22. Dance with The Devil
"I mean," he says, "you really booked an entire studio just to play Beast to her Beauty? Seriously?"
I grunt. "It was a collaboration."
Yeah, I arranged a photoshoot using my connections. I did it because-
"Mhm. Sure. For a ballerina you claim you don't even like." his voice interrupts my thoughts.
I roll my eyes, but keep walking. "She won the showcase. She deserved it"
Technically, her whole group but she caught my attention
Lucas laughs under his breath. "Right. And it had to be you in the photos with her?"
"She's a public figure. It made sense."
"You're a boxer, man. You punch people for a living."
I don't answer.
We're a few steps from the café entrance when he glances sideways at me and asks, "So," he says, tone way too light, "are we getting something for your favorite ballerina today?"
I stop walking, just enough to look at him "She is not my favorite," I mutter, rolling my eyes, again.
Lucas smirks, predictably pleased with himself. "I didn't say we were talking about her."
I narrow my eyes at him, he did meanher. Who the hell else would he be talking about?
"And anyways," he adds, "that's what you saved her as in your contacts."
I stiffen. She did it, but I chose to keep it that way- and I don't reply.
He watches me for a second like he knows exactly what I'm not saying, then just grins and walks ahead. Bastard.
Maybe I do have a favorite.
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Lucas and I part ways at the corner, he went to meet his girlfriend, meanwhile I?
I know where exactly I am going
Amara's place.
I should have taken the last left turn, but here I am. I'll say I was casually dropping by, and was in the area.
The kids.They miss her. So I just came to pick her up.
I'll tell her the kids missed her, which is true but what isn't true is that I'm here because of them.
She doesn't need to know that I haven't been able to stop thinking about her since the shoot. Since her hands were on my chest, and her voice went quiet when she asked me why the dress was white.
I park my car, take the paper bag, walk to her door, and lift my hand to ring the bell- I hesitate, and then ring anyways.
"Clara, I told you. I am not going to that-"The door swings open a second later and whatever excuse I had prepared immediately goes up in flames.
She's standing there, wearing a white, flowy summer dress that brushes just above her knees. Light filters in from behind her, catching the soft fabric and the faint curve of her collarbone. Her hair is pulled into a loose bun, a few strands falling around her face.
"What?" she asks me, as if she didn't expect me here "Xavier? What are you doing here?"
Good question.
I clear my throat, adjusting the bag in my hand. "I brought latte."
"Huh?"
"I was passing by." I say, quickly.
"You are repeating the same excuse as before." She huffs.
"And the kids asked about you" I add, because that's the excuse, the one I rehearsed.
"Oh, I see." she says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "uhm, I'll just change and come. You can wait in the living room. No snooping." She narrows her eyes at me with a pointed glare.
I step inside, watching as she turns to leave, already heading to her room, "Wait" I say and she looks back. "There's no need to change," I add with a shrug, keeping my tone as casual as possible. "The kids are waiting"
I just wanted her to stay in that dress.
She stares at me, then says. "Right. Lets go."
When we're in the car, and I place the bag on her lap, "For you."
"Wait." she pulls out the croissant first, then the little box of macarons, and finally the latte"You got this from my favorite place-" She looks over at me, suspicious now. "Are you stalking me?"
I smirk just a little, "If I was stalking you, you'd never know."
I'm not stalking her, but damn I might be falling for her.
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We enter through the back gate and we are welcomed with shouts of victory and outrage, the distinct thump of a well-worn football being kicked around.
The kids are in full play mode.
Noah's in goalie position. He dives for the ball and misses by at least a foot. "I let that in!" he yells, springing up like nothing happened.
"Sure you did" Lily says, before adjusting her headband and charging after the ball in her princess dress and sneakers.
Avery and Sam are mid-argument about the rules again. Sam's holding the football under one arm like a rugby player, glaring at Avery who's got her hands on her hips.
Amara stops beside me, watching them all with this soft, breathless sort of smile. She glances at me. "They look happy."
"They are happy," I say, not taking my eyes off her.
I can't lie thought, I've seen them laugh harder when she's around. Run faster. Fight louder. Live bigger.
"AMIE'S HERE!"
