Page 110 of One Last Encore

"Then don’t say anything," Beck said gently. He didn’t move any closer, didn’t push. "I’m not asking for a second chance. Not tonight. I’m just... I need you to know it wasn’t nothing. What we had. It mattered. It still does."

She blinked hard, fighting the sting behind her eyes.

"It wasn’t just real for you, Beck," she said, her voice low, threaded with hurt. "That’s what made it so hard."

He stepped toward her slowly, like approaching something fragile that might disappear if he moved too fast.

Then, gently, like he didn’t want to scare the moment off, he asked, "When you say you don’t know if you feel the same... is that forever? Or just not yet?"

There was no push in his voice, no demand. Just a quiet thread of hope.

She looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers like she could shake out the ache and fear clinging to her.

Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out.

"I mean I don’t know," she whispered. "Being around you brings everything back. And it’s... a lot. Too much, sometimes. It scares me."

"I get that," he said softly. "But I’m here. And I’m staying, unless you tell me not to."

She didn’t have the answers, not yet. She didn’t know if she could risk everything again. Or if she could survive losing him a second time.

He didn’t push. He didn’t argue. He just nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets as they turned and walked in silence. The hum of distant traffic filled the space between them, stretching wider, heavier, until it felt like something tangible.

When they reached their apartment building, she lingered in the hallway, her hand hovering over the door handle, hesitating. It felt like she was holding her breath. Like the conversation wasn’t over, only paused. Like the door between them was still cracked open, just enough to let hope slip through.

She glanced at him. His smile was soft.

"Goodnight," she murmured.

"Goodnight," he echoed.

She stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her. The latch clicked into place.

The quiet after felt heavier than it should have. And what lingered was something fragile, something unfinished. Something that refused to disappear.

CHAPTER 30

BECK. MID DECEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO

Beck watched with a deepening frown as the dancer on stage struggled to keep up with what could only be described as an overenthusiastic oboe player. Their timing was so off it felt like watching a fight rather than a performance.

The oboe let out a particularly tragic squawk, and Beck visibly winced. Somewhere in the back row, someone audibly whispered, "Dear God."

He sighed in relief, reminding himself that he and Ingrid were up next and at least they had put in the work.

Beck couldn’t remember ever preparing so thoroughly for anything in his life. But then again, his motivation had been clear: every rehearsal meant more time with Ingrid. So he’d happily found any excuse to tweak their routine, fix their timing, or just accidentally need another run-through.

He was definitely over-prepared, but honestly? Worth it. Every second spent with her was worth it.

Finally, the oboe let out its last, mercifully flat note that sounded like a balloon slowly losing air. The sound trailed offawkwardly, leaving the room in a heavy silence. The student lowered the instrument, face flushed, eyes down.

"Thank you," the instructor said, breaking the quiet. There was a short pause before the class offered a few light claps, more out of sympathy than anything else.

"The last performance is Ingrid and Beck," the instructor announced.

Beck straightened, rolling his shoulders. Thank God. Time to show these people how it was actually done.

He gave Ingrid a quick nod before kneeling to set up his drum kit. Across from him, Ingrid stretched with effortless grace, flexing her feet and rolling her shoulders. Without thinking, Beck reached out and wrapped his fingers around her ankle, a grounding touch, as much for himself as for her.

---