27. Forgiven
It's almost been a week. 6 days without hearing her voice, without her teasing me, challenging me, softening just for a second before setting my world on fire all over again.
She's been going to her ballet studio every morning.
She's not staying here anymore.
She's at Clara's place.
I got the information from Logan—and Mom.
Yes, Mom.
Apparently Amara's been visiting the kids again almost every evening. Helping with crafts. Reading to them and playing games.
I've walked past her studio, but didn't go in.
I just stood outside like a goddamn coward, hand in my pocket, pulse thudding like I'd just taken a round in the ring.
She left her hair tie here.
I found it around the corner of the guest bathroom sink — she probably forgot it the night I carried her in, back when she still trusted me. I should've put it aside-
Instead, I looped it around my wrist.
It's been there ever since.
A pathetic reminder that I had her in my arms once, and now I can't even get a reply.
But I've tried. Not directly, but from a distance.
Because when I meet her, what do I say?
Sorry I took your shoes because I'm addicted to being near you?
Sorry I hid them because without one last glance was something I couldn't handle?
Day 1: I got her favorite pastry. Religieuse au chocolat and croissants. I stood in line like some desperate man and gave it to Clara with strict instructions: put it in her locker.
Mom told me she gave it to the kids at the orphanage that day and didn't eat a bite.
Day 2: I got coffee for her, just the way she likes it. I had it anonymously distributed to her studio
She drank all of it.
Day 3:I wrote a note: "I'm sorry. I was an idiot."
She returned it via Clara with another one: "That's the first correct thing you've ever said."
Progress? Yes. Humiliation? Absolutely.
Day 4:I didn't try anything. Just sat in the gym, stared at the barre I set up for her and thought about how she kissed me.
How she looked in that tutu.
How she called me a bear.
I miss her and it's starting to feel like missing her is the only thing I'm good at now.
Day 5:We had our self defense class today, I didn't expect her to show up but she did stick a photo of herself on my locker to probably 'annoy' me.
I took that as my sign to go the orphanage and meet her but she wasn't there. So i just bragged to the kids, "She probably wants me to see her face everyday. She's basically marking her territory."
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Lucas throws the first punch—Right at my shoulder.
I should block it. I always block it.
But it hits me, square, and I stumble half a step back. "Yo," he mutters, circling, gloves up, "Ring Lord, where's your focus?"
It's not here. It's nowhere near this ring.
It's probably sitting in a ballet studio right now, tying her pointe shoes in perfect loops, refusing to think about me. And somehow, I can't think of anything else.
Another hit comes—left hook, and I dodge late and his glove brushes my jaw.
Lucas pulls back, frowning now. "You okay, man?"
I grunt, roll my shoulders. "Fine."
He clearly doesn't buy it.
Because I'm not fine.
I've taken hits in basements where blood stained the mats before I even stepped in. I've fought with broken ribs, busted knuckles, a dislocated shoulder once. And I still kept my head in the game.
But one ballerina with eyes like starlight says "don't"—and I've been a mess ever since.
Lucas throws a few more punches—light, testing.
I block one, parry the second, then drop my guard on the third and take it straight to the ribs.
"Shit," I hiss under my breath.
Lucas ducks a lazy jab and circles me again, smirking like he knows something I don't. "You're off," he says, eyes narrowing. "You look like you just got dumped."
Did I?
Can you even get dumped by someone who never liked you in the first place?
Lucas throws another punch. I barely block it. "She mad?" he asks, huffing between breath control, eyes sharp.
"Yeah." The word tastes like gravel.
He raises a brow, ducking and weaving like this is just warm-up. "Like, normal mad? Or girl-who's-gonna-end-you mad?"
"The second one."
Lucas whistles low. "Damn." He fakes a jab, but I don't bite. He steps in anyway. "What'd you do?"
I exhale through my nose, roll my shoulder. "I took her ballet shoes. Before a very important—"
"You hid them!?" His eyes widen
"No!" I snap. "I didn't hide them!" My voice comes out more defensive than intended.
"Bro." He stares like I just confessed a crime. "What is wrong with you?"
"I was going to give them back!" I grit out, stepping back. "I just... I just wanted to see her. One last time. Before the show started."
"Man," he says, deadpan, "you deserve to lose right now."
Then he hits me.
Hard.
Right in the ribs.
I grunt, stumble back a step, pain flaring through my side. I could swing back.
I should swing back.
But I don't because he's not wrong.
