Chapter 29Ingrid. Mid December, Present #2
They slid into a small table near the stage, the chairs creaking softly beneath them.
The glow from the bar cast a warm, reddish hue over everything, flickering off polished wood and half-full glasses.
Beck tapped his fingers against the table, finding the rhythm of the music like it lived under his skin.
"Remember when you said this place felt like an alternate universe?" he asked suddenly, his voice a gentle thread beneath the music.
"I was drunk," she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Tipsy on wine and him.
He shook his head, a soft grin ghosting across his mouth. "You said it before your second drink."
She laughed quietly. "You actually remember that?"
"I remember everything about that night," he said, gaze steady. "You ordered way too much wine. I shamelessly cheated at pool. And you… you looked free. Like you could finally breathe."
Her breath caught, just for a moment. Then she looked at him, her expression softer now, the space between them quietly dissolving.
"You were the first person who made me feel like that," she said, voice low, the words catching on the edge of a breath. "Like I could let go of everything. Like I didn’t have to hold it all together."
He was the only one who made her feel like that.
He didn’t respond right away. Just looked at her the way he always had, like she was both the mystery and the answer, all in one breath.
When the set ended, Beck reached for her hand, his fingers warm against hers as he led her toward the back of the club. Her brow arched when they stopped at a pool table, a knowing smirk already tugging at her lips.
"Really?" she drawled.
"Rematch," he said, plucking a cue stick from the rack and chalking it.
She grabbed the stick from his hand. "Hmm, yeah well, you did shamelessly cheat last time."
"I did say I cheated, but I didn’t actually break any rules. Just played a little dirty."
"You bit my ear."
"Semantics," he shrugged, grinning.
She ignored him as she rolled up her sleeves and leaned over the table, eyes narrowing at the rack of balls.
"Don’t choke this time," he said, mock sincerity dripping from every word like maple syrup.
"Don’t blink," she replied, deadpan, and struck. The cue cracked loud and clean, balls scattering across the table. One clicked neatly into the corner pocket.
His eyebrows lifted. "Alright, hotshot."
She circled the table like a lioness on a victory lap. "You’re awfully confident for someone about to get publicly humbled."
Rolling her shoulders, she lined up her next shot. "Let’s see how you play when I’m actually paying attention this time."
Beck leaned in, smug as ever. "Don’t let me distract you, then."
"Never," she shot back. But the slight blush creeping up her neck said otherwise. Beck’s low, knowing laugh rumbled in response, a sound that sent heat curling in her stomach.
She focused on the game, refusing to let him get under her skin. Beck was relentless. Throwing flirty quips, shooting her annoyingly attractive smirks, flexing his forearms because he knew it made her weak. He was absolutely aware of the effect he had on her, and he used it like a weapon.
But she held her ground, eyes locked on the table, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
"Corner pocket," she said, voice steady, and then, with one smooth, flawless shot, the eight ball dropped effortlessly into the pocket.
She straightened, victorious, the cue resting on her shoulder like a sword forged in the fires of petty vengeance. "Looks like I win."
"Absolutely robbed," Beck groaned. "I demand a rematch, a formal investigation, and maybe a sage to cleanse the table. Something was clearly interfering with my chi."
She smirked, leaning casually on the cue. "You weren’t robbed. You were annihilated. Eviscerated. Reduced to atoms."
Beck crossed his arms. "I’ll give you this one… but only because you look so damn pleased with yourself."
"Admit it," she said. "I’m better than you."
He raised a brow. "You just had a lucky night."
She gasped, feigning outrage. "Lucky? That was skill. Precision. I played that table like a damn violin."
He snorted. "Oh please, you were one bad bounce away from knocking the eight ball into the nachos."
"And yet," she said, tilting her head, "here we are. Nachos untouched. But your ego? Slightly bruised."
"You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?"
"Oh, sweetie," she said, stepping closer with a grin, "I’m going to recreate it in oil pastels. Maybe interpretive dance. There will be puppets."
His laugh burst out, loud and unrestrained. God, that laugh. There was something about it, something that cracked her open a little. Like the sound alone could pull her back to who she was with him. She’d forgotten how much she loved it. How much she felt it.
He caught her gaze and grinned, cocky as ever. "You know, if you wanted me to flirt with you, you didn’t have to destroy my pride in my favorite jazz club."
She shrugged nonchalantly. "Where’s the fun in that?"
