Page 79 of One Last Encore

She tilted her head thoughtfully. "A little SPF, a little genetic luck, and a handful of souls sacrificed during Mercury retrograde."

The Law & Order intro filled the room, smooth jazz playing over the opening scene of a crime-ridden New York City.

"Why do you watch this stuff?" Beck asked, staring at the screen as detectives hovered over a chalk outline. "It’s so depressing. Why are people obsessed with crime? It’s terrifying."

"Psychological intrigue. The need for justice," Ingrid replied with a shrug. "Also, it keeps me sharp in case I ever need to frame someone."

Beck blinked. "…Good to know."

She grinned. "But yeah, if you’re scared, imagine how women feel. We live with this fear daily."

Beck nodded, taking that in.

"Plus," Ingrid added, eyes glued to the screen, "it’s just so unpredictable. Every twist keeps you guessing, and the characters are never as simple as they seem."

Beck squinted at the screen. "It’s always the boyfriend."

"Not always,” Ingrid smirked. "Sometimes it’s the babysitter. Or the piano teacher. Or the guy who ‘just happened’ to be jogging by."

Forty-five minutes later, Beck was fully invested.

"Wait–the foreign exchange student next door? No way,” he sat up, eyes wide in disbelief as the final twist unraveled. "Steffan seemed so trustworthy!"

Ingrid chuckled. "Told you."

Beck shook his head, gripping the couch like his whole worldview had just shattered. "I will never trust another Steffan again."

She smirked, pushing herself up from the couch and stretching before heading into the kitchen. A moment later, she returned with a bowl of popcorn and plopped down beside him, nestling into the cushions.

As she settled in, she let out a small groan and rubbed the arch of her foot through her fuzzy sock.

Beck immediately noticed, his gaze flicking to her. "What’s wrong?"

"Foot cramp," she muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

Without hesitation, Beck reached out. "Let me see." His voice was soft, coaxing.

She hesitated but slowly lifted her foot, allowing him to cradle it in his lap. He wrapped his hand around her ankle as his thumbs pressed into the arch, kneading the tension.

"How’s that?" he asked, his voice low and gentle.

"Really good," she sighed, melting deeper into the couch. His fingers hooked over the edge of her sock, starting to pull it off.

"Wait," she said quickly, a hint of panic in her voice. "Don’t. My feet are a disaster."

Beck paused, his gaze meeting hers. "Please. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’d never judge you."

She hesitated, then gave a small nod. Beck gently pulled the sock off, exposing her bruised, blistered toes. Years of training, grueling rehearsals, pushing her body way past its limits–it was all there. Etched into her feet. The calluses, the scars, the bruises that still hadn’t faded.

She shifted under his gaze, pressing her lips together. "They’re horrifying, I know. You’re gonna have nightmares."

"Never," he murmured. And before she could protest, he lifted her foot and pressed a slow kiss to the top.

Beck ran his fingers gently along the curve of her arch, his touch soft. "This just shows how hard you work," he said quietly. "It’s dedication. Talent. Strength."

He watched as her throat bobbed, as if swallowing down a rush of emotion.

Before she could respond, he reached for her other foot, slipping the sock off just as carefully. His fingers traced over the strained muscles, pressing gently against the tension there. He took his time, working slow circles into her skin

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