In The Ring Of Love

11. Not so Bad.

Showcase was in six days. Six. Days.

And while everyone else was panicking, stretching their limbs, and staying back at the studio to perfect every single pirouette—Clara and I were peacefully sipping coffee at a café near the studio.

Yes, I know. Priorities. But in my defense, I have nailed that routine three rehearsals ago. Madame Dubois herself had said, "Good posture, Amara."

"So," Clara asks leaning in, "You're seriously not going to tell me everything about last night?"

"Tell you what?" I reply nonchalantly, even though I know exactly where this is going.

Of course, she would figure it out. She always did.

I sigh and lean back, knowing there's no point in hiding it now. Before rehearsal earlier, I had told her how I ended up at the pharmacy in my PJs, how I'd bumped into Xavier and had the awkward conversation.

But I left out a few details, like the part where he got down on his knees and put bandaid for me. And the part where he indirectly apologized for being such a jerk at the club and calling me an attention seeker

He said he was irritated. Why? I don't even know.

I glance at Clara, trying to seem calm. "There's not much to say. We met and then we went to the orphanage. He was getting some stuff for the kids. That's it."

But Clara's not buying it. She crosses her arms, "Really? Because it sounds like something happened between you two last night that you're not telling me."

"Fine," I admit, rolling my eyes. "He... well, like, he got on his knees and patched me up. Put on antiseptic cream and then the band-aid."

Clara's eyes go wide. "He touched your knee? Oh my god." she gasps, her hand flying to her mouth in dramatic shock. "That is way more than just 'helping you out'! He was on his knees, Amara. On his knees!"

I slump back in my chair, trying to act unfazed, but inside I'm going insane. "I mean, he didn't have to do it, but he did. What's the big deal?"

Clara leans forward, clearly loving this. "What do you mean, 'what's the big deal?' Do you have any idea how intimate that is? Like, it's not just some random spot—he was touching you. And you were fine with it?"

"I didn't make a big deal out of this, Clara. I didn't even think much of it." I say, and that sure was the truth.

Clara wiggles her brows, "So, you're telling me that Xavier Hayes was sweet and actually gentle with you?"

"Well..." I trail off, my mind running back to how he was with me, how soft his touch was while applying the cream, how careful he was. It threw me off. "Yeah, I guess."

"Next thing we know he'd be showing up with roses for you." she teases, with a smirk on her face.

"Right, as if that man knows what roses even signify." I scoff, my voice laced with sarcasm.

"Oh, absolutely! We ballerinas don't want flowers, we need men who'd understand our pain and would learn how to put band-aids on us." Clara says, shaking her head.

I fell right into that one, didn't I?

I clear my throat, "Anyways, I should get back home." I check the time on my phone- 7:23PM. "I need to head back home and bake cookies."

Clara gives me a look, raising an eyebrow. "Cookies, huh? For Noah, I assume?"

I nod, "Yeah, I promised him I'd bake for him today."

"Anyways, I hope you remember—art exhibit at Tribeca tomorrow!" Clara reminds me, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at me.

"Yes, yes, I remember," I reply, though I had almost completely forgotten until she brought it up.

The theme this year? 'Unspoken.'

Supposedly, it's all about the things we don't say—emotions, regrets, memories. The kind of stuff that makes people stand in front of a splattered canvas and hum thoughtfully like it's whispering secrets from another lifetime. I never really was the art type, but I'll tag along.

──────????°? ? ?°?? ??──────

I quickly took a shower, the warm water helping me shake off the tension of the day. Once I was out, I changed into a new pair of clothes.

I tied my hair up in a bun and made my way to the kitchen.

Dinner was simple—eggs, scrambled just the way I liked, with a slice of toast.

After eating I cleaned up my plate and turned my attention to the real task, cookies.

I gather the ingredients—flour, sugar, eggs, butter, vanilla extract, and of course, the chocolate chips. The smell of vanilla and butter instantly lifted my mood.

Once the dough was ready, I began by shaping little scoops and placing them on the tray, spacing them out perfectly.

The oven beeped and I slid the tray in, setting the timer.

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the oven light flicker. There was something about baking that felt grounding. Like everything could pause just for a bit while cookies baked and the world stayed quiet.

Reminds me of the times whenMaman and I bake together - Macaroons, croissants.

(Maman-mom)

After I was done baking, I took the tray out slowly, the warm, sweet smell of fresh-baked cookies filling in the kitchen. I grabbed one and took a bite.

Mhm. I nod in satisfaction, "Delicious." I mutter to myself.

I pack the cookies into a box, making sure to line it with parchment paper so they wouldn't shift on my way there.

Then, I stepped outside. The cool evening air hit my skin, and I debated for a second whether to take my car or just walk. It was only a few minute walk, but I wasn't sure if I felt like dealing with parking.

