In The Ring Of Love

18. Strong Arms

The studio was quiet.

The ache in my muscles felt good today. Like they were thanking me for finally giving them what they needed—movement.

There was no yelling. No one annoying or distracting me.

Just the sound of my breath and peace.

My phone buzzes beside me, cutting through the stillness of the studio. I glance over at the screen—Clara.

I answer, smiling already. "Hey girl."

Her face pops up, glowing through the screen, "Ama, you won't believe it!"

"Are you going on a date with Logan?" I ask, as if its the obvious.

She laughs, throwing her head back. "No! It's well- Logan is doing this special art show. The theme is grace."

I pause. "Grace?"

She nods, biting back a giddy smile. "He did it especially for me."

My jaw drops. "Wait. You're telling me this man did a whole art show? With paintings? And the theme is grace? As in you?"

"Yes!" she laughed, like her heart was going to explode. "He said he was inspired by the way I move. That when I talk about ballet, or when I dance around the apartment like an idiot."

I had no words. Well, I had one.

Wow.

That kind of thing only happens in books or movies or in Clara's world, apparently.

"Girl, he is so in love with you." I say, my voice soft now. I already knew he loves her- the way he kept looking at her in the art gallery.

"I know" she smiles. "What if he's the one?"

"Girl, he is the only one." I assure her.

I stare at my reflection in the studio mirror.

No one's ever painted me.

──────????°? ? ?°?? ??──────

I quickly change into a tank and high waisted jeans. The weather keeps getting humid, and I might not survive.

I step out of the studio, but I pause the second I get out- "Pour l'amour de Dieu," I mutter under my breath, staring at the sky

(For the love of God.)

Was it supposed to rain today? No one said anything about it raining.

I waited under the shelter of the studio, arms crossed, hoping maybe that the rain would ease up.

It didn't.

People rushed past with umbrellas like they had their lives together. A couple even shared one and laughed.

I stared at them blankly. Gross.

My apartment was only ten minutes away, just ten minutes. That's doable, right?

Sure. I'd get soaked. How bad could it be?

I adjust the strap of my bag, took a deep breath.

And I ran.

Straight into the rain—water splashing under my sneakers, hair starting to cling to my face, bag bouncing against my hip.

After a few minutes—feet splashing through puddles, hair completely soaked, and clothes clinging to my skin—the rain decided to calm down.

Just like that. It stopped.

For God's sake.

A gust of wind hit me the second I moved again. I shivered so hard my teeth almost knocked together. My top was plastered to my skin, and my jeans were now just heavy. I was freezing.

I wrap my arms tightly around myself, shivering.This is betrayal in the form of wind and rains.

Each step I took made that awful squelch sound. My sneakers soaked through, my hair dripping, sticking to my neck, and my pride absolutely in shambles.

"Try not to freeze, ballerina."

I pause.

No. Nope. Not now.

I turned slowly, and there he was leaning casually against a wall wearing a leather jacket-probably the first time I've seen him in one- hands in his pockets. But he was dry.

"Looks like someone's going to wake up with a runny nose tomorrow." he teases, his voice annoyingly calm, as he eyes me shivering like a drenched kitten.

I glare. If looks could kill, he'd be six feet under and I'd be dancing on his grave in my squeaky sneakers.

The audacity he had—to just stand there, while I looked like I'd wrestled with a thundercloud and lost.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "Want me to call a cab?" he adds.

"Oh, now you offer?" I shoot back, wrapping my arms tighter. "When I've already collected half the rain in New York on my clothes?"

He shrugs, like this is all very amusing.

I hate him.

I hate him so much.

"Also, what on earth are you doing here?" I ask through chattering teeth, hugging myself tighter. "The orphanage's way off too, so don't even try that excuse."

He doesn't answer right away but gives me a look- which pisses me off.

God, I want to punch him again. Maybe this time harder.

He shrugs, "Just passing by."

"Passing by?" I raise my brows, trying not to shiver mid-sentence. "Right." I narrow my eyes. "You suck at lying."

He smirks. "And you suck at staying dry."

"Also, ugh—y'know what, I'm going. You do whatever you want." I spun around, already too cold and too irritated to argue. I didn't have the energy for this, not when my hair was dripping, my jeans were sticking to my legs, and I was one sneeze away from a full breakdown.

I'd barely taken two soggy, squelching steps when I heard him.

"Hey, ballerina."

I stopped moving but I didn't turn.

"Try not to trip." And I could practically hear the smirk in his voice. Like he'd been waiting to say that. Like he'd already played the scene in his head and was now watching it play out in real time.

I turned.

I was right.

He was smirking.

