In The Ring Of Love

17. The Hoodie

thankyou for reading, i'd appreciate if you all can press the star icon :))

Finding this place wasn't hard—not when you'd attended the ballet showcase and her team had won. There were posters, interviews, enough buzz that even someone half-listening would've figured it out. But I wasn't half-listening.

I had booked the ticket for the performance the very same day she told Noah she wouldn't be dropping by.

I told myself it was just to make sure she wouldn't trip or fall. Someone had to check. Because if she did, who would bring cookies for the kids?

And obviously, Mom and the little monsters would be worried. Couldn't have that.

But the truth?

She was graceful. Irritatingly so. Like the stage became hers and time didn't matter.

And now, since her team had won, the studio was listed everywhere. Which, unfortunately, led me here.

I stood outside her studio, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. I call her phone and she picks it up, on the second ring itself.

"Missed me?" she teases, not even bothering with a hello.

"No," I say flatly. "Tell me where you are right now. I'll pick you up. The kids are waiting."

"Uh, I'm at the studio right now," she replies, probably glancing around like the walls might tell her why I suddenly care.

"Tell me where exactly," I say again, pretending I haven't been standing right outside for the past ten minutes. "I'll come get you."

She rattles off the address, unaware that I already know every inch of the building behind her.

"Alright," I reply, turning away from the door. "I'll be there in five."

I hang up before she can say anything else, shove my hands into my pockets, and take a long walk. I push the studio door open exactly four minutes and thirty-two seconds after our call ended.

She's at the barre, her posture perfect, back straight, arms extended in that impossibly elegant way. Hair tied up. Face flushed from movement. She doesn't look at me until I speak.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe like I haven't been wanting watch her dance for the past 15 minutes.

She glances at me from the mirror, unimpressed. "I guess I told you that I came here for peace," she says, rolling her eyes. "Which you ruined."

She rolls her eyes like it's my full-time job to bother her. Like I didn't just walk a block and a half pretending I wasn't already here.

Like I didn't sit through a ballet show just to make sure she didn't fall onstage.

I raise an eyebrow, stepping inside. "Are you saying I disturb your peace?"

"Every single time." she mutters, her voice dry.

I smirk, stepping a little closer but not enough to invade her space. "I'll take that as a compliment."

She lets out a huff, finally turning to face me. "Why are you even here, Hayes? Weren't you supposed to arrive in five?"

I shrug. "I drive fast."

"Great. Maybe next time drive away from me."

Her words . It stings more than I expected. I don't flinch though. That's the one thing boxing has taught me, how to take a hit without ever showing it.

So I threw the line back, smooth and easy, "Can't. The kids are expecting you."

"Fine. Give me five, I'll change." she says, turning on her heel and disappearing into the changing room.

I let out a slow breath, the kind that burns a little on the way out.

The ballet studio smells faintly like rosin and lavender, soft and calming. Nothing like the sharp scent of sweat and blood back at the ring. And yet, somehow, this space feels heavier. Or maybe it's her.

I shift on my feet, glance around at the empty space, at the barre where she was just stretching, at the mirror that caught her reflection.

After almost exactly five minutes and twenty-three seconds—not that I was counting—she steps out.

She's swapped the leotard for a black top with thin straps and loose grey sweatpants, sneakers on, hair pulled into a loose ponytail. As she shrugs into a zip-up jacket, she doesn't even spare me a glance.

"I didn't ask you to wait, Hayes," she says, casual as ever, zipping up the jacket halfway. Even though she just asked me to wait for 5 minutes.

I roll my shoulders, keeping my tone flat. "Didn't say I was waiting," I lie.

"Right. You just like loitering around ballet studios now." Her voice is dry, laced with sarcasm.

I scoff, pushing off the wall a little. "Please. You're not that special."

I say it, but my jaw tightens halfway through. Because the truth is—I am waiting. I'm just not waiting for her. I'm waiting because the kids are.

Everyone was waiting for her and I'm just the responsible adult here. No ulterior motives. No curious thoughts about how ballet makes her look like she floats instead of walks. Nothing like that.

She smirks again, clearly seeing through every word I just said. "Keep telling yourself that, Hayes."

I ignore her as we walk to my car, her footsteps light, almost rhythmic.Her bag is slung over her shoulder, and I spot two satin pink ribbons tied to the zipper.

She doesn't say anything, just slides into the passenger seat like she's done it a hundred times, even though this is probably the third. Maybe fourth.

I start the engine. The low hum fills the quiet between us.

Then, she speaks. "You always drive this fast, or is it just when you're with me?" Her tone isn't accusing. It's curious. Almost teasing.

