Page 150 of One Last Encore

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she unfolded the letter tucked behind it, her pulse pounding so loudly she could barely hear her own breath.

The date at the top caught her eye from August of this year. A week before Beck had moved into Eden’s apartment. Her vision blurred as she read the words, her entire body locking in place.

It’s time. I’m going to her, hoping with everything in me that she’ll still want me.

Everything around her seemed to blur. It wasn’t just fate. It wasn’t just coincidence. Maybe the universe had played a hand, nudging them back together. But this. This was Beck.

Patient, unwavering Beck.

The one who had never stopped loving her, even in silence. The one who had never stopped fighting for her, even when she had convinced herself he had let her go.

While she had tried to forget, he had been remembering. Planning. Hoping. Writing her into a future she hadn’t dared to imagine.

Her grip on the letter tightened, fingers trembling around the edges. Her throat ached with everything she hadn’t said, everything she was still afraid to feel.

There was no turning back now.

CHAPTER 39

BECK. MID DECEMBER, PRESENT

"It is grief that is severance, but the hope is unrelenting. I am pummeled over and over with it until I actually believe it. I just hope you still believe in it… inus."

Letter dated August 29th, 4 months ago from the present

Dawn hadn’t yet touched the skyline, but Beck had already lived a lifetime that night. Sleep was a luxury he hadn’t tasted in days. Weeks. Months, if he was honest. Because four months ago, he’d returned to New York. Not for the city. Not for the prestige of Juilliard. For her. Always for her.

He had bided his time for years, always with the plan to find his way back to her. So when one of his old professors called about an adjunct position, it felt like fate tapping him on the shoulder. Then Eden offered him her apartment, right next toIngrid’s, it didn’t just feel like fate. It felt like the universe had cracked its spine, bent time, bent logic, just to give him one final chance.

One shot at the only thing that had ever felt like peace. Ingrid.

But once he was near her again, he didn’t rush in. He haunted the periphery instead. A ghost with a heartbeat. Lingering in hallways just long enough to say hello. Quiet offerings. A favorite drink left on her doorstep. Nothing loud. Nothing reckless. Just reminders.

I’m still here. Still trying. Still loving you from a distance.

He had spent the last five years gutting himself open and stitching something human back together. Sobriety hadn’t just meant giving up the bottle. It had meant facing the demons that wore his face, shedding skin that no longer served him, and becoming a man who could look in the mirror without flinching. A man who might, one day, be worthy of her forgiveness.

The space she left behind wasn’t just empty—it was shaped like her, carved clean through the center of his chest. God, it was worse than any withdrawal. It lived in him, quiet and constant, tucked behind his ribs. She was the ache in every moment that should’ve been sweet. His greatest loss. The one he never stopped mourning.

So when he came back to New York a few months ago, it was bittersweet. This city had once been theirs. Sidewalks that carried the rhythm of their footsteps, whispered dreams passed between them on subway platforms, stolen touches in the velvet hush of late-night shows.

Back then, everything shimmered with magic. But when it all fell apart, the city broke with them. The streets turned colder. The skyline felt like a stranger. He couldn’t breathe here anymore. So after graduation, he packed his bags and left without looking back.

Okay, that was a lie. He’d had back. But just as a shadow slipping through the city, drawn back by one thing, the need to see her dance. He had sat hidden in the dark corners of Lincoln Center, unseen and forgotten by the world, watching her burn bright in Giselle, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, in The Nutcracker.

But Swan Lake? She hadn't danced that sincethem.

And now, she was returning to it. Just as he took the job at Juilliard. Into her orbit. Into the story they had tried to leave behind. And that didn’t feel like coincidence. It felt like the universe holding its breath.

He wasn’t here to erase what had happened. He was here because through every sobriety chip he earned, every mile, every year of silence, one thing had never changed. He still loved her. Always had.

And after last night—afterthatkiss. Her breath against his lips, her trembling hands fisted in his shirt. It hadn’t just shaken him. It had wrecked him. Five years of longing. All crashing into a single, breathless moment. It was a kiss, but it was also a reckoning. A fuse relit. A memory made flesh.

Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, he had convinced himself he could feel her through the walls. The apartment was silent, but his thoughts echoed with her laughter, her breath, the memory of her touch. And for the first time in years, hope didn’t feel dangerous. It felt alive. A breathing, living thing.

As the first slivers of morning light crept through the frozen skyline, he gave up on sleep and climbed out of bed. The cold floor bit at his feet as he grabbed a jacket and boots and slipped out the door. He needed air. He needed movement. He really needed her. But she needed time. He knew it was a lot. He’d had five years to sit with it, stew in it, replay every mistake on an endless loop. She’d only just found out everything. He could wait. He had waited five years, for God’s sake.

So he braved the cold to get coffee, mostly to keep his hands busy doing something other than busting down her door and groveling at her feet.

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