"You know what?" I snapped. "If you're so damn concerned about me, then why don't you carry me in your strong arms so I won't—"

Shit, Amara.

His brows shot up.

Why? Why did I say that out loud to him? to the one person who would never let it go.

"What did you say?" he asks, the smirk on his face downright criminal now.

"Nothing! I said nothing!" I shoot back way too fast, eyes wide, cheeks burning even though i was freezing.

But then—three long strides. That's all it takes for him to close the distance between us. I freeze, panicking. He's going to lift me. Oh god, he's going to lift me.

Instead, he shrugs off his jacket and gently drapes it over my shoulders it was warm, dry and smells faintly of him—which, unfortunately, does not help.

Thank god he didn't lift me.

"Oh, thank you. Well, I could've—" I begin, trying to regain even a shred of control over the moment— and then he lifts me.

"What the hell?!" I shriek, my arms flailing slightly, legs dangling off the ground. "Put me down, Hayes!"

"Nope," he says, calm as ever, walking as if this is a perfectly normal thing to do. "wouldn't want you to trip now, would we?"

"I swear to god, put me down," I snap, flailing my legs. "Right now, Hayes."

He doesn't even flinch and keeps walking with that calm look glued to his stupidly handsome face.

"You say that like you don't enjoy the view" he replies, glancing down at me like he's the victim in this situation.

I glare up at him, rain-damp hair sticking to my face, wrapped in his leather jacket, being carried like I'm in a freaking movie.

"I'm literally going to kick you." I warn, and glare at him

"You're already doing that." he says and adjusts me in his arms and not even flinching as my heel bumps against his thigh.

"Are you gonna drop me home or what?" I snap, trying not to sound out of breath from all the flailing and well- failing.

Xavier doesn't even look fazed. His grip is still annoyingly solid around me, "Didn't realize I signed up for ballerina delivery service." he mutters.

"Then put me down!"

"In the rain? In those shoes?" He finally glances at me, one brow raised. "You'll slip, fall, and sue me and mom would probably kill me."

I just roll my eyes

"Relax. I'm taking you home." he says with a composed tone and then, quieter, almost like he didn't mean for me to hear it, "You look like you're freezing."

I huff, turning my face away. "I am not speaking to you after this."

"Fine by me," he says coolly. "Your voice is annoying."

I gasp at look at him, even though i couldn't see his face clearly from my angle. "Excuse me?"

"You tell me honestly," I say, narrowing my eyes at him from my very awkwardposition in his arms, "how many girls have been lifted off like this by you and walked in the rain?"

Xavier doesn't answer immediately but his jaw ticks slightly like he's trying not to laugh or maybe smirk again

"None," he says after a beat, voice low. "Most girls don't insult me half as much as you do. So I never had to rescue any of them."

"Oh, so this is a rescue?"

"You were shivering," he says with a pause "and stubborn and soaking wet."

"Still doesn't explain the carrying—"

"You dared me," he cuts in, glancing down at me. "Said I should carry you in my strong arms."

"Shut up."

"I'm just saying," he shrugs, like he isn't holding me bridal style in the middle of the damn sidewalk, "I'm doing what you asked."

We reach my apartment, and he finally sets me down—thank god. My legs shake slightly when they hit the ground, but I wave him off like I'm totally fine. "Thanks for the ride." I mutter, and quickly head to the door.

"Aren't you gonna return my jacket?" he calls out behind me.

Right. The jacket.

"Oh, yeah." I say, fingers moving to tug it off — only to suddenly feel the state of my tank top underneath. Completely soaked and clinging.

I grip the jacket tighter. "I'll give it to you after I change?" I ask, with what I hope is a casual tone.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly catching on, and instead of leaving like a normal human being, he follows me up.

"Seriously?" I turn as I unlock the door.

"You might decide to keep it." he says with a shrug.

"And if I did keep it?" I ask, not looking at him.

"Then I'd come back for my hoodie and my shorts too."

I pause when he mentions his hoodie, but then I roll my eyes. "Fine. Come in, but no creeping."

"Relax, I'm not even tempted" he says, but there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth that says otherwise.

I step in, and he stands behind me. "You can use the restroom in the living room." I turn, pointing at the door, "you can use the towels, if you want." I add, even though he doesn't need them. But thats not the point, anyways.

He doesn't say anything, but just nods.

I run into my room, toss my soaked clothes into the laundry basket and quickly pull on my comfiest clothes.

My fingers work through my damp hair with a towel, trying to get it to dry faster.

The air still smells like rain, and the faintest hint of his cologne lingers on the leather jacket I tossed onto the bed.

God. Why did he have to carry me?

The mirror shows a flushed face and slightly red cheeks—definitely not from the cold anymore.

