Chapter 16Ingrid. The Day after Halloween, Five years ago
INGRID. THE DAY AFTER HALLOWEEN, FIVE YEARS AGO
She woke up trapped. Something warm and heavy was draped across her waist, and for one horrifying second, her sleep-fogged brain screamed kidnapper .
Her pulse spiked, muscles tensing, every nerve on high alert until the scent of Beck hit her.
That maddening mix of woodsy cologne, soap, and pure trouble. Oh . Right.
She cracked her eyes open. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the broad chest inches from her face. Beck’s white T-shirt was rumpled and stretched snug over firm muscle, the steady rise and fall of his breathing visible beneath the cotton.
His arm, inked and solid, was locked around her like a human seatbelt.
She swallowed, tilting her chin up. He was beautiful.
Offensively beautiful. It was honestly kind of rude.
His lashes were dark and long as they rested against his cheek, his lips parted slightly in sleep.
He looked like he belonged in a Renaissance painting–except hotter, definitely less holy, and close enough to make her forget her full government name.
Then reality drop-kicked her in the stomach when she remembered the taxi. The heated argument with the driver. The reckless, possessive anger in Beck’s voice. The sharp, dangerous edge of it. All because another man had looked at her.
She hadn’t known what to do with that version of him, the sharp, volatile Beck that had flared up so suddenly. The knot in her stomach tightened as a different thought crept in : I shouldn’t still be here.
She knew his type. Beck didn’t do lingering. He didn’t do slow mornings, whispered conversations, waking up still holding someone. He had a reputation, and it wasn’t for monogamy or emotional intimacy.
He wasn’t going to want her here. And she definitely wasn’t going to wait around for the awkward conversation that would inevitably lead to her leaving anyway.
She turned toward his nightstand, and then she saw the clock. It was 10:30 AM. Her stomach dropped. Her schedule. Her routine. Sundays were for the studio. Always. No exceptions. 8:00 AM sharp, without fail.
Holidays? Studio.
Sick? Studio.
Tornado warning? Studio.
She hadn’t missed a Sunday in years. Years . And now, she was in Beck’s bed, hours late, wrapped in his warmth, smelling like him, with her perfect streak shattered for the first time in forever.
And for what? Because she suddenly wanted a relationship? With the guy nicknamed Drum Daddy ? She was clearly losing it.
Panic surged through her, cold and creeping, wrapping around her ribs like a vice. This was how it started. The slow, insidious slip from the structure that kept her steady.
In the past, she would have clawed for control in the only ways she knew how, restricting food, or, in her darkest moments, self-harm.
But therapy had helped her leave those patterns behind.
It had given her rules, structure, safety.
Dance had become a vital part of that. The repetition, the discipline, the quiet control of her body in motion.
It offered a kind of order that didn’t hurt.
A way to reclaim herself without disappearing.
And then there was Beck. Beck was chaos incarnate. He’d wrecked her schedule without even trying. She had to fix this. Had to get back on track.
Holding her breath, she peeled his arm off her inch by inch. Don’t wake up.
A low, raspy noise slipped from Beck as he burrowed closer. She froze.
If he woke up now, she would die on the spot. Full-on, spontaneous combustion, reduced to a pile of ash in his bed. But Beck stayed blissfully unconscious, mouth slightly open, breathing evenly, completely unaware that she was about to execute the world’s most awkward escape.
Releasing a quiet sigh of relief, she carefully lowered his arm and slipped out of bed, the mattress barely shifting under her.
She snatched her dress off the desk and grabbed her heels from the floor, only to realize a serious problem.
She wasn’t wearing any pants.
Her gaze dropped the tight vinyl dress she was holding. There was no way she was squeezing herself back into that without a team of professionals and a tub of butter.
Her eyes darted wildly around the room until they landed on a dresser in the corner. Jackpot.
She yanked open the first drawer and was momentarily shocked to discover that Beck actually owned more than the two shirts. The second drawer had a pair of basketball shorts. Without hesitation, she grabbed them.
Clutching her stolen shorts and halloween outfit, she crept toward the bedroom door like a burglar. She gripped the doorknob, pulse pounding.
Carefully, she eased the door shut behind her and stepped into the living room, shoes dangling from one hand as she awkwardly attempted to wiggle into the stolen basketball shorts.
"A pantless robbery. I mean, if I’m getting robbed, I guess having the perpetrator show a little leg softens the blow."
Ingrid nearly jumped out of her skin. She whipped around, clutching her dress and heels like makeshift weapons, only to find a guy sprawled across the couch, watching her with a grin.