The football is forgotten. They all abandon their positions, racing to her like she's the sun and they've been orbiting restlessly without her.
She kneels before they even reach her, arms open, and they crash into her like a wave.
I hang back for a second, hands in my pockets, just... watching.
Because no matter how many times she comes here, they never stop lighting up like this.
Neither do I.
And I can't stop watching her—right in the middle of all this noise, this mess, this life and thinking how right she looks here.
With them.With me.
And suddenly I want her here more than just "every now and then."
The kids are running, here and there now, Lily is sitting on Amara's lap as she braids and puts flowers on it. Everything's quiet.
And right then- "Ah, see, it's my son again," Mom calls out.
I don't even turn around to know what expression she has.
Sure enough, she strides over. Her apron still dusted with flour, a spoon sticking out of her pocket.
Her eyes flick from me to Amara, and just like that, the smile softens into something syrupy.
"Oh, darling," she coos at Amara, pulling her into one of those signature double cheek kisses before she can even get up.
Amara laughs, breathless. "Hi, Ms. Whitaker."
"How are you doing?" Mom asks sweetly, holding her by the arms "I saw you and Xavier did a photoshoot yesterday."
"Yeah, we did." Amara now looks at me and then back at mom, "It was pretty interesting, I suppose."
"It was. You looked ethereal in that gown, you indeed are Beauty." Mom brushes her hair.
"Oh, well uhm... I am not-" she shakes her head, and playing with hem of her dress. but her cheeks pink now.
Mom doesn't let her finish. "Shh," she says, dismissing Amara's modesty like it's nonsense. "Also, could you grab the art supplies from the storage room upstairs? I thought we could let the kids do some coloring today."
Amara nods quickly, clearly grateful for the distraction. "Of course."
She walks inside, and I don't even think before I move. I follow her.
"Why are you following me?" she asks me, not even looking back, as if she can feel my presence.
I'm here because I want to be. Because five minutes away from you suddenly feels like five too many.
"You'd get lost." I say, with a shrug.
Lie.
She scoffs, pushing the door open. "I've been here a hundred times. I won't get lost."
I don't say anything but shrug again.
We walk up the stairs, our footsteps soft against the steps, the hallway lit by fading sunlight through the window at the end. She walks a little ahead, her fingers lightly trailing the banister.
She reaches the old storage room and pushes the door open with her shoulder.
It creaks the way every old door does in this place. She steps in first. "Okay, let's see, there should be paints in the red box and the crayons.."
Click.
The door swings shut behind me.
Automatically, I reach for the handle to push it back open but it doesn't budge.
I turn around.
She's crouched by a stack of boxes, humming softly, completely unaware. Her fingers sift through paint sets and sketchbooks.
"It's locked"
"What's locked?" she asks without even looking up.
"The door" I say after a beat, voice low.
That gets her attention.
She freezes, then slowly straightens and looks at me, "Wait? Locked?"
I nod.
"Oh no. No, no—this room locks from the outside?" she asked, eyes going wide, voice rising.
I shrug. "Apparently."
She stares at me like I'd lost my mind. "Why would anyone make a door that locks from the outside?!"
"It's an old building." I offer, voice even, calm.
Someone had to be calm.
"Oh my god."
Then she starts pacing. Short, sharp steps that kicked up a little dust from the floor like she didn't even realize she was doing it.
"Okay. Okay, this is fine," she mutters, more to herself than to me. "This is-this is not fine. I didn't even bring my phone. Did you bring yours?!"
I pull it out, tapped the screen, turned it so she could see.
No signal.
Her eyes widened further. "Of course." she mumbled.
I lean back against the wall, arms crossed. "You're panicking."
"I'm not panicking."
She absolutely is.
She paces for a few more seconds, then gave up with a sigh and dropped down onto an old wooden stool near the wall. Her dress flared slightly as she sat, arms still folded, lips pressed tight in frustration.
Her eyes flick to me once, narrowed like this was my fault. Maybe it was.
If being locked in a dusty room with her was a mistake — It was one I didn't mind making.
Her breathing is shallow like she's trying so hard to keep it together.
I get it, she doesn't like feeling trapped. No one does.
But watching her unravel like this? It does something to me.