Once I'm presentable again, I scoop up his jacket and step out of my room.

I walk back into the living room, but my brain stops for a second. Xavier Hayes. Shirtless. His abs, muscles, and the tattoos that decorated his chest and arms were all on full display

I blink, forcing myself to snap out of it. Focus, Amara. Eyes up.

"Why are you shirtless in my house?" I ask, trying to sound annoyed, though my voice came out a little too high-pitched for my liking.

"It's wet." He responds, but doesn't loom up.

"What?" I frown, glancing at his shirt, which he's holding.

"Relax." He looks up casually from where he's standing, towel slung around his neck, completely unfazed. "My shirt got soaked when I carried you. Blame your soggy top."

Blame my-?

"Well, you can't just walk around shirtless" I said, crossing my arms and refusing to look directly at him.

"Why not?" he asked, his tone teasing. "It's not like you haven't seen it before. You're staring right now."

"I'm not staring!" I shot back, my cheeks heating up.

"Sure you're not." he said, leaning casually against the back of my couch like he owned the place.

I grab a blanket from the nearby chair and throw it at him. "At least cover up. You're making the air colder."

Hotter.

He catches the blanket, smirking as he unfolds it. "You sure you want me to cover up? Thought you were enjoying the view."

"Xavier." I warn, my voice sharp.

He chuckles and finally drapes the blanket over himself, settling back against the couch like this is his apartment. "This blanket smells like you," he says after a second, voice quieter and teasing.

My brain couldn't just process, because how do you respond to that? "That's because it's my blanket. In my apartment."

He shrugs, completely unfazed. "Didn't say it was a bad thing."

"Ugh," I groan, throwing my hands in the air. "Can you like not make everything weird for once?"

"Not making it weird, just making an observation." he replies, his voice infuriatingly calm.

I narrow my eyes, crossing my arms. "Well, stop observing and sniffing things. It's creepy."

He laughs—a low, warm sound that sent a shiver down my spine despite how annoyed I was. "Relax, I'm just messing with you."

"Yeah, well, you're not funny," I mutter, turning to the kitchen, desperate to put some distance between us. "Want tea?" I call out, pretending I don't sound flustered.

"Only if you're making it."

I bit my lip, ignoring him as I busied myself with boiling water for tea, but as much as I want to be angry, his words stuck in my head.

The blanket smells like you.

Why did he have to say things like that?

Her apartment. It's exactly how I imagined it'd be.

Warm lights. Plants by the window. Pillows that don't match the couch but somehow belong. It smells like lavender- like her.

It's... peaceful.

Not my kind of space, not clean or minimalist. But it's so her, it's ridiculous.

She moves around muttering under her breath as she makes tea like I didn't just carry her through the rain ten minutes ago. Like I didn't see the blush climb her cheeks when I pointed out she was staring.

I smirk, still wrapped in her blanket.

She glances over, catching me watching her. "What?"

I shrug. "You've got too many pillows."

She rolls her eyes. "And you've got too much ego."

I see her childhood photos hanging on the wall – There's one where she's maybe seven —missing teeth, grinning with a popsicle in one hand. Another where she's in a tutu way too big for her, hair tied up in a bun

Joy. Pure joy in those eyes. The same blue eyes.

She notices where my gaze is. "What?" she asks, walking over, holding a cup

I glance back at her, then at the photo of her in the tutu.

"You were loud even as a kid, weren't you?" I take the cup from her.

"Excuse me?"

I smirk, sipping the tea she just made. "Just saying. Some things never change."

After drinking the tea she made, I ask her, "So am I gonna stay shirtless?"

She pauses, caught off guard, and then rolls her eyes. "You could've asked for a shirt."

"You were busy staring."

"I was not staring!" she snaps, cheeks flushing again.

I raise a brow, amused. "Sure. And I'm modest."

She mutters something in French under her breath and storms off to her room. "I better not come back to you lying shirtless on my couch." she calls from down the hallway.

"Oh sure!"

after a few minutes she returns and tosses the plain white shirt at me. "Here."

I catch it, "What is it?"

"My elder brother's. Should fit just fine."

I hold it up, inspecting it. "Don't you have my hoodie?" I ask, eyeing her as I slowly pull the shirt over my head. "You know, the one mom gave you?"

The hoodie I kept picturing her sleeping in, curled up and soft, because it still smelled like me.

Yeah, that one.

"Oh uh, that-" she trails off, suddenly very interested in the floor.

My gaze drifts past her, to the kitchen — and then I freeze.

What the hell.

Hanging right next to the sink, unmistakably—my hoodie.Being used as a towel. A damn kitchen cloth.

"Is that what i think it is?"

She winces. "I can explain."