"If you're worried about the way I drive, I'd suggest you wear your seatbelt." I roll my eyes, keeping my gaze on the road, one hand gripping the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift.

I can feel the sarcasm bubbling before she even opens her mouth. "Oh, thank you, Officer Hayes. Very responsible of you."

I don't respond. I just accelerate slightly.

From the corner of my eye, I see her glance at me. She clicks her seatbelt in with a sharp click."Happy now?" she says, arms crossed as she slouches back into the seat, like I just ruined her entire day

I don't respond. Just turn the wheel and pull into the driveway, the familiar building coming into view.

We both step out of the car. I walk around to the trunk and grab the stuff Mom asked for. Amara joins me, holding her ballet bag by the strap.

One of the boys spots her. His eyes widen. "Amie is back!"

And just like that, five of them come running. Like a stampede. They crash into her legs, hugging her, screaming, cheering. I stand there with the boxes, trying not to laugh.

"I think they missed you." I say flatly.

"Amie," Noah asks, tugging the sleeve of her jacket, "Did you get cookies for us?"

"No cookies today." She crouched to his level, "But I believe I deserve an apology?" She asks with a small smile.

"Actually, we are sorry." All the kids pout, "Actually it was just that Xavi told us to do it."

Wow. Ok. Yeah, I did. But that didn't mean they had to do it for real.

I cross my arms. "Don't look at me. I said maybe a little sparkle."

She shakes her head, looking at the kids. "It's fine. Really."

"But we still feel bad," Sam says, frowning. "Even though it was funny." he adds the last with a small giggle.

"It sure was funny," Amara says softly, smiling at them. "And if it makes you feel any better I got revenge."

Every kid collectively gasps. "What'd you do?!"

"I may have decorated his boxing gloves."

"No! You didn't!"

"Yes!" Amara grins, high-fiving. "The Ring Lord wears disco gloves now. Fear him."

I stare at her. She stares right back.

Mom steps out just then, wiping her hands on her apron. "Oh, you're here! Amara, come in, I saved you some lemonade."

"See?" Amara whispers as she walks past me. "Everyone loves me."

I watch her go, the ribbons on her bag swinging with every step. "She's not that special," I mutter.

I don't even believe in myself.

──────????°? ? ?°?? ??──────

I walk into the kitchen and see Mom standing by the stove. She doesn't look up but says "Get those cuts cleaned."

I blink. "What cuts?"

She turns, gives me that look and nods at the mark at my jaw. Courtesy of Amara and her wild jab during "self-defence."

I rub at it absently. "That's from Amara."

Mom finally smiles — soft and far too knowing. "Then ask her to clean it up."

I narrow my eyes. "What?"

"She caused it. She can take care of it."

"She hit me, not stabbed me. It's not serious."

"She's sweet. I like her."

I sigh. "She dumped glitter in my gloves."

"She sounds perfect." Mom doesn't even flinch. If anything, her eyes light up.

I groan as I reach for the first-aid kit, ignoring the way she's humming.

I walk to the art room with the first aid kit in my hand, not really sure what I'm doing. It's not like I've had to clean a cut like this before. But then again, it's not every day Amara gets a punch in on me either.

As I push open the door, I see her with the kids—Lily, Sam, and Avery—sitting around, drawing or painting. They're all busy, lost in their own little worlds.

"Amara," I call out before I even realize I've said it. It feels weird—calling her by her name. I hadn't said it ever, not until today.

She raises her brows. "Yeah?"

I step into the room, "I need you to clean this." I point to the small cut along my jaw, the one she caused earlier today during our self-defence 'lesson.'

Her gaze flickers down to it, a brief moment of recognition flashing in her eyes. But her lips curl into a smirk. "Why don't you ask yourself to clean it?" she teases.

"Because I can't see my own jaw?" I deadpan.

She hums, clearly unconvinced. "Sounds like a you problem."

Of course she'd say that.

I narrow my eyes. "You're the one who caused the problem."

"Oh please." She rolls her eyes dramatically. "You're a professional fighter. And you're crying over a scratch?"

"It's bruised."

"Didn't you call my jab weak?" she states as a matter of fact. "And maybe you should've blocked it. Aren't you The 'Ring Lord'?"

I glare. "I was letting you learn."

"Oh," she says with mock innocence, "so me hitting you was part of the lesson?"

"No. You just have bad aim."

The kids giggle behind us, clearly enjoying this way too much.

I sigh, holding up the first aid kit. "Just fix it. Please."

She raises her brows again. "Say that again?"

I grit my teeth. "Fix. It. Please."

