32. In Love
"So you're telling me that man confessed because of me?" Clara squeals so loudly that i almost spill my coffee on myself. "I knew I'm the best wing woman."
"Clara-"
"Yes," she interrupts me, her excitement contagious. "It happened because I called you at that exact time, and you were all sobby because no one would make you their muse!" she gasps dramatically, "but omg! did he actually say all that, Ama?!"
I press my free hand to my face, feeling my cheeks heat at the memory. His voice, low and steady, telling me I was the only one he wanted, that he belonged to me, that I was etched into his soul and— "Amara!" Clara snaps me out of it.
"Maybe." I mumble, suddenly fascinated by the sky.
"Oh, no! you're blushing," she sing-songs. "This is so romantic I might cry."
We continue to walk, with her saying stuff about how lucky I am to have him, and the fact that he actually spewed poetry. When we reach the point where we part ways, she waves, "See you later, bae."
"Mhm, love you!" I side hug her before we part ways.
I adjust my bag on my shoulder, the city's hum wrapping around me as I start walking. The route feels familiar now—the bakery on the corner with its sweet, yeasty air, the uneven cobblestones near the florist's shop, the faded mural of a girl holding a balloon.
All little markers leading me to the orphanage.
I'm not sure why my chest feels fluttery. Maybe it's because this time, I'm not just visiting for the kids but this time it's his world that I'm stepping into, and that thought alone feels different.
The building comes into view, sunlight warming the glass. I pause at the gates, biting my lip. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag.
I take a deep breath.
Pushing the gate open, I walk inside. The sound of laughter greets me before I even reach the door. Inside, the smell of fresh cookie dough hits me, and I spot Ms. Whitaker in the common room, her hair tied back neatly, glasses perched on her nose as she reads a book.
She looks up, her eyes lighting. "Amara, darling. It's been a while." I smile, stepping closer, but before I can say anything, she tilts her head, studying me with that gentle, all-seeing look only mothers seem to have. "You're glowing, darling."
I can feel heat creeping up my neck. "I-what? No, I'm just warm from the walk."
Her lips curve knowingly, but she doesn't press, "Mhm. Well, whatever it is, you should keep it."
I smile, but before I can reply, a small body barrels into me from the side Noah, grinning wide, his hands gluey. "You came back!" he beams, wrapping his arms around my waist. "I missed your cookies, so I asked Ms. Whitaker to make them today!"
"Of course, I'll always come visit you." I smile, and pat his head "I promise to bring cookies one day though."
"Ok, good! Anyways!" Noah is tugging at my hand, pulling me to the art room. "We're making pirate hats today!"
But my head is stuck on one word- glowing.
And the first face I see is his.
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We've been painting for about half an hour now—Noah with more paint on his hands than on the paper, Avery and Sam are making bows.
A thought lingers.
Why isn't he here yet?
Should I call him? Would that look clingy? Desperate? Most men don't like clingy women, right?
"Cookie break, kids." The voice low, familiar comes from the doorway. I glance up, and there he is. His arms folded, leaning casually against the frame like he has all the time in the world, his eyes finding mine instantly.
My chest warms in a way I can't hide. I'm on my feet before I can think, smiling without meaning to. "Xav!" I cross the room in quick steps and wrap my arms around his neck, breathing in the faint scent of leather and soap.
"Missed me?" He asks me, his hand sliding around my waist.
I nod and pout like a kid.
A kid.
Uh-oh.
The kids!
This is exactly what the kids do when I or him show up. They run to us, yell "Xavieee and Amiee!" and throw themselves at us.
When I pull back, the rest of the room is buzzing with whispers, eyes darting between us as if they've been handed front-row seats to some secret they're definitely going to talk about later.
And Xavier? He's smirking like he knows exactly what they're thinking. "Not another word." Xavier says instead, his voice calm but carrying that quiet authority.
The whispers die instantly, everyone exchanged wide-eyed looks before gathering their paintbrushes and shuffling to the hallway for cookies.
In less than a minute, it's just us.
The room feels bigger without the noise, but the space between us? Smaller.
"Missed me, Swan?" He asks me again, pulling me closer.
I nod, biting my lip. "Mhm."
I lean into him until our foreheads touch, the faintest smile playing at my lips. "You were thinking about me." he murmurs, not a question.
