20. Grace
"What's the progress?" the voice hits me once again, "Tell me there's more than what you had the last fucking time." they are angry, furious.
But angry at who?
"Sadly, it's the same." I say, rolling my eyes, "Defense classes only."
"You are fucking useless." They say with a grit.
"As you can see I am working my ass off, so shut the fuck up." I snap. "I'll have more next time."
"If you don't - we will have to step in." the voice informs.
That's bullshit, they are cowards. They wont do anything.
Everyone is a fucking liar. Lying to desire what they want.
And here I am.
The sound of leather hitting leather echoes through the gym like a war drum. My fists drive into the bag again and again, each punch sharp, practiced, brutal.
It's the only thing that silences my mind these days.
Because ever since she spun into my world, I've been off-balance and I am not denying it
I hit harder.
I see her dancing every time I close my eyes and I hate it, I hate that she's still there, taking up space in my head- suddenly the chain holding the punching bag rattles.
"You're gonna break it at this rate." a familiar voice says behind me.
I don't turn around. "Then I'll replace it."
I hear him chuckle as he approaches, casual as ever. He's holding a bottle of water, watching me.
"It's not like you to take private self-defence classes," he muses. "for a ballerina."
That makes me stop for a moment, my knuckles stay pressed against the bag.
I look over my shoulder slowly. "You've been watching the cameras?"
He shrugs. "My gym, my rules. Gotta know who's using my space. She's good though"
Right. It is his gym. Lucas had come up with a brilliant idea- this gym. Which has all facilities like- a Boxing ring, Gym, yoga classes, proper and well maintained equipment, staff that won't get in your face and ask for 5 star reviews and even a cafe.
I look away and punch the bag, again.
He whistles low. "Touchy, are we? What? she mean something?"
I look at him and wipe the sweat off my brow with the back of my hand. "I told you I need privacy" I roll my eyes
Lucas lifts both hands in mock surrender. "Relax, man. Just making conversation. Didn't know ballerinas were your type."
"They're not." I mutter, but the lie tastes bitter.
I don't have a type and yet she's there.
Etched into my thoughts like a scar that won't fade.
"Well, wanna spar?" Lucas asks me, changing the topic.
"Hmm, sure." I put on my gloves- new ones. "You seem too serious for someone who was under me."
He grins. "Can't guarantee that. But one thing's for sure. You'll be walking out of here with another bruise." He adds with a smirk.
Right. He'd mention that. That damn bruise.
The one he gave me, but I told Mom it was from her.
Not my proudest moment, but watching her freak out about it was worth it.
Her hands were soft and warm.
So yeah, I'd lie again.
Mid-spar, I hear two voices off to the side—trainer and rookie, chatting like we aren't throwing punches nearby.
"Did you hear about that new art gallery?"
"No, what about it?"
Lucas and I keep going, footwork sharp, gloves up.
"It's dedicated to the sculptor's girlfriend. Whole theme is grace. Romantic stuff, apparently."
I falter and Lucas doesn't miss it. His glove connects with my jaw, clean and fast.
The smack of Lucas's glove against my jaw rings louder than it should.
I stumble back, jaw tight.
"Damn," Lucas mutters, lowering his fists. "That distracted you?"
It did.
Grace.
That stupid word.
That word that sounded too much like her. That ballerina who dances like the world doesn't touch her. Who headbutts and heals in the same breath. Whose laugh I remember even when I don't want to.
She's in my head again.
"Hey," Lucas says, raising an eyebrow. "You good?"
I adjust my gloves and shrug. "You caught me off guard."
But I'm not talking about his punch.
We're still mid-fight. Sweat on my back, fists moving on instinct. Lucas ducks and counters. But I can't ignore the voices behind us.
"Apparently the tickets are fully booked. I really wanted to see it" one of them says.
"The sculptor is... what's his name? Right, Logan Carter. He's dedicating the gallery to his girlfriend."
Logan Carter.
The name rings louder than the next punch. I stumble back a step, heart suddenly pounding for a different reason.
Logan. The guy I know from the bar. We've had drinks, talked about everything but love. And now he's out here dedicating galleries for ballerinas?
Lucas squints at me. "You good, or should I hit you again so you come back to Earth?"
"Shut up." I mutter, stepping back and pulling off my gloves, I grab my phone from the bench and scroll through my contacts.
"I'm gonna come over."
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I hate crowded spaces, there are too many voices, too many eyes, too much everything. But here I am, at a damn art gallery, shoulder to shoulder with people sipping wine and pretending they understand art.
The only crowded space i dont mind is the ring- and the crowd watching me.
Logan Carter, that bastard, made the theme Grace. Because I found out it's dedicated to Clara, his girlfriend. And I know that Amara is Clara's best friend.
Which means she'll be here too and I don't even know what the hell I'll do when I see her.
I walk slowly, my footsteps muffled against the polished floor. Sculptures line the room—stone frozen mid-movement, expressions carved so delicately it's like they're breathing.
All I see is her.
She's not even in the room, but she's everywhere.
In the tilt of a dancer's head. In the curve of an arm stretched mid-pirouette. In the softness etched into every delicate feature carved from stone.
She's every piece.
Ethereal. Graceful. Elegant.
Amara Fontaine.
The gallery is full of sculptures—but somehow, she's the art.
