19. Classic. Elegant.
"Good morning" he says, with a neutral expression.
I drop my bag with a sigh. "Is it, though?"
He pushes off the wall and saunters to the mat. "You're five minutes early. Impressive."
"I wanted to mentally prepare to deal with your ego."
He smirks. "You'll need more than five minutes for that."
Ugh.
I tie my hair back into a ponytail, "Okay," I say, stepping onto the mat. "What am I learning today? Or are you just planning to stand there and flex?"
"Fixing your stance, again." He says it without missing a beat.
"Fixing my stance?" I arch a brow. "What's wrong with my stance?"
He just looks at my eyes, and then stands behind me. "For starters, your feet are too close. You'll fall over with a single push."
I roll my eyes. "I'm a ballerina. I don't fall."
Except for the fact that I tripped over a hoop.
He places a hand on my shoulder, just enough to shift my balance — and pushes me lightly and I stumble
"Seriously?" I snap, glaring over my shoulder.
"Point proven." He crouches down next to me, tapping the side of my ankle. "A little more distance. Knees slightly bent. Center your weight."
His hand brushes my knee lightly to adjust it, and I swear the universe is out to test me today.
"This is not ballet," he says, "it's self-defense. You've gotta be grounded, ready and controlled."
"You saying I'm not?" I glance down at him.
He looks up straight into my eyes. "I'm saying you're learning."
"Okay then, teach," I mutter. "Correct me. If you can."
His smirk deepens.
Oh no. What did I sign up for? Is he taking revenge for the hoodie?
He stands, slow and deliberate, and steps even closer—so close I can feel the warmth of him at my back.
"Hands up." he instructs, voice low and annoyingly calm.
I lift my hands.
"No. Like this." He takes my wrists gently, guiding them higher, angling them. His fingers brush the inside of my palm, and I forget what we're doing for a second.
"Relax your shoulders." he adds, tapping it.
I roll it back with a grumble. "You know, for someone teaching self-defense, you sure like touching a lot."
He leans in—his breath tickling my ear. "You want to learn or complain?"
"Both." I mutter.
"Now," he ignores what I said, and steps in front of me, "if I'm the attacker—what's your first move?"
cry.
I glance at him. He's tall and broad. I'd need divine intervention to knock him down.
I nod and swing but he catches my wrist, effortlessly.
"You hesitate." he says, which infact I did.
"I didn't!" I protest.
"You flinch before hitting." He steps closer, holding my wrist still. "You're thinking too much. Stop trying to look graceful—this isn't a performance, Amara."
Ouch
My brows furrow. "Fine."
"Again," he says, finally letting go of my wrist "This time, don't think. Just move."
I swing again, faster.
He catches me again—but this time, our fingers tangle for a second. We both pause but he clears his throat and lets go like my arm burned him. "Better." he says, stepping back.
Coward.
I huff, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Stop trying to look graceful. This isn't a performance."
Let's see if The Ring Lord likes it when I stop performing.
He turns his back slightly, probably assuming I'm still recovering from the last failed attempt.
I pivot my foot, and swing. My arm cuts through the air with more force than I expected and it lands right under his jaw.
Not hard enough to break anything... but definitely enough to make him feel it.
He jerks back slightly, his head snapping to the side, and freezes.
Oh. My. God.
I just punched Xavier Hayes. In the face.
Again, but worse this time.
My jaw drops. "Holy- are you okay?!" I cover my mouth, half-shocked and half not sorry. "You said don't hesitate."
He stares. Still no words and holding his jaw.
And then—he smirks.
That infuriating, stupid smirk. "Damn," he mutters, rubbing his jaw with a slow grin. "You actually did it."
"I didn't mean to hit that hard—"
"No, no," he interrupts, nodding with something suspiciously like pride. "Keep that same energy. I let my guard down for one second and you clocked me."
I fold my arms, trying not to sound weird. "You're not mad?"
"Oh, I'm furious," he says, stepping closer. "I train you, and you punch me? You enjoyed that, didn't you?"
"No!" I say but then I admit, "A little?" teeth sinking into my lower lip.
He leans down slightly, his face so close I can see the spot where I hit him already turning the faintest shade of red. "I'll remember this."
"You said 'don't hesitate.' I was being a good student." I whine.
He exhales a laugh, low and dangerous. "Remind me to never underestimate you"
"Right, you should never. I can literally pirouette right now and hit you." I huff, expecting another sarcastic comment from him but to my utter surprise he just grins "Run, Amara."
My heart stumbles. "What?"
"You heard me." His voice drops, "You've got five seconds."
"Shit." I take off.
But of course, his strides are twice as long, and he's faster. I barely make it to the edge of the mat before arms wrap around my waist and I yelp-
Thud.
I land on the mat with a soft gasp, flat on my back, and he's already above me, one arm braced beside my head, the other catching his weight just near my waist.
His head hovers just above mine, dark hair falling into his eyes, jaw still sharp despite the hit I gave him earlier. One of his legs is between mine and his body is pressed down just enough to make breathing a challenge, for several reasons.
He should get a haircut.
I squirm beneath him, wiggling. "Jeez, you're heavy."