My eyes flick up to meet his, and I almost laugh. "And if I was?"
His grip on my waist tightens, "Then I'd say you should've called me instead of waiting."
"Wouldn't that be... clingy?" I tease softly.
"I like my woman clingy." His hand comes up to cradle my face, fingers warm and steady against my skin, thumb brushing just beneath my cheekbone. My breath hitches, my body leaning into his touch without permission.
"Xavier-"
The rest of my words vanish against his mouth.
The first press is slow, deliberate, like he's savoring the exact moment his lips meet mine. My fingers fist into the collar of his shirt, holding him close. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and something inside me unravels.
My lips part on a soft, startled sound, and he takes it with a low groan that curls heat in my stomach. His hand at my waist tightens, pulling me in until our bodies fit perfectly together.
Then my knees betray me. Its subtle give but he notices instantly and his arm sweeps under my thighs and I'm lifted, cradled against his chest as if it's the most natural thing in the world. The sudden motion makes me gasp against his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to kiss me deeper.
My arms loop around his neck, holding on as his hand splayed on my back keeps me anchored. I feel the steady thud of his heartbeat under my palm.
When he finally pulls back, my breathing is uneven, my head spinning. His forehead rests against mine, his voice low, rough, certain. "Next time, call me."
A dazed smile tugs at my lips. "Bossy."
His smirk is all heat and possession. "Only with you, Swan."
I'm still in his arms, my legs hooked around his waist, my arms looped around his neck. He's holding me like it's nothing, but his gaze drifts over my shoulder.
I turn my head just enough to follow it—there, on the floor, a small pink ribbon.
When I look back at him, his eyes are already on me, a slow smirk curving his mouth. "So-"
"No." I shake my head quickly, narrowing my eyes.
"Swan," he drawls, the smirk deepening, "I'll flex for you." His hand at my back shifts, pulling me just a little higher against him, his breath brushing my ear. "You'd like it more if you admitted you already stare."
"I do not!" I groan, pressing my forehead to his shoulder to hide the way my lips twitch.
I definitely do.
I lift my head up and he raises one brow, "Want me to prove it?"
"You're terrible." I mutter, even as my fingers tighten around his neck.
"Terrible for everyone else," he says, voice low, "perfect for you."
The heat between us shifts, teasing turning into something heavier. His gaze drops to my mouth, and my heart does a ridiculous flip. He sets me on the edge of the art table and then bends to pick up the pink ribbon from the floor.
I take it from his hand before he can say anything, fingers brushing his. "Hold still," I murmur, looping it around his bare bicep. The satin looks absurdly delicate against the hard curve of his delicious bicep. "I thought you hated it when people touched you unnecessarily."
His mouth quirks, eyes locked on mine. "I do."
His smirk deepens as he watches me, and then, without breaking eye contact, he curls his arm. The muscle surges under my fingertips, hard and unforgiving, veins pushing against skin that gleams with sweat. The delicate satin ribbon strains, stretching tight across the swell of his bicep.
A sharp snap! breaks the air.
The ribbon broke.
"OMGGG!" My voice is embarrassingly loud. "Ahhh" I squeal
How did I pull a Greek god?
Before I can think, his hands are braced on either side of me, caging me in against the art table. His shadow swallows me whole, his eyes burning down into mine. "Mind repeating what you just said, Swan?"
"Huh?" I try to sound innocent, but my pulse is already a riot.
"Something about people touching me unnecessarily?" His voice is low, dangerous in that teasing way that makes my stomach flip.
I hum like I'm thinking about it, then lean in until my lips barely ghost over his. "Un." I press a soft kiss to his mouth. "Ness." Another kiss, this one lingering just a second longer. "Car." My teeth catch his bottom lip, tugging it gently. "Ry."
His inhale is sharp, his gaze locked entirely on my mouth now. His hands tighten on the table's edge like he's holding himself back.
I press a finger to his lips before he can kiss me again. "Xav, are you seriously going to do this in the same room where you were drawing and playing with your friends?" I tease, already picturing him as an eight-year-old, tongue poking out in concentration as he colors.
But the light in his eyes flickers—and then it's just... gone.
He stills, his body going rigid before he steps back, putting space between us.
