Chapter 30Beck. Mid December, Five years ago #2
Sylvia clutched her chest. "God, you two are disgusting. I love love." Then, just as quickly, her grin faded into something softer. "Makes me miss Jessica. I need to get home and see my woman immediately."
"Not yet! We have to celebrate!" Ingrid protested. "The semester’s almost done, and everyone’s meeting at Deacon’s for drinks. See if Jess can come too."
Sylvia pretended to consider it, then sighed dramatically. " Fiiine , I’ll text her."
Before long, Sylvia and Ingrid were tossing on jeans, boots, and jackets over their leotards, laughing the whole time like they’d been doing this routine for years. Linked at the arm, they turned to Beck, who watched them with mild amusement.
"Let’s go, Pretty Boy," Ingrid teased, flashing him a grin that sent a warm ripple through his chest. Beck followed without hesitation like a labrador with a crush and no self-respect. “She calls, I go,” he muttered under his breath, equal parts smitten and doomed.
Deacon’s was exactly what you’d expect from a dive bar: dimly lit, vaguely sticky, and full of people who looked like they had backstories.
They slid onto a set of wobbly stools, and Beck ordered martinis for the girls and a whiskey for himself.
As he scanned the room, his eyes landed on a pair lingering near the bar. Weston, Ingrid’s co-lead in Swan Lake, looked every bit the smug, self-important bastard Beck had pegged him for. The guy radiated condescension, like he got off on over-enunciating French ballet terms and ghosting women.
Next to him stood the dark-haired dancer who’d once called Ingrid a pigeon during rehearsal.
Beck didn’t know her name. Didn’t want to.
His jaw tightened so hard it might’ve cracked.
The audacity. Ingrid was ten times the dancer either of them could dream of being on their most caffeinated, overachieving day.
He exhaled through his nose, sharp and slow, forcing the tension out of his shoulders. Not the time. Not the place. Don’t throw a barstool.
"Oh, great," Sylvia muttered, catching his stare. "It’s Lord Wet Blanket and Lady Bitter von Jealous."
Ingrid groaned. "Sylvia…"
"No, I stand by this," Sylvia said, taking a sip of her martini.
Ingrid glanced toward the pair, eyes lingering a little too long on Weston. "This final lift is making me nervous."
"Well, yeah," Sylvia said. "It’s hard to trust a partner whose greatest skill is letting people down." She winced and added quickly, "But it’ll be fine."
Beck watched the duo for all of three seconds before deciding, "I don’t know either of them, but I already don’t like those two."
Sylvia raised her glass. "To good instincts."
Beck clinked his whiskey against hers just as Ingrid shot him a look.
"What?" he said, feigning innocence. "I’m just saying… want me to talk some sense into them?"
Ingrid sighed and slipped a hand over his arm. "No. Don’t waste your energy."
Beck grumbled, low and not quite under his breath, "Feels like a waste not to."
But he let it go, taking a slow, measured drink from his glass. The minutes passed in a blur. Jessica showed up, laughing as she slid into the booth. She and Sylvia fed off each other's energy, loud and full of joy.
After his fifth whiskey, he stood up and steadied himself. "Be right back," he said to Ingrid, brushing his fingers against hers before heading to the bathroom.
And then he saw Weston, posted up near the hallway like some discount Bond villain, arms crossed, smirk dialed to maximum smug. The kind of look that said he thought the room, the building, hell, the planet owed him something just for showing up.
A single glance, and Beck felt heat rise up his spine, his pulse thrumming in his ears. Weston felt his stare and his smirk widened.
"Hey, you’re the guy with Ingrid, right?" His voice carried over the noise of the bar, casual, but with an edge. An invitation.
Beck stopped a few feet away, his fists curling at his sides. "Ingrid’s boyfriend," he said, the word heavier than he expected. It was ballsy considering they hadn’t labeled their relationship but it felt right. It was probably time to have that conversation.
Weston let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Boyfriend, huh? Damn. Didn’t think she’d go for the whole tortured musician thing. I've been trying for years."
