Page 53 of One Last Encore

"He didn’t drag me," she said, her voice quieter now. "I did that all on my own."

Beck gave a short, genuine laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"Fair enough," he said. "Still... Finn knew I was seeing someone. When he saw you, he put two and two together and decided to stir the pot. Thought he was being funny. Idiot."

"I’ll show you my room," Beck added, gesturing for her to follow. She followed him, stepping carefully over a tangle of cables in the hallway.

His room was small, its walls bare except for a few band posters and a shelf stuffed with mismatched books. A mattress on a simple frame dominated the space, flanked by a desk drowning in notebooks and sheet music.

"No funny business, I swear. Cross my heart." Beck grinned, tapping his chest.

"Uh-huh." Ingrid shot him a look, crossing her arms. "Your definition of ‘funny business’ and mine might be wildly different."

Beck flopped onto the bed with a groan, sprawling out, one arm slung lazily over his face like he couldn’t be bothered with the world anymore. Ingrid hovered for a moment, torn. Then, with a soft sigh, she knelt beside him and tugged off his boots.

As she straightened, her gaze flickered to where his white T-shirt had ridden up, exposing a sliver of toned skin above the waistband of his jeans. Not that she was looking. Much. She cleared her throat, needing something, anything, to fill the silence.

"What’s your costume, anyway?" she asked, giving him a once-over. He had on dark jeans, white T-shirt, and a worn-in leather jacket.

"James Dean," Beck said, peeking at her from beneath his arm with a lazy smirk.

Ingrid snorted before she could stop herself. "Of course. You dressed as yourself. That’s barely a costume."

"Hey, I put in effort," he shot back, mock-offended. "I could’ve just said 'hot guy in a leather jacket' and called it a day."

"You do that every day," she deadpanned.

"Exactly." Beck grinned. "Why mess with perfection?"

Against her better judgment, Ingrid felt a smile tug at her lips.

"I don't think you should take the subway this late," Beck said. "I can walk you home if you want to leave."

God, he was so sweet. The way he said it made her chest tighten. Tonight had to be a one-off. Just a bad mix of whiskey and impulse. Maybe he drank a little too much sometimes. He was a musician, it wouldn’t be a shock. And tonight of those nights that made you reckless, made you say things you didn’t mean or go a little too far.

She had to believe that. Because if this gentle, easy version of him could also carry that kind of anger... she didn’t know what to do with that.

Her eyes flicked to the clock. Past 1 a.m. The thought of navigating the subway sounded exhausting, and she wasn't about to make him travel two hours to her apartment and back.

"It’s fine," Ingrid said, waving a hand. "I guess I’ll just stay for tonight. Platonically."

"Okay," he said, his grin turning a little dopey, a little coaxing. "We can cuddle. Totally platonically. Fully clothed. I'll even keep my hands where you can see them."

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop another smile from creeping in.

She glanced down at her vinyl dress, which had officially entered personal prison levels of discomfort. She shifted, tugging at the hem. Beck caught the movement instantly, his brow furrowing.

"You look uncomfortable," he said, sitting up straighter. "You can change into some of my clothes if you want."

Ingrid hesitated. The thought of slipping into one of Beck’s oversized shirts? Tempting. Dangerous. A very slippery slope.

"Yeah... okay," she said, the words sticking slightly in her throat.

"Where are your shirts?" Ingrid finally asked, scanning his room.

Beck sat up, shrugged off his leather jacket and tossed it onto the desk.

"Right here," he said casually. Then, without a hint of hesitation, he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head.

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