My lungs burn. Sweat drips into my eyes. The gym lights feel too bright, too harsh. The ring suddenly feels too small, like the air is thick and I'm running out of space.
I rip off my gloves and toss them to the floor, jaw tight, frustration clawing at my chest. I pace the mat, fists clenched, trying to think.
Trying not to think.
"I don't know what else to do." I mutter, more to myself than him. My voice sounds raw. Lost.
Lucas leans lazily against the ropes, arms draped like he's got all the time in the world He's still smug—but underneath it, there's something quieter.
Wiser.
"Ever tried apologizing without trying to win?" He raises a single brow. "Not with gifts, but with words."
I hate that he's right.
Because I've done it all—coffee, pastries, notes. All trying to win her back. All ways to avoid saying the actual words.
And maybe that's the problem.
Because this was never supposed to be a game.
This isn't about outsmarting her or proving a point.
It's not about tricks or games or even about croissants.
It's about her.
And maybe for once in my life I need to stop performing, stop planning, stop hiding behind apologies that look like gifts. Maybe I just need to show up. Say the damn words, and let her know this isn't about pride or regret.
It's about her.
It's always been about her.
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The bruise on my jaw is starting to purple, blooming like a reminder of how far out of my depth I am with her. And my left cheek? Swollen from Lucas' "friendly" jab.
Definitely deserved. Probably not enough.
I step out of the car and tug my hoodie lower over my face before walking up the orphanage steps. The evening light is soft.
I don't deserve this setting right now.
Mom meets me at the door before I even knock. She takes one look at me and sighs. "Oh Xavier..." Her voice is gentle, but there's an edge. "You look like you got hit by a truck."
I shrug. "Friend with good aim."
She raises an eyebrow. "You thinking clearer now?"
I nod, eyes locked on the hallway behind her.
"She's in the art room. Back left."
My hand is on the doorframe before she finishes the sentence. But she grabs my wrist lightly. "Don't go in there trying to charm your way out of this," she says, voice low. "She doesn't need a show."
I meet her eyes and nod once.
Then I walk, every step feels heavier. The hallway is full of laughter and kid voices — familiar, warm — but my pulse is loud in my ears.
When I reach the art room, I stop.
She's inside.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor in jeans and a loose tee, arms streaked in purple paint. There's a crown drawn on one arm, a ballerina on the other and she's laughing — this soft, melodic thing that squeezes my ribs.
She's too caught up in the moment. Avery is babbling about how she made the ballerina "extra sparkly because she's the princess of shoes." and Amara is nodding along like it's the most important story in the world.
Her hair's tied up in a messy bun, but strands are falling loose. There's a smudge of glitter on her cheekbone. Paint on her jeans. Her laugh is real, unfiltered.
It's the kind of sound that makes you forget everything
I almost leave.
Because who the hell am I to step into this softness after bringing her that kind of hurt?
"Xavie's here!" Noah runs to me, and hugs me, "Amie, he is here." Amara didn't respond to which he asks me "Did you do a bad thing?"
I nod. "I did."
Noah looks up at me with big, round eyes. "Are you gonna say sorry now?"
I swallow. "Yeah, buddy. That's why I'm here."
He nods solemnly, as if he understands. "Okay," he says. "But if you make Amie sad again, I'm telling your mom." he crosses his arms, like snitching would work on a grown ass adult like me.
I'd never ever hurt her.
I sit cross-legged beside the tiny table.
Amara doesn't look at me, but she doesn't move away either. She just quietly dabs yellow onto a paper.
I don't touch a brush. I just sit there. Then it's my moms voice chirping from the hallway. "Alright, little artists! Cookie break in the kitchen!"
A stampede follows.
sounds of Marker caps clattering and paper flying along with Sam's yelling, "LAST ONE THERE'S A MOLDY BANANA!" and the chaos hits full tilt.
But not Amara.
She's still.
then I hear a soft click of the art room door.
I look up.
My mom's standing there, hand still on the handle. She lifts her brows at me and mouths: Fix it.Then pulls the door shut behind her.
Silence.
"I'm sorry, Amara." My voice is quiet and honest. It lands between us like a weight.
She doesn't look at me. Just keeps brushing careful blue strokes across a sky she's painting, like I'm not even there.
"Why did you do it?"she asks quietly, like she's asking the canvas instead of me.
"I just.." I swallow hard, eyes drift down on the floor between us. "I wanted to see you before your performance started, and that would've been—"
She cuts me off, voice sharp, shaking. "Do you even know why that mattered so much to me?"Her fingers smudge a bit of yellow into the corner, fixing a sunbeam.
