Page 146 of One Last Encore

"Ingrid?" His voice carried through the apartment as he moved closer. She watched his feet pause, skirting the edges of the scattered letters.

"Beck," she whispered, barely audible, her voice raw from the tears still clinging to her lashes. He looked down, finally seeing the letters, the pieces of him, spilled open on the floor.

For a moment, she braced herself for anger, for panic, for him to shut down. But then, without a word, he crouched beside her, the paper crinkling under his knees. "I am yours," he murmured, his voice low. "I have been since the first moment I saw you."

Her heart clenched, breaking apart and piecing itself back together all at once.

"Five years ago," he said, his voice quieter now, like the words weighed too much. "The night of your Swan Lake debut… my mom died."

The sentence hit her like a slap, sudden and disorienting. Her breath snagged in her throat. That night? The night she’d poured every ounce of herself into her performance, thinking he simply didn’t care enough to show up? While she’d been dancing under bright stage lights, he’d been drowning in the darkest moment of his life.

"Beck…" Her voice cracked, but he didn’t stop.

"I’m not saying it excuses what came after," he continued, jaw tightening. "I should never have picked up that bottle. But Rodney...he didn’t exactly break the news with compassion. He blamed me. Told me if I’d just checked on her, she might still be alive."

She flinched at the pain in his voice, raw and unguarded. "That’s not fair–"

"I know," he said quickly, a harsh breath escaping him. "I know now that it wasn’t my fault. But back then? It felt like the world collapsed all at once. And I did what I was taught to do. I numbed it."

He reached out, his thumb gently brushing along her cheekbone.

"That’s what my family does. We don’t talk. We don’t face things. We just bury it. I grew up thinking that was normal. Rodney still does."

"I never wanted to lose you," he said. "But I knew I couldn’t drag you down with me. I had to fix myself. And losing you… it was the wake-up call I couldn’t ignore."

His voice wavered. "There were nights I almost called. Nights I stared at my phone, aching just to hear your voice. But instead, I wrote these." He nodded toward the letters scattered around them. "It was the only way I knew how to keep you close without making you carry my mess. I loved you too much to be that selfish."

She realized, in that moment, that they had never said it outright–love. She had always felt it. She was never sure he did. But it was there. Threaded through every letter, tucked into every pause, every hesitation. It had always been there, waiting.

Her vision blurred, fresh tears threatening to fall. "You always said I deserved better. But I didn’t want better, Beck," she whispered. "I wanted you. Just you."

A soft, almost rueful smile ghosted across his lips. He shook his head slightly.

"That’s exactly why I didn’t give you the choice," he said quietly, his gaze locked on hers. "I would’ve done anything to be with you. God, I wanted to. But wanting you and being worthy of you… those were two different things. I was in pieces back then. And you… you deserved more than someone who was still trying to put himself back together.”

"It felt like you gave up on us," she whispered, the words trembling. "That morning… when I left for Paris. I kept hoping you’d stop me. That you’d say something. Anything."

He reached for her wrist, his fingers curling gently around it. "Never," he said, voice hoarse but full of certainty. "I never gave up on you. On us. I just… I knew I couldn’t ask you to wait while I became the man I should’ve already been. But even then, I was still yours."

His hand moved to his necklace, pulling out the thin gold chain from beneath his shirt. A small compass pendant swung between them, catching the dim light.

"You might not have been mine all these years," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "But I’ve been yours the whole damn time."

Before she could think, before she could second-guess, her shaking hands reached for him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, until there was no space left at all.

Her lips met his like a whisper, testing the shape of him. But the moment she tasted him, felt the heat of him, she couldn’t hold back. The kiss deepened, greedy and desperate, years of restraint snapping like a brittle thread. Her hands found his face, his shoulders, needing to feel the solid truth of him beneath her palms.

It was want and need and sorrow and hope, all bleeding together in the way their mouths moved, in the way their bodiescame together like they’d been lost at sea, drifting, waiting for this collision.

She gasped against him, her pulse pounding as his hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer until every taut inch of him was pressed against her.

And still, it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. She needed more. Needed him like her next breath. Like something vital in her blood, something that could rewrite her from the inside out.

She melted into him as he guided her onto the floor. He hovered over her, his warmth sinking into her skin, his breath brushing her lips. Beneath her, the scattered letters crinkled, forgotten.

"God, I’ve missed you," he murmured, voice rough, unraveling.

His mouth found the curve of her neck, his lips dragging over her skin, leaving heat in their wake. She gasped, tilting her head to give him more. More of her, more of everything. His teeth scraped gently over the sensitive spot beneath her ear, and a shudder wracked through her body.

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