She's safe here now.
In my house.
I gave her my clothes, a hoodie and shorts, cooked her dinner, set the guest room bed for her.
She's safe here now.
With me.
I was just dropping by her studio, as I knew today would be the last day of her 2 week long break, and she'd still go. Cause Ballet brings her peace, and watching her gives me peace.
I like knowing about, Amara Fontaine.
I didn't go in and didn't interrupt. I just waited outside, like an idiot with roses in my hand.
I didn't have an excuse this time. No bakery run. No "just passing by." No kids asking or missing her.
But when it comes to her, I don't need one- there is no excuse needed.
Its just her.
And those roses, they reminded me of her.
Reminded me of the shade of her lips.
It didn't remind me of them in some casual way or just noticing way.
But In the way someone remember exactly what something looks like when they've been too close.
When you've had it right in front of you. When you've thought about it since.
Ever since the photoshoot I couldn't stop thinking about her.
And then she explained how to do the kiss, I messed up and I am not even complaining.
Our lips touched even if it was for a second or two.
Amara said not to involve the cops in this as she doesn't trust them- neither do I.
They ask the wrong questions, waste time with protocol, make you fill out forms while the threat walks free. Half the time, they act like you're the problem.
But still I did
For her.
I called it in.
Like I expected, they said they'd "send someone to assess."
When the officer showed up, he was more interested in interrogating than investigating.
"Are you sure the door was locked?"
"Could it have been someone you know?"
"Any signs of forced entry?"
"So... it could've been nothing?"
Nothing?
She came home to drawers pulled open. Cabinets left half-closed. A family photo cracked across the floor.
You call that nothing?
They left after twenty minutes with a shrug and a stupid little pamphlet about home security.
Waste of time.
But there's someone who can get it done.
Most people think that boxing is easy, and its all about punching. But, no it isn't and I learnt that the hard way.
A way I didn't want to learn in.
The underground.
Deals, bets, fights, no rules.
I scroll through my contacts and find the one. I call and he picks up the call, "Didn't expect to hear from you."
"Its been 4 years."
A M A R A
I couldn't sleep. I've been lying and rolling over the bed about 20 times, stared at the ceiling, and even hugged myself to sleep, but it didn't work.
Well, the hoodie did smell like him and it feels safe.
Everything is silent. Which is strange, considering it's New York and I'm not home and someone broke into my apartment and—
Yeah. Sleeping is not happening.
I should probably inform my family but no... I don't want them to worry about me.
My thoughts won't stop.
I roll over for the twentieth time and sigh.
I push the covers back and pad out into the hallway. The hallway is dimly lit with a lamp glowing in the corner. I don't make a sound.
I expect him to be asleep.
He's not.
He's on the couch, one arm slung across the backrest, legs stretched out. A bowl of pasta rests in his lap. He's scrolling through something on his phone with a tired sort of focus.
The warm glow from the lamp spills across his face—sharp jawline, messy hair, quiet exhaustion hanging in his shoulders.
He looks up and something shifts in his eyes. That unreadable storm softens. His entire body relaxes.
"You couldn't sleep either?" he asks, voice rough with fatigue, but not cold.
I shake my head, padding forward. "Tried. Your hoodie's cozy, but not miracle-grade."
That earns me the smallest grin. Just the corner of his mouth, tugging up. "I'll write to the manufacturer"
I roll my eyes but smile anyway as I sit right beside him, our knees nearly touching.
He tilts the bowl toward me in silent offer.
I take the fork without hesitation and steal a bite. It's still warm. Perfectly cooked. Slightly cheesy. Annoyingly good.
He is so perfect, even at cooking.
I lean back into the couch slowly. Feel his warmth right beside me. The soft graze of his shoulder against mine. The steady inhale-exhale of someone who's been holding it together all day.
"Thanks for tonight," I say. "For... all of it."
He doesn't look at me. "You'd do the same for me." he says after a pause.
I glance over, brows pulling together. "Would I?"
Now he looks at me and the intensity in his eyes almost makes me stop breathing. "You already have"
He clears his throat, gently pulling his gaze away from mine. Like he said too much. Like he didn't mean to.
"Are you going for ballet tomorrow?" he asks, his voice lower now.
I blink, startled by the question. I didn't expect him to ask that.
I look down at my hands, "I... don't feel like it." The words come out smaller than I intended.
But they're honest.
For the first time in years, I don't feel like dancing.
Xavier doesn't respond right away. I glance sideways. He's watching me again. Like he is trying to understand me.
"You always go." he says finally.
I nod. "Yeah, well. I didn't always have a break-in and an emotional breakdown the night before."
"You still can." he says.
"Have a breakdown?"
"Dance." He says, his eyes filled with honesty.
I lean my head against the back of the couch, looking up at the ceiling. "What if I go and I don't feel it anymore?"
"Then I'll take you there myself. And sit outside until you do."
I turn to look at him. "That's weirdly sweet."
He shrugs. "It's not. I just hate seeing you not be you."
I look away quickly, eyes burning in a way I refuse to let turn into tears again.