That smug little smile spreads across her face like she just won gold. "Thought so."

She grabs the kit from my hand and motions for me to sit. I do—grudgingly—on the edge of a low table, eyeing her like she might purposely make it worse.

She doesn't.

Instead, her touch is unexpectedly soft and gentle. She dabs at the cut with a cotton swab, her brows slightly furrowed in concentration.

Light. Focused. Almost too careful for someone who claims to hate me.

"Sit still." she says, stepping close, closer than necessary and reaching up. Her fingers tilt my face slightly to the side.

Her touch is soft as she dabbed at the cut gently, her fingers surprisingly steady despite the smile tugging at her lips.

"I thought you hated it when people touched your face?" she asks, tilting her head just slightly.

I stare at her, at how close she was, how her lashes flicked down as she focused, how her breath fanned across my cheek.

"Unnecessarily." I replied, my voice low.

That made her pause- just for a beat. Her gaze lifted to mine, something unreadable swimming behind it but then its gone. "Right," she murmurs, the teasing edge back. "So this counts as necessary?"

I smirk, "You caused it. You fix it. That's necessary enough for me."

She doesn't say anything else, just works in silence until she's satisfied.

Then she steps back— "There," she says. "Survived."

Well. I lied.

She did punch me this morning during that so-called self-defense session, but it was barely anything.

This bruise? This was Lucas. During sparring. A clean jab right to the jaw when I wasn't paying attention. I was distracted. Still, I let her think she caused it, and felt oddly satisfied.

Let her roll her eyes and smirk and pretend she has the upper hand.

She doesn't.

But it's cute that she thinks she does.

──────????°? ? ?°?? ??──────

"What's there for dinner?!"

Mom emerged from the kitchen with two steaming bowls and a knowing smile. "Patience. It's not polite to yell while the chef is walking."

"Amie," Noah asked, tugging at her sleeve, "is it spaghetti again??"

"Please don't let it be broccoli." Avery whispers, hands clasped like she was praying.

"Pretty sure I saw carrots." Amara says, arranging plates and bowls for everyone.

A collective groan shook the table.

She sat beside me—casually, like she had no other option. Which, to be fair, she didn't. The kids had filled up every chair.

Mom places the dish in front of us—steaming, warm, perfectly spiced. Carrot stew with toasted garlic bread.

My second favorite.

I smile before I could stop myself. And of course, she noticed. Again.

"Wow," she says, nudging my elbow with a teasing smirk, her voice just loud enough to cut through the chatter of kids around us. "You are smiling. Again."

I glance at her, not bothering to hide it this time. "This is my favorite." I say, gesturing to the bowl.

She looks at the stew, then back at me with mock curiosity. "So is the vegetable soup?"

"Yeah."

"So it takes good food for you to smile like that?" She leans in slightly, raising an eyebrow.

Well, she didn't actually raise one eyebrow. I noticed that—of course I noticed that. She tried to lift just one but ended up raising both, like always. It's this small, unconscious thing she does every time we talk.

I don't know why I noticed it.

I hate that I noticed it.

But I did. Every time she's teasing or trying to be clever, she attempts the single brow lift and then fails. But somehow looks more expressive than people who actually can do it.

──────????°? ? ?°?? ??──────

"Hey," I say, and she looks up, brows raised. "Weren't you going to return my hoodie and shorts? The ones mom gave you?"

Her lips part slightly in realization and then curl into a smirk. "Oh, those," she says slowly, dragging the words like she's trying to be annoying. "Right. I was. But then they were so comfortable that I thought, you know, what's mine is mine, and what's yours is also mine."

I give her a look. "That's not how it works."

She shrugs, expression far too innocent. "It is now."

"I want them back."

She leans her chin into her palm, feigning deep thought. "Hmm. I could give them back. Or I could just sleep in them tonight."

I rub my hand over my face. "Amara."

"Yes, Xavier?" she replies sweetly, batting her lashes in a way that is mockery.

I take a step closer, towering her "They're mine."

"Jeez, chill." she smiles and then spins on her heel, "I'll have them washed and then give. Eventually."

But I smirk, she said she'd return it, immediately. But she didn't.

Lucas once told me that his girlfriend wears his hoodie because it has his scent and feels like him.

She probably sleeps in it just to spite me or maybe because it smells like me?

Not that I care.

Not that I'm thinking about it. Not that I'm picturing her curled up in bed, my hoodie sleeves hanging past her fingers, hair a mess.

I just want my damn hoodie back.

surprise! triple update! next update on sunday :))will mostly be a single update cause i'll be burdened by school work now :((