43. Unknown
The smell of sugar and cinnamon lingers on my hands. Amara insisted we stop at the bakery before coming here, like we couldn't possibly walk into my mother's orphanage without carrying something sweet. That's who she is—soft where I'm rough, thoughtful where I forget.
I have my match tomorrow, but obviously I don't give a damn when she's here.
She's the only win I ever want.
She's standing in the middle of the playroom, laughing at something Mom just said. She's holding the box of cookies like it's a gift worth more than gold, offering it to Mom with that smile that makes my chest ache.
I was busy admiring her, memorizing her like a man starved— when small fingers tugged at my finger.
Lily and Noah. Mischief painted in their eyes.
"Xav," Noah says, grinning, "you like Amie, right?"
I laugh under my breath. Like? That word doesn't even scratch the surface.
"Mhm," I say, crouching to their height, lowering my voice like we're sharing a secret. "I love her so much."
Their faces light up with curiosity, eager, hungry for more. "How much?" Lily presses, tilting her head.
How much?How do I even begin to explain?
I glance over at Amara again—her laughter, her hands moving as she talks, the way her presence softens the room like music.
"As much as the ocean loves the shore," I murmur, and the kids lean closer. "As much as the stars love the night sky. I love her like the ring loves the roar of the crowd but stronger."
I love her in ways that make the trophies I've won look like scraps of tin.
Their mouths fall open, wide-eyed. Lily gasps dramatically, and Noah giggles.
"You sound like a prince." Lily whispers.
I grin, ruffling her hair. "Then she's the only princess I ever want."
"I knew it!" Sam pipes up from behind a stack of blocks, eyes sparkling. "We knew it the day we saw you two in each other's arms when you got locked upstairs!"
I chuckle, shaking my head. "You caught that, huh?"
Sam nods solemnly, as if he's ten going to turn thirty. "We all did."
Me too, kid. Me too.
That was the day even I realized it — the moment she stumbled into my arms while dancing in that dusty old storage room when the door clicked shut behind us.
Two hours trapped in silence, nothing but the smell of her hair, the rise and fall of her breathing, her fingers brushing mine.
I'd gone in a fighter, a man who only knew the ring.
I walked out knowing I'd already given my heart away.
The kids run off to Amara probably to repeat my words.
But the funny thing is she already knows how much I love her. That I'd kill for her and die for her.
The kids scatter around her like she's gravity itself, words tumbling out of their mouths faster than their feet. I don't need to hear what they're saying to know cause I see it in Amara's face- the pause, the way her hand stills mid-gesture, the way her eyes find mine across the room.
There it is.
That look.
She thanks them softly, presses a kiss to Lily's curls, nudges Noah towards the cookie box. Then she excuses herself from Mom with a quiet smile and walks over to me, every step unhurried. Like she knows I'll wait forever.
And I will.
"Did you really say that?" she asks when she's close enough that only I can hear.
I raise a brow. "Say what?"
Her fingers hook into the hem of my jacket, familiar, grounding. "About the ocean and the stars."
I exhale a laugh, low and helpless. "You spying on my conversations now, ballerina?"
She smiles, her eyes are shiny. Damn kids. Damn me.
"I didn't need to spy," she murmurs. "They announced it like it was the greatest love story ever told."
I look down at her, really look—at the woman who tiptoed into my life and rearranged it without ever asking permission. "Wasn't lying," I say quietly. "Didn't even exaggerate."
She presses her forehead to my chest, right over my heart, like she knows exactly where to stand to undo me.
"You're fighting tomorrow," she says.
"Yeah."
"You must win tomorrow, Xavier," she says, soft but unyielding, like a prayer wrapped in a command.
I smile, slow and sure, the kind that only exists when she says my name like that. "I will win, Swan." My thumb brushes her jaw, gentle despite the calluses. "You just need to be there with me."
Her eyes lift to mine, wide and warm.
"Kiss my knuckles before the match, yeah?" I add, quieter now. Not a demand. A need.
She doesn't hesitate.
"I'll be there," she says. "Front row. I'll kiss them like they're already victorious."
A breath leaves me I didn't know I was holding. "Then it's settled."
She presses her lips to my hand now, as if practicing, and the touch hits harder than any punch ever could. For a second, the roar of the crowd is already in my ears, the lights blinding—but through it all, I know exactly where I'll look.
At her.
At the woman who believes in me like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Ok, lovebirds," Mom says, "you need to go and get paints from upstairs."
The smirk she sends my way should be illegal.
Amara narrows her eyes at me, instantly suspicious. "Your mother is dangerous." she mutters, but she's already walking up the stairs.
I follow her.
The last time we did this, the door had clicked shut behind us. The lights had flickered. She'd frozen, breath shallow, panic blooming in her eyes and like an idiot I'd asked her to dance
And somehow, it had worked.
She'd trusted me enough to let me lead her out of fear.
Upstairs, the hallway is quiet. Sunlight spills through the tall window, dust motes floating like they're waiting for music to start.
She reaches for the paint box.
Before she can touch it, I catch her hand.
"Amara," I say softly, stepping closer, lowering my voice like it's just for us. "Dance with me?"
She looks up, lips curving, eyes sparkling with something that feels like home. "Remember something?" she teases.
I smile, helpless. "Everything."
She doesn't pull away. Instead, she places her free hand on my shoulder, familiar, steady. "What if the door locks again?"
"Then I'll hold you," I say without hesitation. "And we'll dance until it forgets to be afraid of us."
Her laugh is quiet, breathy. "You're terrible."
"Perfect for you."
There's no music, but she sways anyway, trusting me to find the rhythm. I guide her slowly, like she's made of glass and fire all at once. Her head rests against my chest, right where my heart beats loudest.
"Xavier?" she whispers.
"Yeah, Swan?"
"If you win tomorrow.." She pauses, then corrects herself. "When you win tomorrow... come back to me. Exactly like this."
I tighten my hold just a little. "I don't know how to come back any other way."
Somewhere downstairs, kids laugh. Life continues.
No matter how many fights I win, this will always be the bravest thing I've ever done.
She laughs softly, emotional but playful. "Okay, Ring Lord," she says, swaying us slightly "important question."
"Hmm?"
She looks up at me, serious in the way she only ever is when she's about to say something ridiculous. "If.. hypothetically-you ever couldn't fight anymore... like if your hands had to rest forever."
My smile falters just a touch at the memory of it.
She pokes my chest. "Would you still let me kiss your knuckles? Even if there was no match. No ring. No crowd."
Something tight loosens in my chest.
"Every day," I say without thinking. "Morning, night, whenever you ask."
She exhales, relieved, then grins. "Because I think your hands deserve love even when they're not hurting."
I laugh quietly. "Anything else, Swan?"
She hesitates, then whispers, like it's a secret meant only for the future. "And if one day I stop dancing, just for a while, will you still ask me to dance?"
I pull her closer, resting my chin on her head. "I'll ask you in kitchens. In hallways. In hospital rooms if I have to." I kiss her temple. "I'll ask you even when the music's gone."
Her arms tighten around me.
"Promise?" she murmurs.
"I swear it on every fight I'll ever win."