Chapter 15Ingrid. Halloween, Five years ago #2
God, he was so sweet. The way he said it made her chest tighten.
Tonight had to be a one-off. Just a bad mix of whiskey and impulse.
Maybe he drank a little too much sometimes.
He was a musician, it wouldn’t be a shock.
And tonight of those nights that made you reckless, made you say things you didn’t mean or go a little too far.
She had to believe that. Because if this gentle, easy version of him could also carry that kind of anger... she didn’t know what to do with that.
Her eyes flicked to the clock. Past 1 a.m. The thought of navigating the subway sounded exhausting, and she wasn't about to make him travel two hours to her apartment and back.
"It’s fine," Ingrid said, waving a hand. "I guess I’ll just stay for tonight. Platonically."
"Okay," he said, his grin turning a little dopey, a little coaxing. "We can cuddle. Totally platonically. Fully clothed. I'll even keep my hands where you can see them."
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop another smile from creeping in.
She glanced down at her vinyl dress, which had officially entered personal prison levels of discomfort. She shifted, tugging at the hem. Beck caught the movement instantly, his brow furrowing.
"You look uncomfortable," he said, sitting up straighter. "You can change into some of my clothes if you want."
Ingrid hesitated. The thought of slipping into one of Beck’s oversized shirts? Tempting. Dangerous. A very slippery slope.
"Yeah... okay," she said, the words sticking slightly in her throat.
"Where are your shirts?" Ingrid finally asked, scanning his room.
Beck sat up, shrugged off his leather jacket and tossed it onto the desk.
"Right here," he said casually. Then, without a hint of hesitation, he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head.
Her mind blanked completely. For a solid three seconds, she forgot what shirts were. She forgot what words were. The lean muscle, the tattoos, the way his body shifted so effortlessly. The abs. Her heart did a little jump, and she was suddenly aware of how sweaty her palms had gotten.
"You don’t have other shirts?" she asked, clearing her throat like that would somehow reset her brain. She bent to take off her heels, placing them neatly beside his boots, pretending she hadn’t just been ogling him.
Beck handed her his still-warm t-shirt, his smirk downright evil. Ingrid snatched it, fisting the fabric in her hand.
"Of course I do," he said, reclining onto his elbows, his muscles flexing just enough to be absolutely obnoxious. His gaze stayed locked on her, slow and amused. "I just wanted to watch you squirm."
"Seek. Help," Ingrid muttered, storming out and pretending her face wasn’t burning hot.
Halfway down the dimly lit hallway, her steps slowed.
His teasing smile still lingered in her mind. The way his voice curled around her name. She was two seconds away from doing something catastrophically stupid. Reaching the bathroom, she shut the door and leaned against it, exhaling. Get it together.
She surveyed the room. One sad, limp towel hung on the rack, looking like it had given up on life. The shower held a single crusty bottle of generic 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner–an actual crime against humanity. God, these men were animals.
After washing her hands, she let them air dry, because of course there were no hand towels and she wasn’t about to gamble with the thing hanging on the rack. And then, in the true spirit of rock-bottom survival, she dabbed toothpaste onto her finger like a barbarian.
As she glanced at her reflection in the mirror, her face was flushed, hair slightly wild. Behind her, the glint of a vodka bottle wedged behind the toilet caught her eye. She sighed. Deeply. This was one beer pong table away from being a frat house.
She peeled off her dress and it felt like an Olympic sport. Every pull yanked at her skin, taking a few strands of hair as a parting gift. By the time she finally wrestled it off, she felt like she had just won a cage match.
With a sigh of relief, she pulled on Beck’s oversized white t-shirt, the hem brushing mid-thigh.
And then the scent hit her. Masculine. Warm. Beck. She inhaled before she could stop herself, the familiar smell heady and dangerously intoxicating. Without thinking, she brought the fabric to her face, breathing him in. This man was a serious problem.
As Ingrid made her way back to Beck’s room, she noticed he’d changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.
She hesitated in the doorway, feeling weirdly… unsure. What was the etiquette here? Was she supposed to knock? Announce her presence? Say, Hey, I’m back in your clothes, let’s ignore the sexual tension and be normal about it?
Beck looked up from his phone, immediately noticing her hesitation. His mouth curled into that signature smirk.
"Quit loitering and get over here," he said, stretching out on the bed. Then, with zero shame, he added, "Don’t be shy now. You were rubbing that sweet ass all over me thirty minutes ago."
Ingrid leveled him with a look. "Excuse me?"
"It was mutual rubbing," he clarified. "I was very respectful about it."
She shook her head, but still, traitorous body that she had, she walked over anyway. Her steps were slow and measured, pretending her pulse wasn’t bounding. The dress she’d carried from the bathroom slipped through her fingers onto the desk as she perched on the edge of the bed.
Beck, being Beck, simply grabbed her waist and pulled her closer. Like it was nothing. Like they did this all the time.
The bed dipped as he drew her closer, turning her until they were face-to-face, only inches apart.
His gaze moved slowly over her features, drinking her in, soaking up every detail.
He looked at her as if she were the answer to every question, the cure for every wrong in his world.
He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear.
And like the weak-willed fool she apparently was, she leaned into his touch.
"Your hair is so beautiful," he murmured, his fingers lingering in the strands. "You never wear it down."
"It gets in the way," she replied automatically, trying to ignore the goosebumps.
Beck smiled, twirling a loose strand. "Yeah, I get the vibe that you might be a bit of a control freak."
She snorted. "What gave it away? The stuck up attitude or the perpetually slicked-back bun?"
"Oh, definitely the bun," he deadpanned. "That thing is tighter than national security."
She huffed a laugh despite herself.
"You should let yourself go sometimes," Beck said, his voice softer now.