The change is so sudden it punches the air right out of me. "Xavier? What happened-?"
His gaze shifts away, to the corner of the room, to anywhere but me. "I didn't grow up here, Amara." His voice is quieter now, heavier. "This wasn't my childhood."
I blink, thrown off. "But Ms. Whitaker-"
"She's my mom," he says quickly, almost like he needs me to know that part. "But my father.." He swallows, jaw tightening. "He left when I was seventeen. She didn't start the orphanage until after that. Ten years ago."
I watch the way his shoulders tense, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. There's something he's not saying but whatever it is, it's stitched into him deep.
I let the teasing slip from my tone, my voice gentler now. "Then... tell me?"
He shakes his head, like he's trying to brush it off, but I can see the way his throat works, the way his eyes keep moving around.
"Xavier," I say softly, reaching out to his arm, tugging him just a little closer. "I'm not going to push but uhm.. I want to know."
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see the boy he must have been—guarded, stubborn, and still so hurt.
"When Dad left," he starts slowly, voice low, steady, "Mom... she was wrecked. Not just because of him, but because everything we had was tied to him. Money, stability, our house."
"We moved into this building she inherited from my grandmother. It was falling apart. But she.." His voice catches, the first crack breaking through. "She saw something here I didn't, she said if she couldn't fix our family, maybe she could build one for kids who didn't have one at all."
My chest tightens.
He glances around the art room, his gaze tracing over the shelves of paint and paper, the crooked stacks of coloring books, the tiny handprints on the wall.
"She started with three kids. All of them scared.
All of them like... me." His throat works as he swallows.
"I didn't live here. But I was here almost every day.
Fixing things, helping with homework, bringing them goodies.
Somewhere along the line... they became my people. "
I slide my hands up to cup his jaw, forcing his eyes back to mine. "That's why you protect this place like it's yours."
He nods, and for a second he holds my gaze, then it shatters. He drops his stare to the floor, "But i stopped visiting, probably two years ago. Life got shitty- matches, fights and trouble I couldn't drag in here. I still came, though but not every day, maybe once in two weeks..."
Finally, he looks up. "Until.."
Until me.
"you gave me a reason to again. I saw you here once, didn't think much of it.
But then I realized it was you. The girl I bumped into, the one at the café, the one who's been showing up everywhere I go.
" His eyes soften, almost disbelieving. "And now here.
" His hand lifts, pressing flat against his chest.
I stare at him, at the boy who grew up bruised and broken and still found a way to care for others when he had no one taking care of him.
"Xavier," My voice cracks and I have to swallow. "You don't even see it, do you?"
He frowns, confused. "See what?"
I take a shaky breath, "You think you stopped belonging here, that you let this place down, but... you didn't. You built something with her, with them. And you—" I press my palm lightly against his chest, right where his heart beats, steady and wild all at once. "You built something in me too."
"You think you're hard to love," I whisper, my hand sliding from his chest to jaw, "But, Xavier you're the easiest person I've ever loved."
I step into him and wrap my arms around his waist. For a second, he's stiff but then his arms come around me, crushing me to him. I squeeze tighter, silently telling him I'm not going anywhere.
"I get it now," I say softly. "Why this place matters."
After a long silence, his voice breaks low against my hair. "But now you're the only place I feel safe."
I tilt my head back to look at him, and meet his stormy gray eyes, he cups my face, "You matter more, Amara." thumbs brushing over my cheeks like he's memorizing me. "and please don't ever let go of me."
Please.
Xavier Hayes never ever says please. Unless its something precious to him..
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Xavier's thumb rubs lazy circles over the back of my hand under the table, and I'm acutely aware of every slow stroke. I keep my gaze forward, pretending like my heart isn't pounding in my ears.
No one here knows we're together, and the secret makes it all the more impossible to hide my smile.
Ms. Whitaker puts the vegetable soup into bowls, the steam curling in the air. "I've added peas this time, darling." she says warmly.
"Hm, thank you." I reply with a polite smile, fighting the urge to glance at the man sitting beside me.
"Oh my gosh, yes! Now this will taste soooo good." Chloe says, clapping her hands like she's just been told dessert is coming too.
We all start eating, and after the first few spoonfuls, the reactions are unanimous.
"This actually tastes better with peas!" Sam declares.
