25. Mine.
She just needs to dance.
And I?
I need to watch her do it.
Amara is not the type to just sit and stay home, I knew that she couldn't stop thinking about who barged in and ruined her peace.
She could've went to her studio, meet up her friends, but instead she said she wouldn't go.
But dancing makes her feel alive.
So I did something.
I arranged a barre.
That's all she really needed.
I had the gym cleared out. Moved the weights. Pushed the equipment back. Called in a favor and had a ballet barre installed by morning while she was asleep.
The room already had mirrors. The floor was smooth. It would work. It had to.
Because if ballet gave her peace then I'd give her ballet.
I stepped through the alley behind 43rd Street, hands in my pockets, hoodie pulled low. The neon sign above the steel door flickered red—HARDLINE. A fake gym by day. A war zone by night.
The bouncer moved into my path before I even reached the door.
"Name" he grunted.
I didn't stop walking. "Don't be fucking ridiculous now."
He reached out, palm against my chest.
I grabbed his wrist, twisted it and pinned him to the wall "You want me to break it, or should I let Dom know his boys are touching old friends?"
He whispered, his voice a whisper "The Ring Lord?"
I pushed past him and headed inside.
The air was thicker in here. Dim lighting. Crowds leaning against chain-link fences, waiting for the next fight. No one looked twice. No one cared. Not in this world.
I walked straight to the back—behind the bar, past the empty locker room, down a hallway only three people were allowed to use without getting jumped.
And there he was.
Dominic Hale.
He was thirty, but the way he carried himself made it hard to tell if he was older or simply more dangerous than time allowed.
Tall, with the kind of build that wasn't just muscle, but mean. Broad shoulders, thick arms, the walk of a man who never had to second-guess whether a room would part for him.
He had Blonde hair and brown eyes.
His jaw was angular, perpetually shadowed in stubble, and a faint scar ran just under his left cheekbone. It curved when he smiled—which made it worse.
Because when Dominic Hale smiled, it wasn't nice.
It meant you were exactly where he wanted you.
He Leaning back in a leather chair, feet propped on a desk like he owned the oxygen in here.
Because in here? He did.
"Xavier Hayes." he said, slow and amused. "Didn't expect to see your ass crawling back."
"I am not crawling" I muttered, gritting my teeth.
He grinned, his eyes glinting under the shitty overhead light. "Still mouthy. I like that."
"I need something looked into" I said, cutting to it.
"Do I look like a PI?"
I dropped the photo onto the desk—Amara's apartment, drawers open, frame shattered, her family photo face-down.
"Someone broke into her place," I said. "Didn't take anything. Just searched. That's not random."
He picked up the photo, studied it for a beat.
"Cops?"
"She doesn't trust them. Neither do I."
Dominic hummed. "So you came to me. Sweet."
"She's important to me."
His eyes met mine. Sharp and intrigued, for a second, I hated how well he could read people.
"I'll ask around," he finally said. "See who's dumb enough to play games in my city."
"I want names. Fast."
He leaned forward, grin returning. "You'll get 'em."
Then—just like that—his fist slammed into my ribs.
Hard.
I didn't flinch. But I did step back.
Another hit came—hook to my cheekbone.
"Still fast," he muttered, almost bored. "You lose your edge yet?"
I grabbed his wrist mid-swing. Tight. "Try that again and you'll lose yours."
He smiled. "Consider it a welcome back."
And then he threw the first real punch.
I ducked. Barely.
It grazed my jaw, but I was already stepping in, throwing a left hook to his ribs. He grunted—didn't step back, didn't blink. He just grinned wider.
That grin always meant pain.
He came at me again. Heavy jab, elbow to the gut. I blocked the first, caught the second with my forearm, teeth clenching from the shock of it. The guy was still built like a brick wall. Mean, brutal, and clean with his hits.
We weren't in the ring.
No rules. No ref.
My footwork kicked in. Light, fast, pivot to the side—fist to his ribs, then a clean uppercut to his jaw that snapped his head back just slightly.
He swung low, fast—tried to sweep my legs. I jumped back, but not in time. My heel clipped the edge of the mat and I stumbled. Just enough.
He lunged and his shoulder slammed into my side, sent me back against the concrete wall with a solid thud. Air rushed out of my lungs.
He came in close, grinning through busted lip and blood-streaked teeth.
"Still got that anger, huh?"
I don't answer.
I never fought for fun.
"This what it takes now?" he asked, voice hoarse. "Some girl get under your skin?"
I punched the words right out of his mouth.
"Don't talk about her" I growled.
He spat blood onto the floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Touchy," he rasped. "That must be serious."
He doubled slightly—and I followed with a punch to the side of his head that sent him sprawling into the desk behind us. Papers flew. A bottle shattered.
Dominic pushed himself upright. Wiped at his bleeding eyebrow. "Damn, man." he said between breaths. "You still good."
I cracked my neck. "You're slower."
"I'm richer."
──────????°? ? ?°?? ??──────
I wake up later than usual.
Could blame the busted ribs or the lingering headache from last night. But really—it's her.
Somewhere between her soft hands and the way she curled into me before falling asleep, I forgot how to rest properly.
The penthouse is quiet. No soft footsteps. No clinking cups. No light humming under her breath. For a second, panic curls low in my stomach.
Did she leave?
I step out of my room, glance at the kitchen—empty. The note I left her on the fridge is gone.
Then I see it.
The door to the home gym is slightly open. A faint hum of music filters through the hallway.
I move without thinking.
Push the door open just enough to see inside.
And—there she is.
At the barre I had installed a day ago.
She hasn't noticed me yet.
