Chapter 22Beck. Mid November, Five years ago
BECK. MID NOVEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO
Beck had Freddie eating out of the palm of his hand, literally .
While Ingrid showered and changed, he found the stash of cat treats and poured a handful into his palm.
Freddie devoured them with the desperation of a cat who'd never been fed in her entire life, then immediately began weaving a figure-eight around his legs, purring like he was the only man who had ever truly understood her.
With a low chuckle, Beck reached for the pink bakery box labeled Vito’s on the counter, flipped it open, and fished out a rainbow cookie. He took a bite and let out an honest-to-God groan.
"Damn, that's good," he muttered around a mouthful of crumbs, already reaching for another. "Your mom’s got dangerous taste, little one."
"Bribery?" a voice drawled from behind him.
Beck, caught mid-cookie with one hand still buried in the treat bag, turned to find Ingrid leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, and an amused smirk tugging at her lips.
Crumbs rained from his mouth as he said, "It’s not what it looks like."
She hummed, clearly unconvinced. He gave her a once-over and immediately regretted it because now he couldn’t stop looking.
Fresh from the shower, she wore tiny cotton shorts that left just enough to the imagination, a loose tee that slipped off one shoulder, and pink fuzzy socks.
Her damp hair clung to her collarbones, skin dewy and makeup-free, all small curves and heat.
She was always beautiful, but like this?
Casual, no-effort Ingrid? She was a goddamn masterpiece.
"I was trying to get her to put in a good word with her mom," Beck said, wiping his mouth, "and then the cookies started calling my name."
"The cookies are from my father," Ingrid said, shrugging. "His congratulations for landing the lead. About two months too late. And he doesn’t remember that rainbow cookies are my mom’s favorite, not mine. So please, eat as many as you want."
That annoyed him. Not the cookies, her father. The way she brushed it off, like it didn’t matter. Like, being two months late and getting it wrong was just standard protocol. Beck clenched his jaw, biting back the urge to say something he probably shouldn’t.
Meanwhile, Freddie was still shamelessly rubbing against his legs like a love-struck groupie. Ingrid’s eyes narrowed, clearly unimpressed with her cat.
"And at this rate," Ingrid said dryly, "I’m gonna need you to put in a good word for me ."
Beck snorted.
"I have something serious to ask you," Ingrid said, her voice dropping into an ominous, dead-serious tone. "It’s been weighing on me. I almost didn’t date you because of it."
Beck’s heart immediately plummeted into his shoes. Shit. What did she hear?
Gossip traveled faster than disease at Juilliard. His brain flipped through a disaster reel of offenses: the time his drumstick went flying across the room and nailed his professor mid-lecture? The morning he rolled into theory class still half-drunk and breathing hangover fumes? God, please no.
Ingrid folded her arms, letting him sweat.
"Do you know your nickname is Drum Daddy among the dancers in my program?" she asked, one brow arched, a wicked little grin tugging at her lips. "Be honest. Did you start that yourself?"
Beck blinked then smiled.
"I’ve heard whispers," he said solemnly. "Tragic, really. The streets talk."
He crossed the room in two lazy strides, slipped his arms around her waist, and leaned in, voice dropping to a sinful murmur right against her ear.
"But Ingrid... the only daddy I want to be is yours."
She made a noise like she’d been physically stabbed. "Oh my God."
Beck just grinned, pure evil. "Too much?"
"I have daddy issues, and even I think that’s psychological jump scare," she said, wrinkling her nose as a furious blush spread over her face. "Title revoked. Stripped. Shredded. Set on fire. Good riddance."
"But think of the merch," he said, mock-wounded. "Matching jackets. Embroidered onesies. A line of branded drumsticks."
Ingrid smacked his chest, laughing. "If you ever bring a ‘Drum Daddy’ onesie near our hypothetical future child, I will actually divorce you before we’re even married."
Beck chuckled, the sound fading into a softer pause as he looked at her.
"Do you think you’d ever want kids?" he asked.
"I never really thought about it," she said slowly. "When I retire from ballet, though... I would definitely consider it. But that would be... I’d be in my late thirties by then."
Beck nodded, pulling her in a little closer, his hands resting on her hips. He hadn’t expected to be having this conversation now, with the future so far off.
"I get that," he said quietly, his thumb brushing the soft fabric of her shirt. "To be fair, I'm not sure myself." He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous laugh escaping him. "I guess I have some... trauma from my own childhood. I’m afraid of repeating the same mistakes my mom made."