Shaggy blonde hair, a well-worn hoodie, the kind of energy that screamed I wake up at noon and don’t believe in alarm clocks. The bassist in Beck’s band.
"Finn, right?" she asked cautiously.
"Oh, it’s drummer girl." His smirk widened. "Standing pantless in my living room."
"Ingrid," she corrected stiffly. "I’m a friend of Beck’s."
Finn let out a low chuckle. "Friend, huh?" His gaze flicked over her, amusement dancing behind it. "Beck doesn’t have overnight guests. Especially ones who, you know… stay."
Something smug flickered in her chest at that, but she stomped it down.
"He was drunk," she said, arms crossing. "I put him to bed, and he convinced me to stay. Platonically."
Finn let out a slow, exaggerated hum.
"Huh. That’s weird." He tapped his chin. "Because Beck doesn’t do platonically. Like, at all."
She narrowed her eyes. "Well, he did last night."
Finn’s grin turned razor-sharp. "Did he?"
Her stomach dipped. "What is that supposed to mean?"
He stretched, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Just saying… you’re already a first."
Her brows pulled together. "A first?"
"First girl he’s been obsessed with enough for me to personally step in and speedrun his love life."
Ingrid blinked. Obsessed felt like a bit much.
Beck didn’t seem like the type to fixate on anyone. Maybe slightly interested. Mildly intrigued at best. Whatever this was between them, she highly doubted it was anything new for him. He probably had girls draped over him on a weekly basis.
She crossed her arms. "Is that why you pulled that stunt last night?"
Finn shot her a devastatingly smug grin. "Bringing together two lost souls. A true humanitarian effort."
"Excuse me?"
"I wanted to see if you were serious about my best friend. You took the bait." His grin widened. "Worked better than I could’ve imagined. You climbed him like a damn theme park ride."
Heat flooded her face. She wanted to argue, she really did. But she had walked straight into his trap. And now, in the unforgiving, high-definition horror of daylight, she couldn’t believe it. She had actually climbed on him. Straddled him. Ridden him like a prize-winning show pony. Oh God.
And she couldn’t even blame alcohol. She’d had, what–two drinks? Spaced out over hours? That wasn’t liquid courage; that was just hydration with a bad decision chaser. Meanwhile, Beck had definitely overindulged, which only made her deeply humiliating lack of self-control even worse.
She felt slightly embarrassed. No, scratch that. Deeply, existentially embarrassed. Because she hadn’t even needed an excuse. No drunken stupor. She had done it because she wanted to. Who even was she anymore?
Beck seemed to pull this version of her out like some kind of magician, flipping a switch that turned her into a creature of poor life choices and zero self-preservation. And the worst part? She liked it.
She could still feel his hands on her hips, the way his gaze had burned into her the whole damn time. Oh, her brain wasn’t just replaying it, it was directing it. Slow motion. Full surround sound. Dramatic close-ups.
It was ridiculous. And, unfortunately, way too effective. Because now, she was tingling in places that had absolutely no business tingling.
Focus, Ingrid. Remember ballet? The thing that required discipline, dedication, and, oh yeah, actually showing up to the studio?
She was slipping. Missing training. Laying in a man’s bed like some sort of reckless, undisciplined degenerate. What was next? Ignoring your warm-ups? Drinking non-skim milk? This was a dangerous path. And at the end of it? Total depravity.
She exhaled sharply, pointing an accusatory finger. "I can’t believe you set me up."
Finn just smirked. "And I’d do it again."
She huffed. "I think I hate you."
"Winnie the Pooh, please."
"Winnie the–"
He gestured lazily at her oversized shirt and lack of pants. "No pants, just a shirt. Classic Pooh Bear. And honestly? You’re pulling it off."
A smile slipped free before she could stop it. She pulled on the baseball shorts, somehow slipping them on without flashing him. "Better?"
Finn tilted his head, considering. "Now you’ve upgraded to Adam Sandler."
She rolled her eyes, yanking the drawstring tight so they wouldn’t fall.
"It was nice actually meeting you," Ingrid said dryly. "Please don’t give me any more ammunition to make embarrassing life decisions."
"Can’t make any promises," he said easily. "And don’t be a stranger. Now that you’ve cased the place, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around."
Ingrid slid on her stilettos, ignoring the absolute catastrophe that was her outfit: basketball shorts, an oversized T-shirt, and heels.
It screamed walk of shame. Like, full-volume, Broadway-musical-opening-number screamed it. The only thing missing was a spotlight and a dance number.
Finn’s gaze practically singed the back of her head, brimming with barely contained amusement. But Ingrid was nothing if not committed. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and owned it.