His mouth quirks, just the corner, and then—he leans closer.
His lips are just inches from mine now, eyes locked on mine with a look I can't decipher—cocky, playful?
"What?" I ask, narrowing my eyes, trying to sound unaffected. Not like my heart is slamming against my ribs.
He doesn't answer immediately. His gaze flickers from my eyes to my lips, back up again. My breath hitches.
"You're not wiggling so much now." he says lowly, that smug tone curling around my nerves like smoke.
"I'm—" I start, but the words stop in my throat, his face is right there and the scent of his cologne messing with my head.
"Maybe you like it here." he murmurs.
"Maybe I'm plotting my next attack."
And then—bam. I headbutt him. Hard.
His forehead jerks back with a surprised grunt, and he curses under his breath as he rolls off me, grabbing his head.
"What the hell?" he growls, half-laughing, half-wincing.
I sit up, brushing imaginary dust off my clothes like a queen who just won a battle. "Next time don't lean in like you're about to kiss me."
"What's this obsession with people headbutting me when I pin them?" He grunts, rubbing his forehead.
"Wait, you have pinned other women to the floor?" I narrow my eyes at him.
He glances at me with a small smirk that plays on his lips, his voice calm "I mean, if you really wanna know-"
He gets cut off by voices that come outside the studio, "Well, we need to leave now." He informs.
"Wait, why?" I can't help but ask.
He checks the time, and looks back at me. "Class is over, isn't it?" he says smoothly. "Or are you planning on staying extra, Amara."
The way he says my name does something in my stomach. It definitely wasn't and isn't my stomach fluttering. It was just my stomach flipping cause I am hungry.
Then i wipe my face with my towel, grab my bag, and was about to take a step and then suddenly the door opened- many women stepped in. Dressed in leggings, track pants and sports bra.
And behind them was a man. He was dressed in a grey shirt that clinged to his body and joggers. He has blonde hair, but it was trimmed unlike Xavier's.
His gaze finally drops at Xavier and then at me, and then back at Xavier.
He smirks at Xavier.
Xavier doesn't say anything, but I noticed the way his jaw clenched slightly.
──────????°? ? ?°?? ??──────
Xavier and I are at the bakery, selecting deserts for the kids. From what I know this bakery is the best for its fine sweets and especially its pastries. The kids love it so much.
Ms. Whitaker said that the kids were craving something sweet, so she sent Xavier to get pastries. Who apparently showed up at my studio when I was by the barre.
And to my utter surprise he asked me to come help him choose pastries.
So naturally, i had asked him, "Why me?"
"I need a second opinion." His response was plain, as usual.
Right, and I believed that cause he actually needed a second opinion.
My opinion.
It was such a weirdly specific and lame excuse that I almost laughed right there. But it was also fishy. I mean, if there's anyone who knows exactly what the kids like, it's him.
Well, after Miss Whitaker, of course.
I scoffed, but then I changed and tagged along.
As we walk in, the bell above the bakery door gives a soft jingle, and my eyes instantly land on the glass display—
There it is. My favorite.
Religieuse au chocolat.
Two perfect choux pastries, stacked like a little edible snowman, filled with cream and glazed with rich chocolate. Just looking at it brings something warm and soft to my chest.
I remember the times Mama used to make them at home—when she wasn't at a meeting or a fashion launch. She always said baking helped her slow down and every time Adrien and I came home from school, she'd have a tray waiting. Warm and perfect, just for us.
I miss that. I miss home.
He then notices the way I'm staring at it and asks casually, "You like that?"
I glance at him, startled, then quickly shake my head. "Uhm, no."
Like? Like was a criminal understatement for how I felt eating it. That dessert was pure childhood and he was looking at it like it was just another pastry.
He shrugs, hands in his jacket pockets. "Should we get five of them?"
"Wait, what?" My heart flipped. Is he actually getting it cause he could see that i loved-
"For the kids," he says, like it's obvious. "I guess they'd like to try it. Pretty sure they'll end up loving it."
"I don't think they'll like it," I mutter, remembering how I once forced Clara to try it and she made the most dramatic face ever and said. "Too soft, too creamy, apparently."
Then he shrugs. "Whatever. If you like them, they must be worth trying."
I look back away, trying not to smile. "They are," I say quietly. Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see him smile too. But when I turn to check, it's already gone
After we ordered, he pays the bill and held the door open like it's no big deal. I mumble a quiet "thanks" and step inside, still thinking about the pastries in the box.
Once he slides into the driver's seat, buckles up, and starts the engine, he glances at me.
"So... what exactly is a religiouse?" he asks, butchers the pronunciation so bad I flinch.
"It's re-li-gieuse," I correct, nearly laughing. "Not religious."
He raises a brow, amused. "Whatever. What even is it?"
I roll my eyes. "It's choux pastry filled with chocolate cream, stacked like that on purpose. It's classic. Elegant."
"You can't call a pastry elegant." he tells me, to which I just ask, "Then what you call elegant?"
"You." he says.
"What?"
"You're Elegant and Graceful." he says, "I mean, I have seen you perform by the barre." he adds, his eyes still on the road like he didn't just casually throw that in.
