Chapter 32Ingrid. Mid December, Five years ago
INGRID. MID DECEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO
She woke to a warm weight draped over her, and this time, she knew exactly what it was. The thought tugged a sleepy smile to her lips. Her fingers traced lightly across his chest, and the heat of his skin sent a slow, delicious ripple through her.
His heartbeat pulsed against her palm like a quiet rhythm meant only for her. For a moment, she lingered in the haze of waking, savoring the quiet. When she finally opened her eyes, he was already watching her.
Her pulse stumbled, her heart tripping over itself as she met his eyes. Since the day they met, she’d had a nagging feeling that loving him would mean losing her mind. And in that moment, she felt vindicated. How could looking at someone make everything else in the world stop?
"Morning," Beck murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.
"Morning," she replied, her voice soft, dazed.
Her eyes stayed on him, unable to look away. His bare chest was covered in black and red tattoos, a chaotic mix of words, nature, and symbols of heaven and hell that made no clear sense, yet somehow felt like him. Light and dark. Safe and dangerous. He was both.
Her eyes wandered over the tattoos as if they had a mind of their own, exploring the layers of meaning etched into his skin. It felt like she was peering into his soul. Each line and curve told a story she was desperate to understand.
She noticed a faint scar, long and jagged, hidden beneath the ink of a praying angel on his forearm. Her fingers hesitated before tracing it gently, feeling the raised line.
"That one’s from Rodney," he said quietly. "Shoved me into a glass coffee table during one of his tantrums."
His hand found hers, guiding her fingers behind his right ear to another small scar. The ridge was uneven, the skin rough beneath her fingertips.
"My mom threw a beer bottle at me," he explained. “She was drunk. Stuff like that just kinda... happened.”
He moved her hand next to his knuckles, where a thin, jagged scar cut across the top of his pointer finger. Her thumb brushed over it as he continued.
"From the wall I punched when I got the call that she was in jail. That she’d killed someone in a drunk-driving accident. I don’t even remember hitting it–I just… lost it."
His hand shifted hers again, this time pressing it to his chest, just above his heart. Beneath her palm, his heartbeat thrummed.
“And this,” he said quietly, “this is bruised, beat up, scarred in ways no one really notices.” He looked down, jaw tight.
“It comes from carrying around disappointment like it’s just part of who I am.
From trying like hell and still never being enough.
From anger that doesn’t explode, just turns in on itself and eats at you. "
A shiver ran through her, not just from everything he’d told her, but from the way he let her see him, really see him, one broken piece at a time.
His fingers brushed over the scars on her hips, soft and slow, like he was trying to understand her pain the only way he knew how.
"Our scars," he murmured, "they’re storms that didn’t last. Proof that we survived."
His words didn’t just settle. They sank, curling around the most fragile corners of her soul. Her breath caught, the ache swelling in her chest. She thought of the pale marks etched along her hips, quiet testaments to a darkness she rarely dared name.
They weren’t just scars. They were echoes. Of nights she didn’t think she’d see the end of. Of pain turned silent and sharp. Of survival.
He let her in without flinching, past the walls, past the wreckage, to the most wounded parts of him.
A tremble moved through her, stirred by the rawness of being seen like this. To be known this way. To be held in the light and not flinch. To carry storms, and still be standing.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
It was right there, pressed against the back of her teeth, begging to be said. She loved him. She knew it like muscle memory, like breath.
But still, the words stayed lodged in her chest. Maybe because saying them out loud would strip away the last piece of armor she had left. Maybe because some part of her still needed to know he could stop running toward anger and recklessness, and choose her instead.
So instead, she reached for him. She leaned in and closed the space between them, her hand brushing his cheek before sliding to the back of his neck.
And then she kissed him, slow and certain, a silent confession in the shape of lips and warmth and trembling breath.
She kissed him like it meant something, because it did.
She kissed him like the words were there, just waiting for the right moment to fall.
When she pulled back, his expression had softened, and his fingers curled around her wrist, drawing her hand to his ribs. Beneath her palm, she felt another small scar, its edges raised beneath the uneven script of a tattoo. The words, though shaky, read: Keep goin’, Bear.
