23. French
Madame Dubois will be back tomorrow, which means ballet classes will resume. So today... is probably the last time I'll have the studio to myself.
The last day of dancing alone, in peace.
I lift my arms and slip into an arabesque, letting the movement guide my thoughts. My chest lifts with the music, my leg stretches behind me, weightless.
Then I do a pirouette.
"A Swan."His voice echoes in my head, low and serious and I stumble slightly as I land.
A swan? Really?
We were locked together, and I was panicking, and out nowhere he asked me if he wanted to dance. It was probably not the time to say "yes" but I did- by giving him my hand.
After a while the door had opened, as everyone wondered what we were upto. They expected us to be locked up, but not locked upin each others arms.
Noah said, "I knew it!"
I wonder what he knew.
After the incident, I simply excused myself, not even bothered to say goodbye. I was freaking out. I'd probably not show him my face again, I should probably go back to Paris, I should just-
God.
What was I thinking?
I wasn't. That's the problem.
"You're going to overthink yourself into a coma." Clara's voice would say right about now.
On top of that, our photoshoot pics were blowing up- like hell. I didn't expect for it to get so much love. And again, his voice is in my head- "Come on, is this really the first time you've seen me on my knees for you, Amara?"
Clara might-
My phone rings.
Clara.
──────????°? ? ?°?? ??──────
I was about to head to the changing room—head down, my thoughts a whole mess of photoshoot flashbacks, and the horrifying realization that the entire internet has now seen me looking at him like I was in love.
Which I'm not.
"Amara"
He's standing there like he wasn't just casually set my world on fire. Like he hasn't been haunting my every waking thought.
And in his hands? Roses.
White? No. Not red either.
Pink.
I don't think I've seen that shadeof pink anywhere, it was a weird, soft pinkish shade with a hint of coral.
The petals had this soft blush undertone, kissed with a warm golden hue, almost peachy when the light hit them right. Like they'd bloomed under the studio lights, not the sun.
They don't look store-bought. They look rare.
I swallow. "Um, are those for...?"
"Yeah," Xavier says simply, stepping closer. He stops in front of me and slowly he holds out the roses. "For you."
I take the roses, carefully and my fingers brush his. I simply say-
"They're, uh very pink."
Very pink? Really, Amara?
"They're called Juliet Roses," he says looking at me. "I thought they suited you" he adds, quieter now. "They are soft, rare and always makes heads turn."
"That sounds dangerously like poetry."
"I'm not the poetry type," he murmurs, "but I make exceptions."
I forget everything I'm supposed to do cause of him.
I hug the roses a little closer to my chest. Mostly to stop myself from doing something stupid.
I shift on my feet, desperate to break the tension. "Well... I should probably go change."
"Keep them in water," he says, eyes never leaving mine. "They're not meant to last forever... but they stay longer if you take care of them."
I nod.
"I'll wait for you, ballerina."
Wait for me where? Wait for me why?
I quickly go inside, and change, hoping he's gone. That he said his line and walked off into the sunset or gym or wherever boxers go when they finish wrecking ballerinas.
But, when I step out he is still there. He was going through his phone, his brows furrowed, as if he was doing something he shouldn't be doing
"Xavier?" I call out.
He startles and then very quickly he shoves his phone into his pocket.
"You're back." he says.
My eyes narrow a little. "What were you-"
"Nothing," he cuts in way too fast. "Just checking something."
Right. Because people always hide their phones when they're "just checking something."
He stands, like he's trying to cover up the fact that he totally just got caught doing- "Also, am I supposed to kiss your cheek or something?" He randomly asks.
Kiss my-?
"I'm sorry, what?" I ask him to repeat and hoping he didn't actually say—
"Kiss your cheek." he adds, leaning closer, "You know how you French people do it, to greet, to say goodbye or something?"
"Yeah," I manage, slowly, trying to sound composed. "But no one in NYC does that." My voice comes out sharper than intended.
He lifts an eyebrow. "You're French."
"I am," I admit, eyes narrowing, "but people don't do la bise here. Especially not with-"
(la bise - kiss)
You. Especially not with you.
How can I go around doing la bise with myself?
"I wanna do it with you." he says.
"I-what?"
"La bise." he clarifies like this is a normal conversation "I wanna do that with you."
"We do it with friends. It's like a polite thing." I say.
He tilts his head slightly. "So... you've kissed other guys?"
I stare at him. "I-what?"
"On the cheek," he adds quickly, but his voice is suddenly lower. "You've done it with other guys?"
I can't believe we're having this conversation right now.
"On the cheek, yes," I say, trying to sound normal "It's not like- romantic."
"Right," his jaw tightens. "So you just kiss people."
I protest. "It's culture. It's polite. It's—ugh, it's notthis!"
"This?" he repeats, stepping closer. His voice drops. "So... this is different?"
It is, and we both know it.
"Fine, I'll tell you how to do it." I say, moving my arms and explaining, ""It's not an actual kiss," I clarify quickly, waving a hand in the air, like that'll somehow make this normal. "You just.. like touch cheeks and kiss the air. You know, muah muah."
He exhales sharply through his nose. Then he turns away.
And runs a hand through his hair.
Frustration.
Is he mad at me?
When he faces me again, his expression is flat. Composed. But his jaw is tight. "Muah?"
"Don't mock me." I mutter.
"Not mocking." He rolls his eyes.
I take a deep breath. "We go in from opposite sides."
He nods. "Got it."
We go.
