Chapter 29Ingrid. Mid December, Present
INGRID. MID DECEMBER, PRESENT
"You’re both my blessing and my curse. The reason I find a smile even when I’m buried six feet deep. I’m drowning in this, and I hope that one day, you’ll miss me."
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, the kind where time felt slower and everything was bathed in the kind of golden sunlight that made people romanticize their lives.
Ingrid was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, absently tracing patterns on the fabric while her brain played a never-ending loop of the Act II pas de deux.
Dance had always been her refuge, a place to lose herself when the real world felt too heavy.
But over time, she’d realized it had also become a way to sidestep the pain she didn’t want to confront, an unhealthy crutch disguised as discipline.
Turns out, pirouetting away from your problems doesn’t actually make them disappear. Who knew?
She was working on it. Balance and all that.
But with Swan Lake coming up, a role she both worshiped and feared, the old anxieties were creeping in.
So, instead of giving in, she channeled her energy into a mentally productive space: meticulously visualizing every step, lift, and delicate wrist flick while hoping she wouldn’t spiral into a full-blown meltdown about her career choices.
Then came the knock at the door.
She frowned. She wasn’t expecting anyone. People didn’t just knock on doors these days. They texted. She opened the door anyway, because curiosity kills more than just cats.
She opened the door to Beck, who was holding hot chocolate like it was a peace offering and wearing a grin that said he fully expected it to work.
Without hesitation, she took the cup and sipped. It was disgustingly good, the kind of rich, indulgent warmth that could make a person believe in happiness again.
"So," she said, eyeing him over the rim of the cup, "you really thought hot chocolate would win me over, even though it definitely didn’t last time?"
His grin widened. "Look, I’m not above emotional bribery. Call it dedication. Or desperation. Either way, I’m going for gold, Baby."
Her stomach did a somersault at the Baby . "Wait… did you seriously not get one for yourself?"
"Nope. Hot chocolate is revolting," he said, completely deadpan, like he was stating a scientific fact.
She sputtered mid-sip. "Excuse me?! You used to drink it all the time!"
"I never drank it," he replied with a shrug so casual it bordered on insulting. "I just… held it. Carried it around like a prop. Gave it wistful stares when you were looking."
Her mouth dropped open. "You pretended to like hot chocolate?"
"Correct."
"Why?!"
He didn’t even blink. "Because I was a sucker for you, and it made you smile."
She froze, heart stuttering. The way he said it, so lighthearted, yet laced with something deeper, made her chest tighten. Her cheeks flushed, but she refused to let him see how much that small, devastating admission had shaken her.
She narrowed her eyes, mostly to cover how undone she suddenly felt. "So… what, you’re not a sucker anymore?"
"Still am," he said, softer now. "But if we’re starting over, I’m doing it right. No lies. Not even the sweet ones."
Her voice caught in her throat before she managed, a little quieter, "What else did you lie about?"
He held her gaze, steady and unwavering. "Nothing," he said. "I meant every word I ever said to you. Especially the ones you didn’t believe."
She did believe him back then, with every reckless, hopeful piece of her.
But over the years, she’d trained herself not to.
She’d replayed the moments, picked them apart, convinced herself it hadn’t been real, because believing it would’ve broken her.
It was the only way to stay sane. To keep moving.
She didn’t know how he still knew her so well. How he could cut straight through the years, the narratives she’d built to protect herself.
So she took a long sip, giving herself a moment, then lifted her chin with practiced indifference. "Fine. If you say so."
"Glad we got that sorted," he said, flashing a grin. "So… you busy today?"
"Maybe," she replied, adopting a tone of extreme mystery.
"Well, I was thinking we could start our starting over today," he said, his grin morphing into something that could only be described as an attempt to be charmingly persuasive. It was adorable. Annoyingly so.
She sighed, casting a glance back at her perfectly planned lazy afternoon, complete with an anxiety spiral, a blanket cocoon, and the inevitable dramatic window-staring session where she’d overanalyze every little thing about him once she got tired of obsessing over ballet.
But Beck was standing there, looking all eager and hopeful and cute, and, well… she wasn’t made of stone.