"I think I do," I whisper, finally daring to look up at her. "But I'd rather hear it from you."
She finally lifts her chin — not to meet my eyes, just to grab another brush and lets out a short, humorless breath. "You don't mess with a dancer's shoes, Xavier." she says, voice tight. "Not before a performance."
"I know," I nod. "It's like me walking into a ring with no gloves."
"No," she says, with this bitter little laugh. "It's like someone taking your gloves, hiding them and pretending it's for your own good."
She just calmly blends the paint like she's trying to control the one thing in the room that won't disappoint her.
Then she finally looks up and her eyes.. drift to the cuts on my face. "What on earth is wrong with you?" she snaps, but... with concern. "Y-your face."
I shrug, "I'm a boxer."
She gets up without a word and says, "Get up."
And I do, no questions asked. She could ask me to fucking crawl and I'd do it.
She moved across the room without a word, reaching up toward the high shelf near the window.
The first aid box?
My brows knit. That wasn't usually there. We kept one in the bathroom, one in the kitchen, and in the living room. How is it here?
Did someone get hurt?
A dozen questions ran through my head, but I didn't ask.
She pulls the box down with ease. Then she turns to me, eyes flicking to the little chair tucked beside the craft table.
"Sit" she says
I sit like a good fighter returning to his corner after round one.
She kneels in front of me, her expression unreadable, hands moving with quiet precision as she opened the kit.
I stayed still, tried not to stare too hard—but I was definitely staring.
At the crease between her brows. At the smudge of blue paint on her wrist. At the way her lips pressed together in quiet focus.
She didn't look at me right away.
Just tore open an alcohol wipe and tugged lightly at my hoodie's collar, coaxing me forward.
I lean in.
The second her fingers brushed my jaw, I flinched.
Not from pain.
From her.
From how soft her touch was, even though she had every reason to shove me away. From the way her breath caught, just a little, when she got a proper look at the cut near my cheekbone.
"This one's deep." she murmurs, thumb ghosting near it.
"I've had worse" I said, my voice low.
"No." she whispered. "You've never had cuts this bad" she said, gently dabbing at the gash near my jawline.
I winced—not from the sting of the antiseptic, but from her voice. It was careful, like she was trying not to care too much. "What happened?" she asked, not looking at me.
"Distracted." I muttered.
Her hand froze for a second. Then she kept going. "Oh?" she asked, still cleaning the cut, her tone laced with sarcasm now. "Found someone else to train? Does she throw prettier punches than me? Headbutts you-"
I cut her off before she can finish.
"No," I say, my voice calm. "There's no one else."
I'm calm cause she is here.
Her hand stills again. Just for a moment.
Then she exhales through her nose, barely a sound, and goes back to dabbing at the cut like I didn't just say that.
"I was distracted by you."I add quietly.
That makes her pause.
She doesn't look at me, just reaches for another wipe, slower this time. Like she's buying herself a second to think.
"You do realize" she says softly, eyes locked on the cut now, "that's not a compliment when you're sitting here bleeding."
"I know," I breathe. "But it's the truth."
She finally looks up. Her eyes meet mine—and they're shining, furious all at once.
"You messed with my shoes, Xavier," she says, barely above a whisper. "Right before an important performance in my life and now you're telling me you got hurt because you couldn't stop thinking about me?"
I nod, not breaking her gaze. "Yeah."
She sighs, dropping the used wipe into the bin beside her. "You're lucky I don't punch you myself."
Even though she punches me, I'm the luckiest.
"I'd let you."
I would.
"I'm sorry," I say again, quieter this time. "I ended up hurting you," I continue, my voice low, steady. "That's on me. I get it."
She gently tilts my chin, wiping at a smear of dried blood near my lip. "You don't get it."
"Then tell me," I say. "Tell me so I never do it again."
Amara exhales, slow and shaky. Her fingers falter against my skin, and for a second, I think she might finally let it all out. But she just says, "I wanted you at the performance."
"I know." I whisper.
She walks over to the sink and washes her hands in silence. The sound of running water fills the space between us.
When she turns back around, she says, "You're not forgiven. Not yet."
"I'll wait," I say. "I'll do anything for you, Amara."
She grabs a towel, drying her hands. "Anything?"
"Anything."
"You can start by carrying my ballet bag a week, bring me coffee, pick me up from studio everyday, then I'll maybe forgive you."
"Done." I say, quickly.
"And you have to do anything I ask you to do." She adds.