Her fingers traced the delicate script, lingering over each letter. "What’s this one?" she asked softly.
Beck’s lips quirked into a bittersweet smile. "I can’t remember how I got the scar. But the writing... that’s from a letter my grandma wrote to me before she passed away," he said quietly. "She sent it when I got accepted to Juilliard. She was so proud of me."
"It’s beautiful," she murmured.
"She was the only one in my family who gave a damn about what I wanted.
" His voice was quiet, but there was a bitter edge beneath it. His fingers flexed, then slowly relaxed. "My mom and Rodney? They’d have been fine if I rotted in that trailer. Rodney’s practically rooting for me to fail.
Makes it easier for him to feel better about never trying. "
Ingrid hesitated, then exhaled slowly. "My mom’s the opposite," she said, voice tight. "If I’m not perfect, if I’m not the best, it’s like I’ve failed her.
There’s no space to mess up, no room to just..
. be human. It’s suffocating. Sometimes I want to do the opposite of everything she expects. Just once, choose something for me."
"Then do it," he said simply.
She let out a dry laugh. "You say that like it’s easy."
"It can be," he said with a shrug. "We keep breaking ourselves trying to fix people who don’t even think they’re broken. Let them self-destruct if that’s what they’re set on."
His words hit something raw inside her. She sat with it for a moment, turning it over like a jagged stone in her palm.
She imagined not calling her mom. Not stretching herself thinner every time a new demand was thrown her way.
But she also saw the aftermath. The cold silence.
The disappointed looks. The sharp comments disguised as concern.
The way her mother turned every slight into a catastrophe.
Memories surfaced like bruises. Ruined holidays. Dinners where one wrong word could detonate the room. Joy undercut by control.
"We waste so much energy trying to prove something to people who never bothered to understand us."
"I can hear it in your voice," he said, quietly. He hesitated. "Anger."
She did feel angry. It was sharp and coiled tight in her chest. The kind born from never being truly seen by the people who were supposed to love you. From always feeling like an afterthought. Like no matter what you did, it was never enough to be chosen.
She thought of his mother. The addiction. The prison sentence. The damage she’d left behind.
"Is that what you feel toward your mom?" Ingrid asked gently, her voice careful. "Anger?"
He tensed, and for a moment she thought he might shut down. But then he exhaled, slow and uneven, and his shoulders dropped.
"You have no idea," he said. "It’s complicated. I love her. She’s my mom. But she was never really a mother to me."
He paused, the next words thick with memory.
"A mother doesn’t choose her addictions over her kids. She doesn’t lock her children in a closet so she can go out drinking."
His voice cracked, and he shook his head like he could shake the memory off. Ingrid said nothing. She reached for him instead, pressing a hand to his arm.
"I remember Rodney and me," Beck continued, softer now, more to himself than to her. "Huddled in the dark, waiting. Hours would pass. We’d whisper to each other, trying to pretend we weren’t scared. And when she finally came back..."
His throat worked around the words.
"She didn’t even see us. Too drunk to care. She’d stumble in, pass out cold, and that was it. No food. No light. Nothing. We were just kids. Kids trying to figure out how to survive when no one else gave a damn."
A lump formed in Ingrid’s throat. She could see them so clearly. Two small boys, lost in the dark, clinging to each other and waiting for a mother who never really came back.
The pain in his voice was almost too much to bear. She blinked hard, fighting back the sting behind her eyes.
"You can see how much she fucked up Rodney and me," Beck said, his hands balling into fists. "Rodney lashes out. And me? I just feel like I’m constantly trying to outrun her mistakes. But they’re always there, nipping at my heels. Like I’m one bad day away from becoming everything I swore I’d never be. "
"You’re not fucked up, Beck," she said, her words careful but firm. "You are who you are because you survived. Because you kept going when most people would’ve given up. That matters. You matter."