"Okay," she relented, forcing her voice to stay casual, as if her heart wasn’t currently beating out of her chest. "I guess I’m in."
He lit up instantly, his enthusiasm so pure she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
"Where to?" she asked, grabbing her jacket and shoes, determined not to let him know she was already intrigued.
"You’ll see," he said, his grin widening. She should have been worried. She was worried.
But somehow, she was still following him out the door, because, apparently, she was still a sucker for him too.
He led her down to the subway station, and as they boarded the subway, a wave of déjà vu swept over her.
She stole a glance at him. The Beck she remembered was still there.
The same smirk, the same easy confidence but time had done something to him.
He seemed softer somehow, like life had worn away some of the rougher edges.
When they got off near Juilliard, her brow furrowed in confusion as he veered toward a churro cart parked at the corner. Beck raised his eyebrows at her, his mouth quirking up. She shook her head, laughing softly at his antics.
"Two churros, please," he said, handing the vendor a crumpled bill with an easy grin.
He handed her one of the churros, still warm in its crinkly brown bag. The sweet smell hit her nose, and she wrinkled it slightly. "I don’t trust desserts unless they’re drinkable. It’s hot chocolate or death. No in-between."
"You literally eat croissants," he said, already taking a bite.
"Croissants are not desserts. They’re a lifestyle. A flaky, buttery gray area. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is that a quiche is a dessert."
"Why not? It has a crust. It’s basically a pie. Clearly dessert material."
"You’ve just triggered a centuries-old debate and probably offended five generations of French bakers. Congratulations, you’re now banned from every patisserie in Paris."
"Just try it. Live a little, Ingrid," Beck said, his mouth still full, completely unfazed.
Ingrid sighed, eyeing the pastry like it might suddenly sprout fangs. She couldn’t believe she was about to eat something from a cart in a subway station, especially a dessert coated in solid sugar.
With a resigned grunt, she took a cautious bite.
Instant regret. Not because it was bad, but because it was too good. Her taste buds were immediately swarmed by the perfect blend of cinnamon, sugar, and what could only be described as magic.
"Well?" he prompted, leaning in, eyes sparkling like he knew he’d won.
"It’s…" She paused, savoring the unexpected burst of flavor. "Delicious," she admitted, eyebrows lifting in surprise.
"Told you," he said triumphantly, his smile stretching wide.
She smiled back despite herself, but then his gaze flicked to her lips, and her breath caught.
A warm flutter spread through her at that look, a feeling she hadn’t experienced in five long years.
It was as if lightning had struck her skin.
Those eyes had a way of both destroying and remaking her with a single glance.
Suddenly, he reached out. His thumb brushing against her bottom lip with a deliberate slowness that made her breath hitch. The touch was featherlight, but it sent a jolt straight through her, every nerve suddenly wide awake.
His eyes locked onto hers and he slid that same thumb into his mouth, sucking it in with a slow pull like he was tasting something he wasn’t ready to give up.
"So sweet," he murmured, voice thick with heat, eyes half-lidded. Then, after a beat, "The sugar, of course."
Her knees actually wobbled. She wasn’t sure if she was about to faint or climb him like a tree.
"Come on, sugar," he drawled, slipping an arm around her shoulders like it belonged there.
His touch was casual in gesture, but everything about it lit her up like a struck match.
The press of his body so close. The familiar scent of him, woodsy, soap, something darker underneath.
It all conspired to scramble her thoughts.
Then, without warning, he stopped. She blinked, slightly dazed, then followed his gaze and felt her breath catch in her throat. The jazz club. The place they’d had their first date.
Beck pushed the door open, and the familiar scent of aged wood and smoky air curled around her. She hesitated, eyes scanning the room like it might’ve changed since she had been here last. It hadn’t.
"You sure about this?" she asked, voice low. Because bringing herself back here felt like it might tear a hole in the space-time continuum. It felt big for some reason. This was his place. This was where everything had once felt so... simple.
Beck glanced at her, and for once, there was no teasing in his expression. Just something quiet. "I wasn’t, until I saw your face when we walked in."
She looked away, but not before he caught the flicker of something in her eyes. Nostalgia, maybe. Or something close to longing.