I look up at the sky—it is a clear night, and the streets were quieter than usual. Perfect walking weather.

With a sigh, I grab the box of cookies, check my phone for the time, and decided to walk. The felt calm, just what I needed after a hectic rehearsal and a day full of distractions.

I started down the sidewalk, the cool air brushing against my skin, but the warm cookies in my hands kept me company.

I reached the building gates, the familiar warm lights glowing from the windows. There was something oddly comforting about the quiet here—like the world slowed down just a little.

Balancing the cookie box in one hand, I walk up the steps and ring the bell.

For a moment, there was silence. Then I heard footsteps. The door creaked open and warm light spilled out.

"Amara, darling!" Ms. Whitaker's face lit up like always, "Lily and Noah have been asking about you all evening."

"I'm glad, I got cookies for everyone." I smile, as we enter the living room. "Also, how is his tummy ache?" I ask her as I look around for a particular somebody.

Ms. Whitaker's expression softens as she leads me down the hallway. "It's better, thankfully. He had a rough day, but the medicine is helping. He's been in and out of naps, but he's more comfortable now."

"Good to hear." I glance at her and nod.

She stops in front of the playroom door and turns to face me. "I'll leave you two to talk. He'll be thrilled to see you."

I nod, smiling. "Thanks, Ms. Whitaker."

The door creaks as I push it open, and I find Noah sitting on the floor with a pile of books scattered around them. Noah looks up and his face brightens instantly when he sees me.

"Amie!" he grins, his eyes wide. "You brought cookies?"

I hold up the box and his smile widens even more. "You bet I did." I kneel down next to him. "How's your tummy doing?"

He rubs his stomach but nods. "Better now. I think the cookies will make it even better!"

I laugh, handing him the box. "Well, one cookie at a time, right?"

"Thank you!" He opened the box and ate a cookie, "They are delicious as always!"

"Anytime, my superstar." I say, ruffling his hair. "Just make sure you eat some veggies next time, alright?" He pouts but nods seriously. "I will."

That's when the playroom's door opens with a soft creak. Footsteps. Heavy ones. Familiar ones.

Noah looks up. "Xavier's here!"

I blink.

I turn just as he walks in, dressed in black joggers and a fitted T-shirt this time, a paper bag in hand, maybe protein shakes or maybe some juice boxes Ms. Whitaker asked him to get.

His eyes land on me. Then the cookie box. Then Noah. "You again?" he says, arching a brow.

I try to lift a brow right back, "Me again. Sorry, I didn't realize that I had to ask for your permission to come here."

He walks in, dropping the bag gently on the table behind me. "Didn't say it was a bad thing."

Just as Noah finishes his cookie and is reaching greedily for a second, we hear a scuffle of footsteps—small, fast ones—rushing toward the playroom.

"Cookies?!" Lily shrieks, bursting through the door, Chloe and Sam trailing right behind her.

In seconds, the quiet playroom turns into chaos. Lily jumps onto the rug next to Noah, Chloe sits on the floor with her eyes fixed on the cookie box, and Sam asks, "Can we have some too?"

I laugh, "Of course you can. But one each for now, okay?"

As I start handing them out, Ms. Whitaker walks in, probably alerted by the sudden sugar-fueled stampede. She stops at the door.

"Amara, you're spoiling them," she teases warmly, then her eyes shift—and pause at Xavier who was leaning against the table. Watching quietly.

Her brows rise, just a little. "Well. I didn't expect you here, sweetheart."

He gives a small shrug. "Thought I'd check on Noah.and I bought the juices you asked for."

She nods slowly, eyes narrowing just a little. Then her gaze slides—from him to me. And then back again.

Her lips twitch into a knowing smirk. "Mmhmm," she hums. "Must be a special day. He doesn't usually show up unless someone's dying or the building's on fire."

"Mom," Xavier mutters under his breath, clearly regretting his life choices.

Ms. Whitaker disappears with a chuckle, the playful chatter of the kids fades away as they scatter to their own corners of the playroom, leaving just me and him alone in the quiet space.

But now that it's just us, I finally notice—a small cut on his cheekbone, a bruise forming under his jaw, and a faded scrape across his temple.

They're fresh. New. Sharp reminders that he's not just Xavier but that he's also The Ring Lord, a professional fighter who never lost a match in the ring.

"You're bleeding," I say, softer than expected.

He doesn't react. Then glances at me, his expression dry as if my statement annoys him. "Barely."

"Barely isn't the same as not bleeding, genius." I shot back.

I walk over before I can think too much about it, stepping in front of him, peering closer. His jaw tenses slightly but he doesn't move away.

"You have a first aid kit here, right?"

He gives a casual shrug as if he isn't bleeding right now. "Probably. Ask Mom. She hides stuff everywhere."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Do you even treat these things?"

His reply is a low mutter, "If I remember."