Her back is facing to me, posture perfect, every inch of her drawn into focus. She's wearing pink today. Not white. Her leotard clings like it was made for her, her tutu blooming around her waist like a flower caught mid-bloom. Her hair is tied up in that tight bun.
She rises to full pointe.
It's silent—but somehow the moment is loud in my chest. Like the air shifts around her.
A slow spin. A breath. A stillness that steals every word I might've had in my head.
And it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
She turns—and freezes.
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror.
She startles slightly. Lips part. Like she wasn't expecting an audience. Like she's unsure whether to smile or pretend she hasn't just turned my gym into a cathedral.
I don't say a word.
I don't need to.
I just watch her.
She notices me fully now as I step into the room.
No words, no comments about how unreal she looks. Just quiet movements.
I walk over to the bench near the wall, grab a chilled bottle of water, and one of the clean towels I always keep nearby. Then I make my way to her.
She straightens instinctively, like she's bracing for something.
I hold them out. "Water," I say, quietly "well. You're glowing."
She narrows her eyes, "what?"
I nudge the towel at her again. "Sweat."
She exhales a short laugh—nervous. "Right."
She takes the water first and then the towel.
She takes them, her eyes flicking up to mine. Still catching her breath, maybe from the dancing. Or maybe just from me.
"I have a competition," she says quickly, voice a little too casual. "Day after tomorrow. Its a very huge one."
I nod once. No surprise there.
"So... that's why I'm here." She gestures toward the barre with the bottle, her cheeks pink. "The studio is a little far from here and I don't have my car. I didn't want to use the subway. And I didn't want to wake you up so—"
I cut her off, calm and low. "You don't have to explain."
She blinks. "I just didn't want to intrude, I—"
"It's yours," I say simply. "The room. The barre. All of it. It's yours to use. Anytime."
Her lips part slightly, and for a moment, she just... stares at me. Like she's trying to figure out what she did to deserve this. What she did to deserve me.
"Thanks," she says, quieter now."And if you're not... busy or something," she adds now, "maybe you could come watch the performance."
"I told you," I murmur. "I like watching you dance."
She crosses her arms, the towel still clutched in her hand. "Okay, Xavier. What else do you 'like watching? Me brush my teeth? Me trip over a hoop?"
"Actually, yes." I say without missing a beat. "And this time I may or not be a gentleman, but I am for you, Amara."
"Oh, and I am a lady now?" she huffs, and then I takes her wrist and kiss her knuckles, "Oui, M'lady."
(Yes, My lady.)
She pulls away her wrist, "I'm sweaty," she mutters, attempting nonchalance. "Messy. Definitely not worth watching."
"You're wrong." I say, voice firm. Certain.
She lifts both of her eyebrows, towel still loosely clutched in her hand.
"You have a bad habit," she says, narrowing her eyes, "of dropping intense compliments."
"I know."
She exhales—sharp, disbelieving. "You're so confusing."
"Am I?" I step a little closer, eyes locked on hers. "You look like a swan."
She squints her eyes. "You've seen swans before, right? They're violent. They hiss. They bite."
"I didn't say you were friendly."
A short laugh escapes her and she bites down on her lower lip, teeth sinking in just barely. "So what? you're calling me a bird now?"
Gosh, those lips.
I raise an eyebrow. "A beautiful one."
She steps closer, poking my chest lightly with the cap of the water bottle. "That doesn't make it less offensive."
I smirk. "I'm calling you my Swan."
"Your Swan?" she repeats, tilting her head like she's testing the sound of it.
I nod once, calm. Certain. "Mine."
She rolls her eyes, but she smiles softly. "But if I'm a Swan, you're something equally ridiculous."
"Oh yeah?"
She grins. "A bear."
"A bear?" I lean closer, and ask "Do bears give roses to ballerinas?"
She lifts her chin, her eyes meeting mine. "Do swans accidentally kiss boxers in their gyms?"
"What?" I ask, raising my brows in confusion.Before the confusion even settles, she rises onto her toes with perfect balance, one hand brushes my chest for balance, then the other slides around the back of my neck, fingers curling gently.
"Amara." I whisper, to which she just closes her eyes and presses the softest kiss to my lips.
It's slow, a gentle press of lips that's over in less than a breath but hits harder than any punch I've taken in the ring.
My breath catches.
Her eyes are open when she pulls back, her face barely an inch from mine, watching me—waiting for my reaction.
She smiles, playful and utterly sure of herself. "Oops," she says, not even pretending it was an accident. "Guess we're even now."
I just stare at her for a second, trying to process what the fuck just happened.
I've fought men twice my size, survived underground rings, stood silent in the face of guns.
But this?
This ballerina, on her toes in a pink tutu, grinning at me after kissing me like it was her turn to knock me breathless?
I clear my throat. "That didn't feel like an accident."
She winks, "Wasn't an accident on my part."
Now she's copying me?
I narrow my eyes, stepping closer until she's moved back and her back brushes the barre. "And you think you can just do that and walk away?"
"I don't know," she says, tilting her head up at me. "What would the bear do?"
She's confident.
I lean in, voice low. "He'd bite."
"That's not very gentlemanly." She says with a gasp and puts her palm over her lips, and widens her eyes.
The corner of my mouth lifts.
I reach up, wrap my fingers gently around her wrist, and pull her hand away, slowly. I want her eyes on me when I say it.
"Neither was the kiss lady-likely, Swan."
I keep my expression steady—barely. My thumb brushes the inside of her wrist once, lingering on the rapid beat of her pulse.
I wonder if she knows mine's matching it.
i was supposed to update on Thursday, but i fell sick :((
i have my exams starting from august and then again from mid september, but i'll try my best to update!