiddleford does as well.

"Are you extending their stay with you?" Fiddleford muses aloud, his voice full of quiet awe.