"…You are going to use puppets, though?"
"Oh, absolutely. Hand-stitched. With tiny pool cues and everything."
Beck groaned. "I should’ve just bitten your ear again."
She gave him a withering look. "Do it, and I’ll snap your cue stick in half and use it as modern art."
He tilted his head. "Performance piece?"
"Interactive exhibit," she said with a too-sweet smile. "Audience encouraged to laugh and throw popcorn."
He grinned, stepping closer, slowly taking the cue stick from her hands. His fingers brushed hers. It was a fleeting touch, but it sent a spark up her arm, electric and sudden.
"Come on, champ," he murmured, sliding the cue back into the rack. "We’ve got more stops to make."
She narrowed her eyes. "If this ends with you reclaiming your honor in a laser tag arena, I’m all in."
"No lasers," he said. "Just trust."
That was somehow even more suspicious.
The night air hit them as they stepped outside. Cool and crisp, filled with the hum of neon lights and late-night wanderers. Beck raised a hand and flagged a cab.
She slid in beside him, still trying to figure out what kind of madness he was planning.
"You gonna give me a hint?"
"Nope."
"A clue?"
He grinned. "I like seeing you squirm."
She shot him a playful but pointed look. "Careful. I have mace in my purse and exactly zero patience."
Beck just laughed and gave the driver an address she didn’t recognize.
Fifteen minutes and a thousand guesses later, the cab rolled to a stop. She looked out the window and blinked. A small vintage theater stood before them, marquee glowing softly like something out of a dream.
They walked inside, and Beck handed a folded bill to the attendant, then turned to her with that same mysterious grin.
She raised an eyebrow. "What are we seeing?"
"No spoilers."
She gave him a long, skeptical look. "Is it puppets?"
He paused. "…Maybe."
She groaned, her eyes rolling. "If they sing, I swear to God–"
"You’ll love it," he said. "Probably."
And damn it, she followed. Her heart was already pounding.
"What are you up to, Beck?" she asked, narrowing her eyes but unable to keep the smile off her face.
"You’ll see," he replied, holding the door open.
The theater was dimly lit and completely empty. As they took their seats, the screen flickered to life, and when the opening credits of The Red Shoes appeared, her breath hitched. She hadn’t watched it in years.
She turned to Beck, but he wasn’t watching the movie, he was watching her. His expression was soft like he was savoring every flicker of emotion that crossed her face.
By the time the credits rolled, she felt both raw and full all at once, as if he’d reached inside her chest and pulled at every tender string. It settled deeply, leaving her struggling to find words. Ingrid sat there, staring at him.
"You planned this," she said, half question, half accusation.
Beck leaned back in his seat. "What gave it away? The private screening? The nostalgia overload? Or the part where you definitely cried at the end?"
"I did not cry," she shot back, even as she casually swiped the corner of her eye.
He didn’t argue. Just raised an eyebrow and held out his hand to help her up, his expression deeply unconvinced.
Outside, she let the night air cool her flushed cheeks as they walked. She was still reeling from the film, from his thoughtfulness. Of how well he remembered. She was mid-recovery when they turned the corner and she froze. Her gaze snapped to the neon sign glowing above the entrance.
"The Halloween bar?" she blurted, blinking in disbelief.
Beck pulled the door open with a grand sweep of his arm, gesturing for her to go in.
Inside, almost nothing had changed. The warm glow of the lights, the low hum of conversation, the faint scent of spiced rum lingering in the air. It was like stepping into a memory she hadn’t been ready to revisit. And yet, here she was.
At the bar, Beck ordered a seltzer. Ingrid hesitated, scanning the list.
"Would it make you uncomfortable if I ordered wine?" she asked softly, her eyes searching his face.
His brows lifted slightly, then he shook his head with a soft smile. "Not at all. Order what you want, Ingrid."
"Okay," she said, quietly. "Just checking."
When their drinks arrived, Beck clinked his seltzer against her glass.
They settled into a cozy corner booth near the bar, the flickering candlelight casting golden shadows across his face.
Conversation flowed easily. Too easily. Being with him felt like muscle memory, like slipping into a ballet combination she hadn’t practiced in years but still lived in her bones.
Her body responded before her mind could catch up.
She leaned in without thinking, drawn to him like warmth in the dead of winter.
Beck caught her up on Finn and Reef’s latest misadventures.
"Thailand?" she repeated, raising a brow.