"What about tonight?" she shot back, arching a brow. "I think I sufficiently ‘let go.’" Dry humping in front of an audience definitely qualified in her book.
"Yeah, you did. It was a good start." His eyes glittered with wicked amusement. "And wasn’t that fun? I had a great time. Changed me on a molecular level, actually."
"Mm, yes. I'm sure you did." She smirked. "I see why you're so loyal to the unstable musician lifestyle. Public groping and reckless decisions. Very rockstar of you."
"Yeah, well, I think it was worth it." His grin turned devilish. "That thing you did with your hips? Still thinking about it." Her pulse kicked up, but she held his gaze, nonchalant.
"I was feeling generous," she said with a shrug, like the memory of his hands wasn’t still humming beneath her skin.
He laughed under his breath, low and satisfied. "Remind me to thank the universe for your generosity. Repeatedly."
"God, you’re impossible." Ingrid rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched with the smile she was trying not to give him.
"I’ll be honest," she said softly. "Tonight, and really the last few weeks, I’ve been more spontaneous than I’ve ever been in my life.
" She paused. "The truth is, my life’s never really been about fun. It’s about being the best. Becoming a prima.
Earning a spot with New York City Ballet. There’s no room for.. distractions."
Beck studied her, the usual spark in his eyes giving way to something gentler.
"I get that," he said slowly, pausing for a moment. "You ever see an old dog that just stops listening to commands? One day it just thinks, ‘Screw it,’ flops down in the middle of the sidewalk, and won’t budge like it owns the whole damn block."
Ingrid blinked. "Are you seriously telling me to model my life after a disobedient golden retriever?"
"Yes," Beck said without missing a beat. "Sometimes you have to stop chasing everything and just let life come to you. Slow down. Be reckless. Have fun."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. She had nothing. No argument. No rebuttal. The absolute stupidity of it somehow made perfect sense.
She exhaled a laugh, shaking her head. She knew she couldn’t just throw away the structure she built her life around. But as she lay there, cocooned in Beck’s warmth, she found herself saying, "Maybe."
Her response was rewarded with a small, satisfied smile. Beck pulled her closer, his arm tightening around her waist as his face nestled into her hair.
Ingrid swallowed, hyper-aware of everything. The warmth of his body. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The way his breath tickled her skin.
Her mind was a whirlwind. Was she supposed to be this tense? Did people just... do this? Regularly? She realized how stiff she’d become, her muscles locked up with uncertainty.
"Are you okay, kitten?" His voice was soft, the words mumbled into her hair.
She had never been a cuddler. Usually, she made a quick but elegant exit before anyone could get ideas about lingering attachments. Closeness like this was uncharted territory.
"Yes, I’m okay," she muttered finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I don’t believe you," Beck said instantly. His concern was evident as he pulled back slightly to look at her face. The loss of his warmth made her stomach twist in protest.
"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asked, his blue eyes scanning hers.
"No, it’s not that," she blurted, then groaned and buried her face in the pillow.
Beck waited, patiently and wildly amused.
After a long pause, she mumbled into the fabric, voice muffled, "I haven’t cuddled before."
"What? You’ve never had peach cobbler? It’s incredible, you’ve got to try it," he said, deadpan.
She turned her head slowly, cheeks burning. "No. I said..." She paused, then whispered, "I haven’t cuddled before."
Beck blinked. "Ever? "
"Not really," she admitted. This was humiliating. "I usually leave before it gets to that part."
A slow, mischievous grin spread across Beck’s face. "So, what I’m hearing is... I’m the luckiest person on planet Earth?"
"Basically," she muttered, still half-smothered by the pillow.
His hand found her back, warm and steady, rubbing slow, soothing circles. The gentleness of it was unnerving. Suspiciously nice. Like he had some kind of secret strategy.
She peeked up at him. "Are you trying to lull me into a false sense of security?"
"Absolutely," he said. "It’s all part of my master plan to turn you into a full-time cuddler."
"Diabolical."
"You have no idea."
Ingrid huffed a laugh despite herself. The steady motion of his hand on her back, melted something in her that she didn’t even realize had been clenched tight.
She let her body relax slightly, sinking deeper into his arms.
"Just get comfortable," Beck murmured, pressing a lazy, lingering kiss to the top of her head. "I'll take care of the rest."
"Am I getting the pillow princess treatment?" she teased, her lips curling into a smirk. "I just lay here, and you do all the work?"
"Obviously," Beck replied, his tone solemn. "Nothing less for my princess."
He punctuated the words with another kiss, this time on her forehead. Soft and barely there. It made her heart skip.
Before she could overthink it, Beck pulled her fully against him, pressing her into the warmth of his chest.
She let out a tiny, barely-audible sigh of contentment. So nice .
Beck immediately smirked. "Nice, huh?"
Ingrid’s eyes flew open. "Did I say that out loud?"
"No, but your adorable little sigh kind of implied it," he teased. "But I appreciate the verbal confirmation."
She groaned and buried her face against him. "You suck."
"I saw that blush," he said, smug.
"You're imagining things."
"Mm-hmm." He chuckled, the sound vibrating against her. His fingers found their way into her hair, threading through the strands before smoothing them down in slow, lazy strokes.
It shouldn’t have felt this good, definitely not this good.
Then he started humming, soft and low, the vibration of it sinking into her skin. The melody was familiar. It took her a second to place it, but when she did, she couldn’t help the smile that curved her lips. Uptown Girl . Billy Joel. Of course.
"You can relax," he murmured, his voice barely audible now. "I've got you."
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Ingrid let herself believe him.
She let her body soften completely, let the last of her tension fade. And as she drifted toward sleep, still wrapped in his arms, she thought that maybe cuddling wasn’t so bad after all.