"You're not funny." I mutter, turning to the window like it's suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Didn't say I was joking."
We enter the building, the soft hum of evening settling around us. The air is cooler now, calm. I push open the door to the backyard, and there they are—my crew of tiny monsters, all seated in their little corners, eyes glued to iPads.
Here we go again.
"See!" Amara huffs, "everyone is literally glued to their screen! Thanks to you for throwing your money everywhere!"
"That's why we got the pastries." I say with a sigh, and another reason why I asked for her opinion.
In fact, if anyone knows about the kids its me
After mom of course.
But the reason I got her here was because I knew for a fact that if I say that Amara was craving something sweet, then Mom would have definitely agreed without hesitating, and she would call me thoughtful for getting it.
"What do you mean by that?" She looks at me,tryingto raise an eyebrow. She tries to raise one of them up, but both of them end up going up.
I lied.
Mom didn't ask me to get pastries. I got them because I walked in earlier and saw a backyard full of kids playing on their iPads.
Well not playing anything wrong, cause I have it all under control and supervision
But in that moment, I knew there was only one solution.
Pastry.
And right on cue—just as I'm about to hand the box over—Mom walks in. She eyes the pastry box in my hand and then the other one.
"What's this?" she asks, narrowing her eyes. "Did you seriously buy two whole boxes of dessert?"
"Mom—" I start, already exhausted.
But then, Amara interrupts me- and this woman just steps forward, smiles sweetly, and says, "It's my fault. I was telling Xavier how much I missed them. My mom used to make them back home. So he got them for me." she pauses, and adds, "For the kids as well."
Even I almost believed her.
Mom's entire expression changes. Her eyes soften, lips twitch into something dangerously close to affection.
"Oh?" she says, now speaking like she just found a diamond in a pile of mud. "That was sweet of him." She turns to me and raises an eyebrow. "You didn't tell me you were thoughtful now."
Amara gives me a side glance. Victorious and angelic.
I whisper, "How did you just—"
Mom's sharp eyes land on my forehead.
Her lips press into a thin line as she lifts her hand and gently tilts my face. "What is this?"
Bruise on my forehead. Slight red mark near my cheekbone.
I straighten. "Just so you know, this ballerina right here gave me those." I say the same line, but this time she actually gave it to me.
Amara's eyes widen. "You pinned me to the floor! What was I supposed to do? Send a thank-you card?!"
I bite down a grin. That defensive puff in her voice? The way her cheeks turn pink when she argues? Too damn cute.
Mom clicks her tongue. "Then ask her to clean it, while I distribute the goodies to the kids."
"Mom, I can do it." i say, but my voice wasn't defensive at all
"She gave it. She can fix it." Mom adds casually, already walking off with the box of pastries.
Mom also repeats the same line, like how she did last time.
I turn to Amara slowly.
She blinks at me. "She's joking, right?"
I raise an eyebrow. "You think she joking?"
She lets out a sigh that sounds way too dramatic for the situation. "Fine."
We walk inside.
The chatter and laughter from the backyard fade as the door swings shut behind us, leaving behind only the quiet hum of the house. Just the two of us now.
She disappears into the bathroom to get the first-aid box and returns a moment later with it. Her expression is focused—annoyed, maybe. But there's a flicker of something else in her eyes.
"Sit." She gestures at the edge of the couch like she owns the place.
"Bossy."
She glares at me. "You want this cleaned or not?"
I sit, chuckling, and tilt my face towards her.
She opens the box, grabs some antiseptic and cotton, and sighs.
Her fingers are careful, even if her expression screams annoyance. She dabs the cotton against my cheek, and I flinch just a little—mostly for drama.
"Oh please." she mutters, not even bothering to hide the eye roll.
"I've been injured in the ring, I think I can handle a ballerina cleaning it." I say, smirking.
She glares at me again, but there's no heat behind it this time. Just that spark, Feisty. Stubborn. Beautiful.
"Yeah, well, that 'ballerina' gave you that bruise, remember?" she quips, pressing down a bit harder just to prove her point.
"Ow—okay, okay," I laugh, grabbing her wrist gently. "You don't have to punish me."
She freezes for a second. Just a second. Her blue eyes flick up to meet mine.
Her eyes flick down to where my hand is still around her wrist.
I should let go. I know I should, but I don't, neither does she
"You should cut your hair." she says, and i give her a look, "I mean trim." she clarifies.
"Why should I?" I ask her, she says nothing but just looks at me.
"Fine, don't cut it." she huffs.
The silence between us grows louder. "You always this violent?" I ask, just to break the silence.
Her gaze narrows. "You always this dramatic?"
I chuckle, my thumb brushing her wrist without thinking.
She sucks in a breath.
"I mean," I lean in slightly, voice dropping, "if this is how you treat your opponents, I might start picking more fights."
"Then you'll end up needing stitches next time." she says, but it comes out breathier than she probably meant to.
Its worth it.
We're too close now. Her face is right there, eyes sharp and unreadable, her flushed cheeks giving her away.
But then she pulls her wrist back.