28. Attention
The soft thud of pointe shoes echoes around the empty studio as Clara stretches near the mirror, her blonde bun tilted to the side. I sit cross-legged on the floor, absently tying the ribbons of my shoes, but not really focused on them.
"So," Clara says, grinning like she's been dying to ask, "how's the grumpy gladiator?"
I roll my eyes. "He's not a gladiator."
"He bleeds a lot and looks like he wants to murder someone half the time. Sounds pretty gladiator to me."
I laugh and then shrug, lips pressing into a line. "He came to see me yesterday."
"Oh finally!" she gives a cheeky smile, "I thought he'd still be communicating through pastries and notes."
"And you know? I had a feeling he'd come to see me, that's why I sat in the art room and also kept the first-aid box there." I say with a small smile, standing up now.
"You manifested him!?" she gasps, "You knew? You knew he'd come? Oh my god, Ama! don't play all innocent with me now!"
"Well, uhm.. I did snap at him and taught him a lesson to never mess with something which is something precious to someone."
"Like pointe shoes are for ballerinas." she says
"Like gloves are for boxers." I say.
I sigh, leaning against the barre, my fingers curling around the smooth wood. "He said he'd do anything for me."
Her mouth drops into a perfect O. "Anything?"
I nod once, almost shy?
She lets out a low whistle. "Girl. That's dangerous. You do realize that, right?"
"Yeah," I murmur, eyes focused on the studio mirror, "But it didn't feel dangerous."
Clara studies me for a moment. Her teasing smile is gone, replaced by something gentler. "He's falling for you, Amara" she says softly. "And from the way you're talking right now? You're falling too."
I don't say anything.
Because silence is easier than admitting the truth.
That I look for him in every crowd. That my heart stuttered when I saw the bruises on his face. That even after everything, I still wanted him there.
At the performance. In the audience. In my life.
Clara reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "You don't have to say it. But just... don't lie to yourself, okay?"
I nod again, blinking away the thoughts swirling in my chest.
Just then, the studio door creaks open. Madame Dubois steps in, clutching her clipboard, her sharp gaze sweeping over.
"Ladies," she says, crisp as always. "Break's over. Back to center."
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We quickly change our clothes, muscles still sore, the echoes of Madame Dubois's claps ringing in our heads. Outside the studio, the evening sun spills golden across the pavement. Clara and I wait, sipping on iced coffees, catching our breath.
At a distance, I spot Sophie — our fellow ballerina — laughing softly, her hand in Kai's as he spins her playfully. He's in his usual leather jacket, guitar case slung over one shoulder even though he's the drummer for Ashes in Velvet.
"Gosh," Clara breathes beside me, eyes shining. "They're so perfect."
I grin. "I know, right? It's like he drums and writes songs just to keep her smiling."
"I swear he does," she says with a dreamy sigh. "Every day. Little riffs just for her."
I nudge her with my elbow, raising my brows. "You're saying that as if you don't have a sculptor boyfriend who literally paints you in his mind."
Clara flushes, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. "Logan's different."
"Yeah," I smirk, "different in the way like he stares at you like you're a walking masterpiece."
She groans dramatically, hiding her face in her hands. "Stop! You're worse than me." And then she bumps her shoulder into mine. "Says the girl who basically manifested her enemy into saying 'I'll do anything for you' ."
I take a long sip of my coffee to avoid answering.
"Don't get all silent and dramatic on me now," Clara nudges. "Come on, what's next? He's going to carry your ballet bag and bake you croissants?"
I smirk. "Already added the ballet bag to the list. Croissants are pending."
She lets out a laugh, loud and delighted.
Then we see Logan and Xavier appear around the corner, walking side by side.
"Ah, look," Clara grins, nudging me with her elbow. "Our mans are here to pick us up."
I roll my eyes, but the heat rising to my cheeks betrays me. "He's not my-"
"Oh please," Clara interrupts, eyes glinting with mischief. "The man looks like he'd reconstruct someone's face if they even thought about making you sad."
I open my mouth to argue, but then stop.
"Amour," Logan's voice floats in as he approaches us, warm and laced with affection. He reaches Clara first, brushing a gentle kiss to her temple. "You look ethereal right now."
Clara melts. "You say that every time I'm sweaty and tired."
"Because you always look like art to me," he murmurs, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear, and I swear I hear Clara's soul levitate.
"Oh my God," I whisper under my breath, watching them, "I need earplugs."
And then I feel it.
That shift in the air.
That quiet gravity pulling my attention like a thread.
Xavier's here.
He doesn't say anything right away. Just stands in front of me, hands in his hoodie pocket. His dark eyes sweep over me slowly — not in a dramatic way, but with the kind of silent intensity that feels personal.
My eyes drop to his wrist, he is still wearing my hair tie?
It could be mine or maybe someone elses, i dont know
"Hey." he says finally, voice low and gravel-edged.