I lean to my right- his left cheek, and he leans to his left- my right cheek.
And our lips touch.
Not the air. Not the cheek. Not the plan.
His lips are warm, unexpectedly soft, and for a split second—a single, stolen second—we're frozen in it.
There's no movement. No panic. He doesn't flinch or pull away. Neither do I, not right away.
Then I blink, and everything rushes back at once—the scent of the roses, the too-close heat of him, the echo of that split-second softness still buzzing on my mouth.
I jerk back. "What the-"
"You didn't specify the side," he says casually like he didn't just kiss me. He says it so calm, so flat, like our lips-
"I-what-you!" I can't form a sentence.
And he just stands there. Watching me Like it didn't change everything.
"I meant your right." I hiss.
"That's not what you said." he replies, deadpan.
He's so calm and I hate it.
Because I am not calm.
"I'm going home." I say, mad at him. I take my ballet bag, and walk out of the studio.
I expected him to walk away or maybe stop me, but he didn't. He had his car, yet he walked with me. He didn't say anything. We walked like that for minutes and when we were finally 2 minutes away from my building, I stop walking and he stops as well.
"What are you doing?" I demand, my voice sharper now. "Why are you following me? Why were you even at my studio?"
"You were dancing alone." He just looks at me, like he expected me to snap at him. Then he finally answers, "I knew today is the last day of your break, I knew that you'd go to have your space. So, I waited."
"what?"
He nods.
"You waited for what-?" I ask, confused. My throat goes tight, my voice gets small. "You stayed the whole time?"
He nods again "I Didn't go in, just waited out until you were done."
He just waited for me?
Didn't interrupt. Didn't announce himself-
"You could've just... texted," I say softly, because I don't know what else to say.
He tilts his head, expression unreadable again. "I'm not the texting type."
"Yeah. I figured." My eyes drop to the roses in my hand. Then I say because I can't help myself. "You're more of the 'accidentally kiss someone and then stalk them home in complete silence' type."
"Wasn't an accident on my part."
I roll my eyes and start walking again and so does he. Right beside me, matching my pace like he always does.
We don't say anything.
The silence between us isn't empty anymore.
The sky's dimming, city lights flickering on one by one as we pass them. My building is just up ahead now.
My heart feels like it's caught somewhere between my throat and my knees.
I glance sideways at him. He looks completely calm.
Hands in his pockets. Brows slightly furrowed like he's lost in thought—not panicked, not flustered, not even breathing like someone who just admitted to kissing me on purpose.
We reach my building.
I stop, so does he.
I turn to him, but I can't meet his eyes yet. I clear my throat, "Well. Thanks for walking me."
I feel him nod so I finally look up.
He's so close.
Eyes locked on mine and suddenly, I don't feel like going inside.
I should go inside, close the door, and spend the rest of the night screaming into a pillow
"Do you want to, um..." I pause. My voice cracks. "Come up?"
His eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn't look surprised. "Are you sure?"
No.
I nod. "Yeah. I mean just for a second if you want."
"Okay."
Okay?
I fumble for my keys, fingers suddenly stupid.
I unlock the door. Push it open. Step inside—and stop.
My heart drops.
Something's wrong.
The lights are off but I always leave the hall lamp on.
Then I see it- drawers yanked open. Couch cushions tossed to the floor. My coffee table books scattered. One of them torn.
I don't even realize Xavier's stepped in behind me until his voice cuts the air.
"Amara."
He's already moving—eyes scanning the apartment, muscles tensed, a hand out slightly like he's ready to shield me if he has to.
"Oh my god." I whisper. "Someone-someone was in here."
My knees wobble.
His hand comes up, steady on my arm. "I need you to stay back."
"But-"
"Amara. Back."
He strides into the apartment, calm but alert, eyes scanning everything. He checks the kitchen first, then the hall, then my bedroom. He moves fast, efficient.
But I don't follow him because something catches my eye.
A single photo frame.
I slowly crouch and pick it up, hands trembling.
It's the one I keep on the little side table by the window—the photo I brought from Paris the day I moved.
Mama. Papa. My brother and me.
All four of us, arms linked, smiling. The Eiffel Tower behind us. Papa's laugh caught in the moment. Mama's hand on my shoulder like always. My brother's jacket too big for him, but still managing to look cool.
It's cracked now. The glass split right across my mother's face. Like someone stepped on it, and didn't feel sorry
I don't realize I've gone quiet and still until Xavier's voice echoes from the hallway.
"They're gone." he says, stepping back into view.
I don't answer.
I don't even realize he's moved until I feel his arms around me.
The tears come before I can stop them. My fingers clutch the photo frame like it's the last solid thing I have, and I fall forward into his chest, into him, into safety I didn't ask for but suddenly need like air.
He doesn't say anything at first.
Just holds me.
One arm wrapped firmly around my back, the other bracing the side of my head, pulling me in.
And I let him.
I let the panic, the fear, the confusion, everything pour out in silence and shallow breaths and shaking shoulders.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low, calm— "I'll take care of this" he says, steady as ever. "I'll find out who." he adds, "you're staying with me."
I blink, pulling back just slightly. Just enough to look at him through blurry lashes. "W-What?"
His eyes are serious. "No excuses, Amara."
"But—"
He shakes his head once, his voice firm. "You're not staying here."
"But my stuff- my-what if they come back?"
"I said I'll handle it."
I didn't expect them to actually do it, nor did I expect it to hurt. But, it does hurt. Why?
I find a letter in the bathroom cabinet.