He looked at her, jaw tight, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
"We all have demons," she continued, softer now. "But it’s not about pretending they aren’t there. It’s about what we do when they show up. It’s how we confront them that matters. And you... you face them every day. That’s strength, Beck."
He let out a shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing. "It doesn’t feel like strength most days."
"That’s because strength isn’t always loud," she said. "Sometimes it’s just waking up and choosing not to be ruled by your past. Sometimes it’s letting someone in, even when every part of you wants to shut the world out."
There was a long pause. Then, Beck reached out, his fingers finding hers. His throat bobbed, his expression wavering.
"I’m trying, Ingrid," he whispered. "I’m trying so damn hard. I want to stop being so reactive, to quit drinking, to be…better. But it feels like I’m fighting something I’ll never win. Like I’m trapped underwater, and I can see the light above, but no matter how hard I swim, I can’t break through."
She could hear the years of hurt stitched into every syllable. There were no easy answers, no magic words to undo what had been done.
Beck exhaled, his gaze dropping to the tattoo on his ribs.
"That letter my grandma wrote… it kept me sane for a long time," he admitted.
"After she passed, I felt lost. But that letter reminded me that, at least once, someone thought I was worth something.
When I got it tattooed, it felt like keeping a piece of her with me. Like she was still here."
She leaned forward and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the inked script, letting her lips rest against his skin.
"You are worth more than something, Beck," she murmured. "You are worth everything."
A visible shiver ran through Beck at her words, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. His eyes fluttered closed, as if he were trying to absorb the weight of her belief in him.
After a long pause, Beck’s voice broke through, hesitant.
"I sometimes write my grandma letters, just to talk to her," he whispered. "It sounds crazy, I know, but it’s like… it’s the only way I can still feel connected to her.
She was the one who really got me, you know?
When she was gone, it felt like I lost my person.
"It’s not crazy at all," she said softly. "It makes perfect sense. Writing to her keeps her close to you. It’s your way of holding on to her love. There’s nothing strange about that."
He pulled her closer, his hand finding its way to her hair, fingers stroking gently.
Ingrid tilted her head back slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "It’s no weirder than me talking to my cat when I know she doesn’t understand a word I’m saying," she said, her voice light.
"Oh, I think she understands you just fine," he teased. "She just chooses to ignore you."
Ingrid laughed softly, her smile lingering even as her eyes grew heavy. She stifled a yawn, her body curling closer to the blanket draped over her.
"Okay, we need caffeine," Beck said with a sleepy groan, rubbing his eyes.
“I’m on it,” Ingrid replied, already standing. “Brace yourself for greatness.”
“That’s what concerns me,” he muttered.
She glanced back. “Your lack of faith has been logged for future passive-aggressive commentary.”
Ten minutes later, after a few clanks, a yelp, and maybe a quiet curse, she came back with two mugs in hand.
"Voilà," she said proudly. "Caffeine, as promised."
Beck took one sip and immediately choked. "What the hell is this? Motor oil?"
"It’s coffee," Ingrid said defensively, taking a sip of her own then gagging. "Okay… maybe not good coffee."
"It tastes like you burned it, drowned it, and then tried to revive it with guilt."
"I used the machine!"
"Yeah? I think that machine’s filing a restraining order."
She flopped down next to him with a sigh. "I don’t even drink coffee! I just kept hitting buttons until something vaguely coffee-colored came out."
"And then you gave it to me. Bold move."
"I was trying to do something sweet."
"And you did. Thank you, Baby." He leaned over and kissed her temple gently. "Next time, we’ll make it together. Less trauma involved."
She looked up at him, smirking. "Think you can do better?"
"I know I can buy better," he said, pulling on his jeans.
She made zero effort to hide her appreciation for his tattooed torso. He reached for his shirt, and she bit her lip to keep from booing out loud. Tragic. A true loss for the visual arts.
He shrugged into his jacket. "How do you feel about Vietnamese coffee?"
"I’ve never tried it."
"Get ready, your socks are about to get blown clean off," he said with a grin.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Ingrid curled back under the blanket, grinning. Honestly, coffee had never sounded so promising.