Page 119 of One Last Encore

"Ingrid," he groaned, voice breaking as he drove into her one final time, spilling inside the condom, his entire body locking up above hers.

They clung to each other, trembling, gasping for breath, their hearts pounding in the same wild, frantic rhythm. For a long moment, neither of them moved, lost in the aftermath, in the warmth of each other.

He didn’t pull away immediately. He cradled her against him, his lips brushing softly over her temple. One hand smoothed over her hair, the other tracing lazy, featherlight patterns along her spine.

"You’re it for me," he whispered, soft, almost inaudible.

The sincerity in his voice sent a slow, aching warmth blooming in her chest, stealing the breath from her lungs. His gaze met hers, lit by the faint silver glow of snow reflecting through the window. And she felt it too. Every word. Completely.

She leaned in and kissed him, her fingers gliding over the lines of his body, his skin still warm and damp beneath her touch. As she curled into him, her heartbeat still stammering in her chest, she knew that nothing could compare to this. Nothing could compare to him.

CHAPTER 32

INGRID. MID DECEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO

She woke to a warm weight draped over her, and this time, she knew exactly what it was. The thought tugged a sleepy smile to her lips. Her fingers traced lightly across his chest, and the heat of his skin sent a slow, delicious ripple through her.

His heartbeat pulsed against her palm like a quiet rhythm meant only for her. For a moment, she lingered in the haze of waking, savoring the quiet. When she finally opened her eyes, he was already watching her.

Her pulse stumbled, her heart tripping over itself as she met his eyes. Since the day they met, she’d had a nagging feeling that loving him would mean losing her mind. And in that moment, she felt vindicated. How could looking at someone make everything else in the world stop?

"Morning," Beck murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

"Morning," she replied, her voice soft, dazed.

Her eyes stayed on him, unable to look away. His bare chest was covered in black and red tattoos, a chaotic mix of words, nature, and symbols of heaven and hell that made no clear sense,yet somehow felt like him. Light and dark. Safe and dangerous. He was both.

Her eyes wandered over the tattoos as if they had a mind of their own, exploring the layers of meaning etched into his skin. It felt like she was peering into his soul. Each line and curve told a story she was desperate to understand.

She noticed a faint scar, long and jagged, hidden beneath the ink of a praying angel on his forearm. Her fingers hesitated before tracing it gently, feeling the raised line.

"That one’s from Rodney," he said quietly. "Shoved me into a glass coffee table during one of his tantrums."

His hand found hers, guiding her fingers behind his right ear to another small scar. The ridge was uneven, the skin rough beneath her fingertips.

"My mom threw a beer bottle at me," he explained. “She was drunk. Stuff like that just kinda... happened.”

He moved her hand next to his knuckles, where a thin, jagged scar cut across the top of his pointer finger. Her thumb brushed over it as he continued.

"From the wall I punched when I got the call that she was in jail. That she’d killed someone in a drunk-driving accident. I don’t even remember hitting it–I just… lost it."

His hand shifted hers again, this time pressing it to his chest, just above his heart. Beneath her palm, his heartbeat thrummed.

“And this,” he said quietly, “this is bruised, beat up, scarred in ways no one really notices.” He looked down, jaw tight. “It comes from carrying around disappointment like it’s just part of who I am. From trying like hell and still never being enough. From anger that doesn’t explode, just turns in on itself and eats at you."

A shiver ran through her, not just from everything he’d told her, but from the way he let her see him, really see him, one broken piece at a time.

His fingers brushed over the scars on her hips, soft and slow, like he was trying to understand her pain the only way he knew how.

"Our scars," he murmured, "they’re storms that didn’t last. Proof that we survived."

His words didn’t just settle. They sank, curling around the most fragile corners of her soul. Her breath caught, the ache swelling in her chest. She thought of the pale marks etched along her hips, quiet testaments to a darkness she rarely dared name.

They weren’t just scars. They were echoes. Of nights she didn’t think she’d see the end of. Of pain turned silent and sharp. Of survival.

He let her in without flinching, past the walls, past the wreckage, to the most wounded parts of him.

A tremble moved through her, stirred by the rawness of being seen like this. To be known this way. To be held in the light and not flinch. To carry storms, and still be standing.

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