Beck didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Weston leaned in slightly, dropping his voice as if sharing a secret. “But hey, good luck. She’s a frigid little ice queen—always has been.” His lips curled. His eyes glittered with something ugly. “Real shame, too.”
Beck felt his heart slam against his ribs, pulse pounding in his neck.
"Question for you,”"Weston drawled, his smirk curdling into something mean. "Does your dick have frostbite, or what?"
Beck didn’t think.
His fist connected with Weston’s face with a clean, brutal crack. Weston stumbled back, hitting the wall hard, blood already pouring from his nose.
"What the fuck?" Weston choked out, clutching his face, blood seeping through his fingers.
Beck was on him in a second, grabbing a fistful of his collar and yanking him forward until they were nose to nose.
"Say one more word about her," Beck said, voice low and dangerously even, "and I swear to God, I’ll do worse than break your nose."
Weston’s swagger cracked. Just for a second.
Beck shoved him back hard. Weston caught himself on the edge of a table, then lunged, swinging wildly. His fist clipped Beck’s mouth, splitting his lip clean open.
Beck exhaled slowly, the taste of blood metallic on his tongue. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glanced at the smear of red, and smiled wide, a little too easy.
Weston froze. Just a flicker of hesitation. Fear.
"You’re fucking crazy," he breathed.
Beck tilted his head slightly, eyes still locked on him, calm and bright with fury. "You have no idea." He took a step forward, voice quieter now. "Say her name again, and I’ll be your worst fucking nightmare."
"What the hell is going on?" came a sharp voice from behind him. Ingrid .
Beck turned. She was charging toward them, her face unreadable, but her eyes were pure fire. The sight of her hit him like cold water. For a few reckless seconds, he’d completely forgotten himself, acting on instinct. Acting to defend her.
He stepped back, rolled his shoulders, and wiped the blood from his lip, smirking like he hadn’t just thrown a punch in the middle of a bar.
"Just getting to know your charming dance partner," he said, tone easy. "We really connected. No pun intended."
Weston, still clutching his nose, glared through watery eyes. "You’re lucky I don’t sue you!"
Beck snorted, voice low and sharp. "You hit me too, asshole. Now run along before I finish what you started."
Weston hesitated. Then, with one last bitter look, he turned and disappeared into the crowd like a bad memory.
Beck exhaled slowly but the tight coil in his chest refused to unwind. It should have been satisfying. Weston, bleeding and humiliated, left rattled in front of everyone.
But when he turned and saw Ingrid standing there, arms crossed so tightly it looked like she was physically holding herself together, it didn’t feel like a win. It felt like he had just fucked everything up.
"Is this a theme with you?" Her voice was sharp, her frustration cutting through the haze of whiskey and adrenaline still pumping through Beck’s system. "Every time we go out, you end up fighting someone after you drink?"
Guilt hit harder than Weston ever could. Because she wasn’t wrong.
He knew how it looked: another bar, another drink, another fight. Same old spiral. But this time felt different. It wasn’t just anger driving him. It was something deeper. It was love.
With her, something always snapped. He couldn’t help it. First the taxi driver, then Rodney, now Weston. Every time, the instinct was the same—protect first, think later. And the alcohol? It never helped. It only shortened the fuse.
Maybe he was just terrified of losing something good. And anything that threatened it lit the match.
Or maybe it was in his blood. His mom’s addiction. Rodney’s chaos. His dad disappearing without a backward glance. Maybe this was what he was wired for. He’d always sworn he wasn’t like them. But wasn’t he? The thought made his stomach turn.
Without another word, Ingrid walked off. Beck watched her weave through the crowd, saw her grab her jacket and made a beeline for the exit. He tossed some cash onto the bar and followed.
Outside, snow had started to fall, fat flakes swirling under the glow of the streetlights. It should have been beautiful. It would have been, if not for the thick silence stretching between them like a chasm.
Ingrid yanked her jacket tighter around herself, the sharp bite of the cold nowhere near as harsh as the look she shot him. "You promised you would work on it." Her voice was tight, barely holding back the storm brewing beneath it. "The drinking. The fighting."
