Chapter 11Ingrid. Early October, Five years ago
INGRID. EARLY OCTOBER, FIVE YEARS AGO
"Would you choose love or ballet?" Beck asked as they stepped out of the theater, the cool autumn air curling around her. The dim red glow of the marquee flickered against his face, casting him in shifting light.
"Ballet, duh," Ingrid replied without hesitation, flashing a grin. "Easy choice."
Beck let out a short laugh. "Wow. Not even a pause for dramatic effect?"
"Us creative types are married to our art," she said, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, only for the wind to immediately slap it right back. "Ballet is forever. Love is... seasonal."
Beck snorted. "So what, love is like pumpkin spice?"
"Exactly," she said with a smirk. "Highly overrated, too."
"Harsh." He shook his head, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Well, I’d choose love."
Ingrid squinted at him. "You would?"
"Yeah. Seems like a solid investment."
"Have you ever been in love?" she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She wasn't sure she even wanted to know the answer.
Beck chuckled, the sound blending into the distant honk of a cab speeding past. "No," he admitted. "But I can imagine it. And judging by the number of songs and movies about it, it’s gotta be pretty great."
Ingrid snorted. "Flawless logic, really."
Before she could tease him further, a sharp gust of wind sliced through the street, sneaking under her thin jacket. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.
Beck noticed instantly. "You’re freezing."
Before she could say a word, he reached for her hand. Then he tucked both their hands into the pocket of his jacket like he’d done it a hundred times before.
His hand was warm and rough and the cool touch of his rings against her skin sent a quiet shiver up her spine. She glanced down, heart skipping, at the way their hands fit together, hidden away in that small, shared space.
A tingling sensation coursed through her, warmth creeping up her neck. She stole a glance at him, catching the faint pink flush on his cheeks from the cold. She quickly looked away, swallowing hard.
In the past few weeks, an unspoken rhythm had formed between them. After every practice, they somehow ended up together. Two weeks ago, it was a jazz lounge. The week after, a slow walk home from Juilliard that somehow turned into an impromptu tour of Central Park.
Beck had grown up on the outskirts of Philadelphia and, despite living in New York for three years, had somehow managed to avoid exploring most of it.
Ingrid, being the gracious New Yorker she was, had taken it upon herself to introduce him to the city's hidden gems–dragging him to the carousel, her favorite bridge, and the winding paths that felt like secrets only she knew.
Tonight was movie night, just like Beck had suggested. A movie night he had secured through highly questionable means.
Technically, he had "won" their pool game. Though "won" was a very generous term, considering the shameless cheating and the one undeniably illegal ear nip that nearly gave her a heart attack. Still, she’d let him have it.
And, much to her dismay, some twisted part of her was glad.
Her post-practice routine was usually non-negotiable: home, shower, sleep. No exceptions. But lately, Beck had managed to wedge himself into her schedule. And she didn’t hate it.
He was funny and infuriating. Thoughtful in ways she didn’t expect. Electric, like a storm just waiting to break, impossible to ignore, impossible to look away from.
And dangerous. Because the more time she spent with him, the harder it became to pretend she didn’t want to.
As they neared the subway stairs, Beck slowed.
"Uptown or downtown?" he asked.
Ingrid met his gaze, her breath faltering slightly under its weight.
His denim-blue eyes weren’t just looking; they were tracing every feature like she was something rare, something worth studying.
A slow shiver curled through her, not from the cold, but from the realization that no one had ever looked at her like this before.
Like she was worth the time it took to remember.
"Uptown," she said softly, her voice quieter than she intended.
"Same." Beck’s grip on her hand remained steady as they descended the subway steps, the rhythmic click of her heels echoing off the tiled walls. He guided her carefully, as if instinctively attuned to her movements.
"You talk a lot of shit about love," he said as they reached the Uptown platform, turning to face her. "But one day, someone’s gonna sweep you off your feet and make you eat every word."
His tone was easy, even teasing, but there was something in his eyes, something more serious that caught her off guard.
For a split second, a strange feeling washed over her. Like he wasn’t talking in hypotheticals at all. Like maybe he meant himself . She shoved the thought away before it could settle.
"Highly unlikely," Ingrid said with a smirk, looking off down the tracks. "But cute theory."