I meet his gaze. "Hey."
His brows twitch — the smallest flicker of vulnerability crossing his expression before he quickly hides it again.
"Your ballet bag, Swan?" he says, holding his hand out like a proper gentleman.
"I–what?" I stutter, blinking up at him. That name. Swan. Every time he says it, my brain does a backflip and my heart forgets how to beat normally.
"You told me," he reminds me, voice low and far too smug for someone with a bruised jaw, "to pick you up... and carry your bag."
Oh, right.
I narrow my eyes. "I also told you to get coffee."
He glances down at my hands, raising an eyebrow. "You've already got a cup with you."
I blink. Then look down.
Oh. Right. The cup Clara got me after rehearsal.
"Well" I scramble, cheeks heating, "you were supposed to bring your coffee. You know, so it looks like you were just... casually here."
Xavier leans in slightly, eyes dancing with amusement. "You wanted me to look casual?"
"Forget it," I huff, snatching the bag from my shoulder and shoving it at him. "Here, since you insisted."
He takes it without a word, looping the strap over his broad shoulder like he was born to carry pink ballet bags. Then he straightens up and says, "I think it suits me."
I shoot him a glare, but the corners of my lips betray me.
Clara leans into Logan, whispering just loud enough, "I give them a week."
Xavier hears. "I'll take that bet."
"Xavier." I warn, nudging him.
But he only grins, stepping closer—close enough that our shoulders touch. "What? I'm just carrying my Swan's bag."
"I'm still mad at you." I mutter.
"I know," he says softly. "I'm still not done proving how far I'd go for you, Amara."
His words knock the air right out of me.
There's something terrifyingly sincere in his voice. none of the smugness, none of the teasing. Just quiet conviction. Like he means it. Every syllable.
I blink up at him, and for a second, I forget where we are. The city noise fades, Clara and Logan disappear into background blur, and all I can hear is my heart, thudding like it's begging me to believe him.
He lifts a hand, almost like he wants to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear but stops himself. His fingers hover in the space between us, trembling slightly before he lowers them again. Respectful and Careful.
"And what exactly are you planning to do?" I ask, because I need to know. Because if he keeps saying things like this, I won't be able to protect whatever is left of my resolve.
He tilts his head slightly, eyes serious now. "Whatever it takes. Even if it's slow. Even if all I get is five minutes with you after your rehearsals." His voice lowers,"I'll take what you give me. And I'll earn the rest."
Behind us, Clara exhales a quiet, "God, I love love."
Logan laughs under his breath. "Let them have their moment, love."
But I'm not really hearing them anymore. Not when Xavier is still standing there, so close, so steady, like he means every damn word.
"Well, you're lucky I didn't ask you to lift me instead." I mumble, half a pout on my lips.
The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them.
His entire body stills for a beat. Then he groans softly, and turns his head away and drags a hand through his hair like I've physically pained him.
Why does he do that?
Is he mad at me?
"Amara," he mutters turning his head back to me, "don't say things like that."
"Like what?" I ask, trying not to smile and failing spectacularly.
"You already know," He looks back at me, even with that exasperated little shake of his head. "If you ever do ask me to carry you," he says quietly, "I won't hesitate. Not even for a second."
Right, he did carry me in his strong arms in the rain.
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Xavier told me that he had to go out and meet up his friends, which leaves me alone in his huge penthouse.
I tie my hair into a bun, smoothing back the babyhair, then smear a thick layer of my favorite clay mask across my face. It smells like lavender-
I plop onto the edge of the couch, scrolling through my phone as the mask starts to dry. Then, on impulse, I snap a mirror selfie.
I caption it-I need a rich man who can buy me skincare.???
And post.
The thing is I can buy expensive skincare myself. I belong from a rich family.
But why am I doing it? I'm doing it so I can get a reaction from him.
A few minutes later- My phone buzzes.
It must be him, It has to him. I hope he got me a whole store like they do in the movies.
I open his message.
Hayes: You don't need a rich man to buy it for you, Swan. You can get it yourself by the way you're acting.
You don't need to work so hard to get my attention. You already have it.
Hayes: Also,
I glare at the screen, the clay mask tightening on my face in sync with my rising irritation.
That's it? Also what?? What also, Xavier? Finish your thought, you emotionally unavailable menace!
He knows. He knows I posted that just to get a reaction out of him. And now he's calling me out on it?
And worse—he's not wrong.
I toss my phone onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. "Ugh! Why does he know me so well?" I grumble, stomping off to go rinse my face. "And why does that make him hotter?!"
After drying myself, and changing my clothes I pat my skin dry.
Why is he so stupid? Why can't men just take the damn sign!? He was supposed to get me skincare!
It's time for revenge.
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After completing a plan that includes blue and-
My phone buzzes.
Hayes: Also, Open the door.
Oh no.
Oh yes!