Chapter 2Ingrid, Present
INGRID, PRESENT
"I would rather be alone than ever be a stranger to you."
Ingrid blinked. Once. Twice. Nope, Beck was still there, leaning against the doorframe of his new apartment like he was posing for a GQ spread. He had one ankle crossed over the other, like he owned the whole damn building.
Freddie, her supposed ride-or-die, was cradled in his arms, purring like he'd single-handedly saved her from a burning building. Typical. The little traitor was making biscuits on his arm, practically spelling out I love this man more than you in Morse code.
Beck still carried that lazy confidence, like he hadn’t just strolled back into her world and blown it to pieces.
His light brown hair was perfectly tousled, as if he had rolled out of bed looking that annoyingly good, and that signature smirk, equal parts cocky and infuriating, still played at his lips.
Every time she saw him, it hit like a punch to the chest, knocking the breath from her lungs. It was immediate, visceral, her body betraying her before her brain had time to fight back. A reaction so ingrained, so automatic, it felt unfair.
But looking into those denim-blue eyes was worse, like pouring salt into a wound that never really healed.
Every glance stirred something buried deep inside her, a homesickness so raw it throbbed.
The kind you feel when you return somewhere you once belonged, only to find the lights off and the door bolted shut.
And now, standing in front of her, he was right there. Real and unshaken, as if time had never touched him.
For the first time in years, she let herself look. Let herself take him in. And despite everything, despite the wreckage he left behind, she couldn’t help but be drawn in by how devastatingly familiar he still was.
Beck let his gaze sweep over her with something close to amusement. His eyes dragged over her like he was taking inventory, committing every detail to memory.
Her skin prickled. That old, traitorous thrill bubbled up, pulling her back to the first time they met, when everything in her had felt too bright, too alive.
"What? No neighborly welcome? No heartfelt embrace? I’m guessing you didn’t spend all day slaving away in the kitchen to bake me a celebratory pie?"
Oh, sure. Like she was some 1950s housewife, ready to present him with a pie and a kiss on the cheek, instead of someone actively resisting the urge to launch herself into the void.
"No pie. No cat," Ingrid snipped, crossing her arms over her coffee-stained pink leotard, the fabric of her pants swishing with the movement.
"Hmm. It seems Freddie disagrees." He tilted his chin toward the double-crossing furball, who gazed up at him like he’d hung the damn moon. "Beatrice next door was much friendlier. She gave me some cinnamon raisin bread. You, on the other hand, are being entirely unwelcoming."
Ingrid scoffed. "Beatrice is ninety-two and bakes for everyone. She'd hand-feed a serial killer if he complimented her curtains."
Beck grinned. "And yet, she gave me two slices. What does that say?"
"That she has poor judgment."
"Or that I have undeniable charm."
Ingrid narrowed her eyes. "Or that I now have to go to Beatrice’s apartment and warn her before she starts knitting you a sweater."
Beck smirked, clearly enjoying himself. Meanwhile, Freddie stretched luxuriously in his arms, as if she, too, had fallen under his ridiculous spell. Judas .
"Unhand my cat, you heathen," Ingrid demanded, reaching for Freddie.
Beck just smiled at her, that maddening, insufferable, knowingly amused smile, like she was something adorable instead of someone barely restraining the urge to strangle him. That damn smile felt like a barbed arrow straight to the heart.
"Such anger from such a pretty thing," Beck murmured. "All you had to do was ask, princess."
Her entire body stiffened. The nickname slithered through the air, wrapping around her like a ghost of the past.
Once upon a time, princess had made her blush. Made her smile. Made her his . Now, it just made her want to throw him off the balcony. And the bastard knew it, too. The flicker of amusement in his eyes made that very clear.
Ingrid exhaled through her nose, muttering, "All you had to do was move to literally any other building in the city. Maybe one with a moat."
Their run-ins had been mercifully rare over the years.
Once backstage at Eden’s concert, where Beck lingered like a bad habit, and more recently at Eden’s wedding.
Though they’d slipped into old banter way too easily, both encounters left Ingrid so emotionally fried she needed an ice pack for her soul and a three-day nap just to feel human again.
She’d avoided him ever since. A feat, considering he’d spent the last three years practically glued to Eden’s side on tour. And despite all her careful groundwork to keep their paths from crossing, here he was. In her hallway. Holding her cat.
The worst part was that time and distance hadn’t dulled his effect. He still lit something wild and reckless in her. She wanted to scream. Or slam the door. Or bolt in the opposite direction. Do every impulsive thing she usually never even let herself consider.
"Come closer. I don’t want to drop her," Beck said, voice calm and unbothered as he stayed firmly planted in the doorway, making zero effort to bridge the gap himself.
Ingrid clenched her teeth. Superman had kryptonite. She had Beck.
"Don’t be shy," he murmured, teasing.
She stomped over, each step full of purpose and petty rage. Squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and tried to meet his ridiculous height head-on, even though he still towered over her 5'8" frame like a smug, tattooed skyscraper with abs.
With her arms outstretched and an eyebrow arched in defiance, she waited. Freddie cracked one sleepy eye open… then burrowed deeper into Beck’s arms like a traitor in fur.
"Freddie," Ingrid snapped, scandalized.
Beck tilted his head, way too pleased with himself.
"Say please," he whispered, his breath washing over her skin, warm and minty and intoxicating. A shiver unfurled slowly up her spine. The sensation caught under her skin, a spark flaring too close to dry kindling, spreading molten heat through her.
"Please…" she said sweetly, her voice dripping with honey, every inch the innocent he knew damn well she was not. His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. Ha. Gotcha.
She plucked Freddie from his arms, her fingers brushing his in a touch that felt hotter than it had any right to be. She especially ignored the treacherous little zing of contact that shot up her spine and made her want to scream into the nearest throw pillow.
"…go rot in hell," she finished, her voice coated in sugar.
Beck grinned. Slowly. Like he’d been waiting all day for her to verbally slap him.
"There she is," he murmured, voice rough and stupidly full of meaning. Like he felt something too. Which was just… no. Unacceptable.
"Keep your filthy hands off my cat," she snapped, aiming for icy but landing somewhere closer to breathless. Probably because her eyes had flicked to his hands. Tattooed. Silver rings catching the dim hallway light. Strong. Calloused. Hands that had once–No.
But her mind was already playing the Greatest Hits: his fingers on her hips, trailing slow, ruinous patterns down her spine like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly what to do with it.
She could still feel the weight of them, pinning her down, the way they’d tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp.
A fresh wave of heat curled low in her stomach, the memories flashing with infuriating clarity.
Beck’s smirk deepened. Because of course, he knew. He always knew.
She briefly considered slamming her head into the nearest wall, just to wipe out whatever glitch had caused her brain to suddenly remember that .
She spun on her heel, ignoring the heat creeping up her skin and the lizard part of her brain chanting, Touch him again, just to make sure it’s still that good.
"We’ll see about that, princess," Beck called after her, his voice dripping with amusement.
Freddie, still snug in her arms, turned and gave Beck a slow purr.
Ingrid slammed the door shut with more force than necessary. Beck’s laughter echoed in the hallway.
How the hell did Freddie remember Beck after five years?
She fed that damn cat every single day, and the best return she got was a half-hearted paw swipe as if Ingrid were inconveniencing her. But for Beck? She practically launched herself into his arms, as if he were her long-lost soulmate.
Ingrid squinted at Freddie, suspicious.
"Are we in trouble?" she whispered.
Freddie meowed. Ingrid groaned. That was a definite yes.