She reached out, fingers curling around his arm. "I think you’d be a really good dad," she said, quiet but certain.
Beck’s throat tightened. A good dad? He wanted to believe her, to see himself the way she did, but deep down, he wasn’t sure he could. He didn’t come from a healthy, normal family. He didn’t have a blueprint for that kind of love.
"You really think so?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Part of him wasn’t sure he deserved to hear it.
She nodded. "Yeah. You’re patient, you’ve got a big heart, and you listen– really listen."
He let out a breath, almost a laugh, but it came out bitter. "Yeah, well… what if I screw it all up anyway? What if I turn out just like her?"
Ingrid’s hand tightened around his arm. "You’re not her."
He looked away, jaw tight. "She loves us, I think. In her own way. But love didn’t stop the yelling, the walking on eggshells, the... damage."
"I know," she said softly. "But you see it. You’re not pretending it didn’t happen. That’s what makes you different."
"I don’t want my kid to flinch at the sound of my footsteps. Or wonder what mood I’m in before they decide if it’s safe to talk."
Ingrid stepped closer, her hand coming up to his face, thumb brushing just beneath his eye. "Then you won’t be that kind of father. Safe isn’t about getting everything right. It’s about showing up. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re scared."
Beck blinked, and he saw it in her eyes. That she believed it. Believed in him.
"I don’t know if I can be that guy," he said quietly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to even hope.
"You already are," she murmured. No hesitation. No doubt.
He didn’t answer. Just looked at her like maybe, for the first time, he was letting himself consider it might be true.
Then she rose onto her toes and kissed him, just enough to make his breath catch, just enough to make her point. God, she was perfect.
She turned, heading for the couch with a playful sway. "Now come on. My nightly program isn’t gonna watch itself."
Beck dropped onto the couch next to her. "Program?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "What are you, a grandma?"
Ingrid didn’t even look up. "Careful. That’s how people get hexed."
He chuckled. "Okay, but if you start knitting and yelling at the TV, I’m calling the nearest retirement home."
"I’ll have you know I’m a youthful seventy-eight," she replied, flipping through channels.
"Seventy-eight and thriving," Beck said, slinging an arm around her. "What’s your secret? Kale? Dancing under a blood moon?"
She tilted her head thoughtfully. "A little SPF, a little genetic luck, and a handful of souls sacrificed during Mercury retrograde."
The Law & Order intro filled the room, smooth jazz playing over the opening scene of a crime-ridden New York City.
"Why do you watch this stuff?" Beck asked, staring at the screen as detectives hovered over a chalk outline. "It’s so depressing. Why are people obsessed with crime? It’s terrifying."
"Psychological intrigue. The need for justice," Ingrid replied with a shrug. "Also, it keeps me sharp in case I ever need to frame someone."
Beck blinked. "…Good to know."
She grinned. "But yeah, if you’re scared, imagine how women feel. We live with this fear daily."
Beck nodded, taking that in.
"Plus," Ingrid added, eyes glued to the screen, "it’s just so unpredictable. Every twist keeps you guessing, and the characters are never as simple as they seem."
Beck squinted at the screen. "It’s always the boyfriend."
"Not always,” Ingrid smirked. "Sometimes it’s the babysitter. Or the piano teacher. Or the guy who ‘just happened’ to be jogging by."
Forty-five minutes later, Beck was fully invested.
"Wait–the foreign exchange student next door? No way,” he sat up, eyes wide in disbelief as the final twist unraveled. "Steffan seemed so trustworthy!"
Ingrid chuckled. "Told you."
Beck shook his head, gripping the couch like his whole worldview had just shattered. "I will never trust another Steffan again."
She smirked, pushing herself up from the couch and stretching before heading into the kitchen. A moment later, she returned with a bowl of popcorn and plopped down beside him, nestling into the cushions.
As she settled in, she let out a small groan and rubbed the arch of her foot through her fuzzy sock.
Beck immediately noticed, his gaze flicking to her. "What’s wrong?"
"Foot cramp," she muttered, shifting uncomfortably.
Without hesitation, Beck reached out. "Let me see." His voice was soft, coaxing.
She hesitated but slowly lifted her foot, allowing him to cradle it in his lap. He wrapped his hand around her ankle as his thumbs pressed into the arch, kneading the tension.
"How’s that?" he asked, his voice low and gentle.
"Really good," she sighed, melting deeper into the couch. His fingers hooked over the edge of her sock, starting to pull it off.
"Wait," she said quickly, a hint of panic in her voice. "Don’t. My feet are a disaster."