I push off the wall and walk toward her slowly, stopping just in front of the stool, her legs are still shaking, her fingers tugging at the edge of her dress like it's the only thing grounding her.
She looks up as I approach, startled by the sudden closeness—wide eyes meeting mine like she's unsure what I'm about to do.
I hold her gaze, slow and steady. My voice comes out low, quiet, but clear.
"Amara," I say, "will you dance with me?"
She looks at me like I've just spoken a different language. "What?" she breathes out, barely audible. "Xavier, this isn't the time. Don't joke-"
"I'm not joking." I kneel a little so we're eye-level now, so she can see how serious I am. "So, dance with me."
She opens her mouth like she's going to argue again, maybe call me stupid, ridiculous or annoying but no words come out.
I offer her my hand.
I know her and I know dance is her way out of her own head.
She stares at my hand for a long moment, then at my face and then finally, she slips her fingers into mine.
Her hand is warm and soft in mine, her eyes meet mine, I gently place my hand on her waist, and she places hers on my on my chest
And we dance.
Our feet barely move, just shifting in place like the room has shrunk to hold only us. My hand stays firm at her waist, grounding her—maybe grounding me more. Her palm rests against my chest like she can feel everything I'm not saying.
We dont speak. There's no music, no rhythm but the rise and fall of her breath and the quiet echo of our movements against the floor.
"Cats or dogs?" I ask, randomly, just to hear her voice again.
"Cats," she says without hesitation. "If I ever had one, I'd name her Mochi." Her lips curve softly. "You?"
"Dogs," I reply. "If I ever had one, I'd name him Rocky or maybe Chase."
"Paw Patrol fan, are we?" Then she giggles. "Not gonna lie though, Chase and Skye are kind of goals."
"No judging." I say, as we keep swaying. "Favorite music artist?"
"Hmm." She thinks for a moment. "Lana Del Rey and some French indie artists you probably don't know."
"Try me."
She laughs. "You're not ready."
"I like a challenge," I say, leaning closer. "Especially when it involves you."
"Careful," she says softly. "I might make you a playlist."
I smirk. "That's not a threat, Amara. That's an invitation." I tighten my hold on her just a little, not to pull her closer but to keep her. Just for a second longer.
She exhales slowly, her forehead brushing lightly against my collarbone, and I close my eyes. Memorizing this.
The scent of her hair. The way her dress sways against my legs. The warmth of her hand in mine.
We dance like the world outside doesn't exist. Like maybe it never did.
"You should wear white more often." I murmur, my voice low.
She looks up, confused. "Why?"
"It reminds me of something." I admit. I repeat the same line I said during the photoshoot.
"Yea, I know that. You told me, but what?"
I already know the answer, but how do I say it?
So instead, I twirl her.
It's a simple motion with my hand in hers, a step, a shift and she spins so lightly. Her dress flutters around her knees, the soft fabric catching the slant of light from the narrow window, glowing for a second like she's not even real.
She lands in my arms.
Right against my chest.
Her breath stutters. one of her hand splayed gently over my heart, the other still tangled with my fingers. Her skin is warm. Her touch is light, unsure, like she doesn't quite know if she's allowed to stay this close.
Her head tilts up slowly, and our eyes lock.
Her cheeks are flushed—pink rising from her neck to her cheekbones, and I don't know if it's from the spin or the fact that there's barely any space between us now.
She said that she would like someone who'd write poetry or draw her, but I am unpredictable. So I simply arranged a photoshoot- with the theme Beauty And The Beast.
The dress? White instead of yellow.
Not because I don't know what Belle wore, because I saw her in a white tutu during her showcase.
She doesn't know I went to watch her perform.
Its as if she doesn't crave attention, but gets it anyways.
My attention.
Her movements weren't just practiced, they were effortless. Like her body knew the music before it played. Like gravity didn't apply to her the way it did to the rest of us.
She didn't dance to be watched. She danced like it was the only way she knew how to live.
That's why I asked her to dance with me - cause dancing gives her peace, and I couldn't watch her panic.
"A Swan."
My Swan.
I am falling in love with Amara Fontaine.
Y'ALLL LESSGOOO, HE FINALLY ADMITTED EHHEHE