"I knew Amie had good taste" Avery chimes in.
"I told you!" Chloe says proudly, pointing her spoon at me.
I just smile, cheeks warming.
That's when Noah tilts his head at Xavier, a frown tugging at his little mouth. "Xavi, why aren't you saying anything? We're all telling Amie she's right. Usually, you'd be arguing by now."
Right. The last time we had this soup, I said it would taste better with peas. Xavier had insisted it wouldn't. And now... he's silent.
"Is something going on?" Noah asks, suspicion dripping from his tiny voice.
Seriously, why are seven-year-olds this perceptive?
Xavier sets his spoon down with exaggerated care. "Maybe I've matured" he says evenly, like the idea itself is perfectly reasonable.
Chloe laughs. "Yeah, right! You're just scared to admit Amie was right."
"I'm not scared of anything." he says, shooting her a flat look—except his thumb is still tracing lazy circles over my hand under the table.
Sam leans forward, eyes wide. "Then why aren't you arguing?"
"Because I..." He pauses, eyes flicking to me for a second, "don't feel like it tonight."
Avery narrows his eyes like he's watching a spy movie unfold. "You never don't feel like it. Even when you're wrong."
Xavier smirks faintly. "You think I'm wrong?"
"Yes!" all kids chorus at once.
That makes me laugh so hard I can't stop the sound from bubbling out and without thinking, I bring my hand up to cover my mouth—
Our laced hands.
Shit.
The movement freezes midair, my fingers still tangled with his, his big hand dwarfing mine. It's only there for a heartbeat, but it's enough.
Pairs of small, sharp eyes lock onto us like bloodhounds spotting fresh tracks. Chloe's spoon clatters into her bowl. "Ohhh my gosh."
Noah's mouth drops open in scandalized delight. "You are holding her hand!"
Avery points between us like she's just uncovered the final clue in a mystery novel. "This explains everything."
Sam leans back in his chair, crossing his arms with mock seriousness. "I knew it!"
Xavier doesn't say anything. He just lifts our joined hands to him, presses a slow kiss to my knuckles. "Eat your food." he says to the kids.
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After dinner, the kids scamper off to their rooms—supposedly to sleep, though judging by the muffled giggles, I'm not buying it.
Xavier and I are just slipping on our jackets by the door when a voice drifts from behind us.
"I knew it the day my son started visiting his mom more often," Ms. Whitaker says lightly. "Right around the time a certain French ballerina began showing up here every day."
I freeze, my hand still in my sleeve. Slowly, I turn. She's standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms folded, an amused smile tugging at her lips.
Xavier exhales through his nose, looking anything but surprised. "You're not subtle, Mom."
"I didn't raise you to be subtle," she counters. Her gaze shifts to me, softer now. "I just wanted to make sure you knew I noticed before the kids pieced it together completely."
Heat rushes to my cheeks. "I... we weren't trying to hide it from you," I murmur.
"Oh, I know, darling," she says with a little chuckle. "You were trying to hide it from them."
Xavier shakes his head, sliding his hand into mine openly this time. "Not sure that's working anymore."
Ms. Whitaker steps closer, the light from the kitchen catching the silver strands in her hair.
"Amara," she says, her voice warm, "I've watched my son fight a lot of battles in life.
In the ring, sure... but also in here." She taps her chest gently.
"He's always been strong, but strong doesn't always mean happy. "
Xavier's jaw works, like he wants to cut her off but knows better.
She smiles, her eyes crinkling. "And then you walked in—this graceful, stubborn ballerina who somehow made him softer without taking away the fight in him. You didn't just waltz into his life, dear... you danced straight into his heart."
My cheeks are burning now, but she's not done.
"I approve," she says simply, almost matter-of-fact, like she's handing down some final verdict. "Not just because you're perfect for him, though you are—but because I've never heard my son sound like that before. Like he's found something worth protecting that isn't just himself."
"I've always had a soft spot for ballerinas" She cups my cheek, "especially you, Amara, darling."
Xavier lets out a breath and mutters, "Mom." he says in a soft tone and his hand squeezes mine tighter.
Ms. Whitaker chuckles and waves us off toward the door. "Go on, you two. Before the kids 'accidentally' come back out for water and catch you kissing in my hallway."