I walk ahead, weaving through the scattered crowd, and spot Logan by one of the centerpieces—looking too damn polished in a suit.
He turns, catches sight of me, and grins. "Hey, dude," he says, pulling me in for a quick handshake. "Long time no see."
"Didn't know you were sculpting ballerinas now." I mutter, eyes flicking around the gallery.
He laughs. "Yeah, Clara's fault." He gestures beside him. "This is Clara. My girlfriend—my muse—and the most brutally honest art critic alive." He adds the last part with a soft smile.
Clara gives me a cheeky smile- like she knows something- but I barely nod because then I see her.
Amara.
She stands just behind Clara, her lips slightly parted like she didn't expect to see me.
Those blue eyes widen just a bit, like she's trying to figure out if I'm real or just another sculpture come to life.
"Oh—" Logan glances between the two of us, brows slightly raised, clearly catching on. "This is Amara, Clara's best friend."
"I know" I say simply.
"We know each other." we both say at the same time
Clara leans towards Logan and whispers something in his ear. He nods at her. "Well," he says, not even trying to look innocent, "Clara and I must go. You two enjoy the gallery."
"Bye!" Clara chirps with a smirk, tossing Amara a knowing look.
"Girl, no—" Amara mutters under her breath, shooting Clara a glare.
And now it's just us.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, folding her arms across her chest like a shield.
I shrug, glancing around the sculptors. "Admiring art."
She raises a brow. "You don't like art."
"I like certain things," I say, eyes meeting hers. "Some things are worth showing up for."
Some people are worth showing up for.
"I have a thing for fine people." I smirk.
"Right, of course, are you here to find someone for yourself?" she scoffs, trying to sound unaffected.
I should probably say yes, play it cool, shrug and let her stew a little, but that flicker in her eyes? Annoyance? Jealousy? Intrigue? Whatever it is, it's adorable.
She's adorable when she's mad.
I press my lips, and tilt my head, leaning slightly closer. "Already found one."
"I'm going to go find Clara—" she says, ignoring me and turns.
I step beside her, walking with her, "Or we could look at some sculptures together."
She stops. "Why?"
I shrug again. "You're a ballerina. This whole thing's about grace. It'd be a crime not to see it through your eyes."
She sighs but then walks beside me and I pretend like I'm staring at sculptures but I'm just watching her.
The gallery is packed—shoulders brushing, heels clicking, voices echoing softly off the high walls. Amara takes a cautious step forward, eyes flicking from one sculpture to the next like she's trying to pretend she's not overwhelmed.
I see it though. The way her hand brushes against her side nervously. The way she hesitates before weaving through a cluster of people.
Without saying anything, I place my hand gently on the small of her back.
She stiffens slightly but doesn't pull away.
"Stay close" I murmur near her ear, low enough that only she hears it. She throws me a quick glare over her shoulder. "I'm not going to get lost."
I smirk. "Didn't say you would."
She stops in front of one sculpture—a woman, mid-leap, arms stretched out, weightless. Her voice is soft. "That's a grand jeté."
I glance at her. "You've done that?"
She nods. "It's hard, but worth it when you get it right."
I study the sculpture, then look at her. "I think I'd like to watch you."
"You would?" she asks, as if she didn't expect that from me.
"I told you, I don't like crowds. But I'd like to watch you dance."
I even sat through a damn ballet show just to watch you.
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"Clara was glowing," Amara says suddenly. "I don't think I've ever seen her so happy."
"Yeah" I glance at her, one hand on the wheel. "Logan did good."
"He really did." Her voice softens. "I think she likes the idea of being someone's muse."
Muse.
"Would you want to be someone's muse?" I ask her.
"Hmm" She tilts her head, thinking. "yeah."
I hum, eyes flicking back to the road. "You might be someone's muse without even trying."
She scoffs, eyes on the window. "You're such a poet, Xavier."
I look at her, and then say "Guess I could be."
I hear her exhale—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. She doesn't say anything after that. Maybe she's thinking. Maybe she's pretending she's not.
Her being someone's muse?
She already is.
I smile to myself at that thought.
But then she says, "I would definitely love it if someone would dedicate art galleries to me," she says, a dreamy little smile on her lips. "Or write poems. Or paint portraits. Something that says - I matter."
My smile drops.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, jaw ticking.
Right, that kind of guy. the one who paints, writes poetry, immortalizes you in gold frames and soft words.
That's not me.
I give bruised knuckles and quiet glances. I guard, not gift. I pull away before I let someone too close. My language isn't soft—it's sharp. It's sparring and silence. It's showing up uninvited, not sonnets.
And when she says that? It hurts.
Because deep down, I want her to know she matters even if I'll never be the guy who paints it out loud.
I don't write poetry. I don't paint. Hell, I barely even talk about feelings and suddenly, and that feels like a flaw.
For the first time in my life, I hated that I am a boxer.
Because my world has always been about breaking things. Breaking opponents. Breaking limits. Breaking myself.
But her? She was meant to be worshipped, not broken.
Because even if I wanted to carve her into stone, I wouldn't know how. Even if she was already sketched across every inch of my mind, I wouldn't know how to show it.
But I've got- Resources, contacts, arrangements.
If I cant write poems or songs- the least I can do is this.