"So, you know how to clean a scratch on my knee but you don't remember to clean your own cuts and scratches?" I cross my arms, half-amused, half-annoyed.

He glances at me quickly before returning his focus to something else, "That's different," he mutters, his voice as clipped as ever.

"Different how?" I press, stepping closer.

He sighs, the sound low and almost reluctant. "I don't like people touching my face."

I blink, surprised by the honesty. Not that I blame him. Who wants someone poking at your face all the time? "Fine, Then you can do it yourself." I step back, arms still crossed, voice a little too sweet. "Don't let me interrupt."

But then, of course, I couldn't help but ask. "Why don't you ask Ms. Whitaker? I mean she is your mom, she wouldn't mind–"

He shoots me a glare, with his usual irritation. "I'm not a kid"

"Clearly," I say with a playful shrug, "but you might want to start acting like one with those cuts."

"Maybe next time, I'll ask you to do it." His tone is mock-serious, but I know it's a joke. I hope so.

"Right, as if you'd want me touching your face." I roll my eyes at him.

He shoots me a glance, the corner of his lips lifting ever so slightly. "Maybe I would," he says, his voice low, "if it means you stop talking."

Ah there it is. The usual sarcasm.

I laugh, rolling my eyes again. "Yeah, right. I bet you'd rather wrestle a bear than let me near you with anything remotely close to cleaning supplies."

He doesn't respond immediately. "Whatever," he mutters finally, breaking the silence. "I'll deal with it myself." He stands, grabbing the edge of the table to push himself up, clearly ready to make his exit, but not before saying, "I'll drop you home."

Wait what? I refuse, "It's fine, I can walk myself, it's just a–"

"I know it's a damn seven minute walk, but it's too late. Come on now." He cuts me off, and turns to me.

What surprised me was not that he interrupted me. Hell, he had done it so many times, but what caught me off guard was that he actually listened to what I said. I had mentioned yesterday that my home was a seven minute walk from here.

But then Noah came up running, "Amie, will you come visit us tomorrow as well?" he asked, his excitement visible.

"Yeah, sure–" I say, with a smile as I crouch down to his level.

"Anyways, I hope you remember—the art exhibit at Tribeca tomorrow!" Clara's reminder-

Oh shit. I looked at Noah, his smile widened– "Really? You'll come?"

"I-I.. uhm.. Actually, tomorrow I don't think it's possible. How about Tuesday?" I ask as on Monday I'd be really busy with rehearsals.

"Oww.. ok. Fine" He frowned, "Why can't you come tomorrow?" He questioned. His innocent brown eyes wide but also curious.

"Oh, there's this art exhibition at Tribeca, so my friend and I are going together." I say, "So, Tuesday it is. I promise." I kiss his forehead.

He smiles and nods, "Ok!" he hugs me, "You are my favorite star, you know?"

I smile at him and hug him back, "I know." I stand up and ruffle his hair, "I'll go now." I wave at Noah and walk to Xavier, "Let's go."

"So, the art exhibit, huh?" he asks as we step outside, the cool night air brushing against my skin. "Never took you for the art type."

I laugh. "Maybe you don't know me as well as you think," I reply, teasing him. "It's just something Clara's been excited about."

"Clara? Your friend whom I saw at the gym and then at the club with you?" He asks.

"Yeah. That's her." I smile, "She's pretty, and is even dating a sculptor– well not exactly dating. They have been on one date so far."

He nods and pulls out his car keys, and unlocks the doors. I slide in the passenger seat– and then I say, "The theme." I start, "The theme of the exhibit is Unspoken."

Xavier slides into the driver's seat beside me, starting the engine with one hand on the wheel. "Unspoken," he repeats.

I nod slightly. "Yeah. It's meant to be real. Like... all the things we feel but never say. The stuff we hide because we're scared to speak it out loud. Sometimes, we don't even know we're doing it—it just becomes part of us. Quiet things that still hurt."

The loud stuff that still haunt me.

Xavier stays quiet for a moment, eyes on the road, his lips pressed into a thin line. Then he asks, "If you had to make something for that theme, what would it be?"

I tilt my head, thinking. "Maybe a broken mirror," I say after a pause. "Or pieces of glass—scattered, sharp. It would show all the things I've kept inside, all the words I never said. Like everything I didn't want to face, just- broken and staring back at me."

He gives me a quick glance and a small nod.

"What about you?" I ask.

He lets out a slow breath, like he didn't expect me to ask him back. For a second, I think he won't answer.

But then, in a softer voice, "A locked box."

I look over at him. "A box?"

"Yeah," he says, still watching the road. "Something closed tight. Heavy. Like you know there's something inside, but you can't see it unless you break it open. And even then... maybe you're not meant to."

A pause stretches between us.

"Sounds lonely." I say, barely above a whisper.

He doesn't respond, not directly. Just a faint shrug. "Maybe it is."