Beck swallowed hard, his breath clouding in the cold air. "I know."
"Do you?" She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Because this keeps happening. Over and over. And I–" She exhaled, pressing a hand to her forehead before shaking her head.
Beck clenched his fists, his knuckles throbbing, his lip still stinging from Weston’s punch.
"He was saying the nastiest shit about you," he admitted, his voice low, rough.
"I swear, I didn’t plan on hitting him. But the way he talked about you, like you were nothing–" He broke off, jaw tight.
"I couldn’t let him get away with that."
"You can’t control what comes out of his mouth. You only get to decide how you handle it." Ingrid’s voice was sharp. "Do you even realize what you’ve jeopardized? He could report you. He could get you kicked out of Juilliard. He could get me dropped from Swan Lake, maybe even the entire program."
His stomach dropped. He hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t thought about any of it, he’d been too caught up in his anger, in his recklessness, to see.
"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice raw as he stared at the ground, watching drops of blood fall onto the snow, blooming red against the white. "I am so sorry."
Ingrid stopped in front of him, her eyes glossy under the soft glow of the streetlamps.
"You spend so much time trying to prove something, trying to save everyone else," she murmured, her voice low and aching. Slowly, gently, she reached up, her cold fingertips brushing his cheek. "But you need to save yourself first."
And just like that, Beck broke. Not from the fight. From this . From the way her forehead pressed lightly against his, their breaths mingling in the cold air. From the way her voice trembled, not with fury, but with something worse. She wasn’t just angry. She was hurting. Because of him.
Beck closed his eyes, guilt pressing down on him so hard it made his ribs ache. "I’m sorry," he whispered again, as if saying it enough times might somehow rewind, undo the damage, fix the mess he had made. But it wouldn’t.
Because the truth was written in the snow, as vivid as the blood he had splattered. His damage left fingerprints on everything he touched, staining even the brightest parts. Especially her. She was hurting, and it was his fault.
They were splintering under the weight of what he couldn’t fix in himself, and the ache of it struck harder than any fist. How could he stop his damage from damaging her along the way? How could he love her gently, wholly, when he had never been taught what love was supposed to look like?
His hands trembled as he reached for her, fingers curling into the fabric of her open jacket, desperate to hold onto her, to prove that he wasn’t the mess he feared he was.
"I will get better," he swore, voice raw, unsteady. But even as the words left his lips, he wondered if he believed them. If she did.
The knuckles of his right hand throbbed from the punch he’d thrown, a dull, pulsing pain. He welcomed it. Let it sink into his bones, let it mingle with the deeper ache twisting inside him.
Ingrid searched his face, and for a terrifying second, Beck thought she might step back, let go, walk away. But instead, she did the opposite.
She reached for him.
Her hands were cold as they cupped his face, her touch impossibly soft.
It was as if she could sense the shift in him.
That toxic, oily blackness threatening to consume him, seeping into his veins like an infection.
Slowly, she guided him downward until their lips met, hesitant at first, then burning.
The kiss turned into a lifeline. Messy, desperate, all heat and silent begging.
Her warmth seared through him, burning away the cold bitterness that had seeped into his veins. And God, he let it. He let her melt into him, let her hands thread into his hair, let her mouth pull him under.
Even as the metallic tang of blood lingered between them, even as the bruises on his knuckles screamed in protest, he kissed her like he was starving, like she was the only thing keeping him from drowning.
Her tongue teased the curve of his bottom lip. A silent dare, a need that mirrored his own. Beck met her demand without a second’s hesitation, hauling her against him, his fingers digging into her waist like letting go wasn’t even an option.
"Come back with me," she whispered against his lips, her breath warm and urgent, her voice trembling.
Beck hesitated.
They should talk. They should cool down, untangle the mess between them before they crashed harder than they already had. Every logical part of him screamed to take a step back.
But the thought of being apart from her, of standing in the cold without her warmth, of facing the wreckage he’d made alone, was unbearable.
So instead, he nodded.