"We’ll see," Beck said with a small shrug, just as the subway roared into the station. The gust of wind sent his hair into disarray, making him look effortlessly disheveled in a way that was downright rude. No one should look that good after being smacked in the face by public transportation wind.
"I bet you five dollars you will," he added, his tone teasing but his expression holding a flicker of challenge.
"Five dollars? High stakes," she quipped, lips curving in amusement. "You’re on."
"I'm a starving artist," he said with a dramatic sigh. "Five bucks is about all I’ve got."
His grin was self-deprecating but sincere, though Ingrid couldn’t help but notice he had a habit of spending money on her. That overpriced hot chocolate two weeks ago? More than five bucks. The movie ticket? Definitely more than five bucks.
She never really thought about money. She had savings, didn’t pay her own rent, and generally floated through life without budgeting-induced panic. But Beck? He clearly did. She could tell he was careful with money, except, apparently, when it came to her.
The subway screeched on the rails before shuddering to a stop in front of them. The doors slid open with a mechanical hiss..
"When I’m old and gray and still tragically single, how exactly am I collecting my five dollars?" Ingrid mused as she pulled him into the subway car, her hand still tucked in his jacket pocket with his. He hadn’t let go. And, if she was being honest, she wasn’t in a hurry to, either.
"You won’t have to," Beck said, his voice carrying an easy certainty that sent a shiver up her spine.
"You’re kind of stuck with me now." His shoulders lifted in a casual shrug, but his eyes never left hers..
"You barely know me," Ingrid countered with a laugh, but there was an edge of something nervous in her voice.
"I know enough," Beck replied, his lips curving into a slow, conspiratorial smile.
"Great. I’ve acquired a stalker," she muttered dryly as the subway doors slid shut, sealing them inside the dimly lit car.
"Is it stalking, or is it fate?" Beck teased, tilting his head. "I think the universe is trying to bring us together. First, the Battle of the Bands, then the same class..." He spread his free hand as if presenting undeniable evidence. "I’m just a pawn in this grand game of life."
Ingrid found herself caught in the magnetic pull of his smile. It was annoyingly charming, the kind of smile that disarmed all coherent thought before she even had the chance to fight it.
And then the subway lurched forward.
Completely unprepared, she stumbled, colliding straight into Beck’s chest, her foot landing squarely on his foot.
A surprised laugh escaped her lips as heat rushed to her cheeks.
She had lived in New York City for twenty-one years, taken the subway more times than she could count.
She never stumbled. Ever . Yet here she was, defying both muscle memory and basic physics.
"Sorry," she muttered, flustered, suddenly hyperaware of how close they were. His scent enveloped her. It was almost intoxicating, and worse, it was becoming too familiar, too inviting.
Beck’s hand found her waist, his fingers brushing lightly against her ribs as he steadied her.
Ingrid inhaled sharply and stepped back, grasping the cold metal pole with her free hand in the center of the subway car.
With a flicker of self-consciousness, she realized their subway car was empty. Just the two of them. A rare occurrence in New York City, and somehow, that only made her more overwhelmed.
"Two left feet?" Beck mused, amusement lacing his voice. The way his eyes gleamed made her stomach tighten.
"Something like that," she said, aiming for nonchalance, but the heat creeping up her neck was a dead giveaway. He knew she was a dancer. Her balance was practically hardwired into her DNA.
And yet, Beck had her tripping over herself like a rookie in her first ballet class. Not just now. It had been happening for weeks. A glance, a smirk, the way he said her name like it belonged to him. Every little thing sent her equilibrium straight to hell.
Suddenly, this didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt like a date. And that terrified her.
She’d never actually been on a real date before. A few awkward hookups, fleeting, forgettable nights filed away in the "we don’t talk about this" section of her brain. But nothing that meant anything.
Every ounce of her life had been devoted to dance: grueling hours, relentless pursuit of perfection, sacrificing normal teenage milestones for pirouettes, sore muscles, and an intimate understanding of blister care.
Dating? Romance? Please. It had always been an afterthought, a luxury she convinced herself she didn’t need like decorative pillows or eight hours of sleep.
She stole a glance at Beck, hoping for some kind of clarity. His lips still held the faintest hint of amusement, but his eyes told a different story. Something quieter. Something deeper.