"You're allowed to rest, Amara. But don't forget what makes you you."
We just sit there in silence for a while longer.
And then—without really meaning to—I speak.
"You know, when I was a kid..." My voice is quiet. Almost unsure. "Mama used to do this thing."
Xavier tilts his head a little, listening.
I glance down at my hands, tugging at the ends of the hoodie sleeves, just to have something to do.
"When I couldn't sleep... or had a bad dream, or whatever... she used to sit me down, in this big, fluffy chair which reclines, by the window and then she'd pull me into her arms."
"Its a recliner made of leather." He corrects me "Not fluffy"
I roll my eyes, but smile.
"She'd hum something soft. Not a song, really. Just a sound. Over and over. Her hand in my hair. Her heart right behind my ear."
I pause, throat tightening, but not painfully.
"I always fell asleep like that. Every single time. No matter how scared I was. No matter what I thought was chasing me."
I look up at Xavier.
"I haven't felt that kind of peace in a long time."
Xavier stands up suddenly.
I blink. "Wait, what-?"
Before I can finish, he leans down and lifts me.
"Woah—wha—Xavier!"
My arms instinctively loop around his neck. My voice goes up an octave, all surprise and absolutely zero composure.
He doesn't say anything.
Just walks across the living room with me in his arms, like this is normal.
We stop in front of a recliner by the window—brown leather, it looks comfortable.
He settles into it, pulling me with him.
I freeze at first, body tense. My cheek ends up against his chest, his hoodie bunched between us. His arms tighten slightly, like he's anchoring me there. Like he wants me there.
"This okay?" he murmurs, voice low, right by the top of my head.
I nod, almost imperceptibly. "Yeah," I whisper. "Just wasn't expecting to be in your arms, again."
He lets out a soft exhale. Not quite a laugh, but close. His chest moves gently under my cheek "You talk a lot when you're nervous" he says.
"I talk a lot always." I mumble.
I feel him relax behind me. One of his hands comes up, and gently, slowly, he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.
Then his fingers linger—trailing into my hair, slow and calm. Stroking once, twice. Just like I said Mama used to do.
Then he starts to hum. A soft vibration against my cheek.
My chest clenches.
It's not perfect. But it's exactly what I needed. Exactly what I didn't even know I was asking for.
A lump forms in my throat, but I don't cry.
Instead, I close my eyes, my fingers curling gently into the fabric of his hoodie.
"Thank you." I whisper
──────🥊👑∘◦ ✧ ◦∘🩰 🦢──────
I wake up slowly
I blink again and push myself up on one elbow, still wrapped in his soft blanket, and there's a faint chill in the air.
How did I end up in the guest room?
I glance around the room, taking it in properly now. Clean and simple, a plant by the window, the white and golden patterns on the curtains.
And then—on the edge of the bed—I spot it.
A package.
Wrapped. Folded neatly. A simple white ribbon tied across the top.
I sit up fully, the blanket slipping to my waist, and tug the box into my lap. There's a small yellow sticky note stuck to the top in slanted writing.
"Try the white one first. — X"
My stomach does that ridiculous thing again. That fluttery, twisty thing that I wish I could blame on hunger but definitely can't.
I untie the ribbon slowly.
And right on top- A white dress.
With other pairs of clean, new and fresh clothes.
White.
I bite down a smile before it can take over my whole face.
I step out of the guest room, stretching my arms above my head with a yawn. My bare feet touch the cold marble floors, and I squint at the clock on the wall.
11:57 AM.
I slept for that long?
My cheeks flush with quiet embarrassment.
I shuffle to the kitchen and then I see it.
A yellow sticky note, stuck on the fridge. Same slanted handwriting.
"Go to my house gym. I'll be back by evening — X."
Of course he has a house gym. I roll my eyes.
I open the fridge half-heartedly, find a bottle of orange juice, take a sip straight from it, then wander down the hallway. It's longer than expected, sleek and quiet. A few closed doors, expensive frames.
The gym.
I push open the door.
Expecting... I don't know. A treadmill. Weights. Punching bags.
Does he remember that fact that I don't like gyms?
What I don't expect?
The far corner.
The space cleared out. The polished wood floor. The full-length mirror.
The freestanding ballet barre.
The soft light pouring in from the skylight above. Natural light. Like a stage.
There's even a Bluetooth speaker tucked in the corner and a small shelf of rolled-up white towels.
It's not a ballet studio. Not really.
But it's close.
Close enough to make my throat tighten and my fingers itch to move. To stretch. To dance.
He did this for me?
The barre is new, the wood smooth and untouched. The mirror still smells faintly of glass cleaner. And the speaker—plugged in, turned on.
A playlist sits open on his tablet next to it. Titled: "Amara."
I walk to the barre slowly, place my hand on it and smile.
──────🥊👑∘◦ ✧ ◦∘🩰 🦢──────
The ballet studio he carved out of the corner of his gym still lingers in my mind. I danced.
Just for me.
Now I'm back in the living room, curled up on the couch, wearing the dress he gave me.
It fits like it was made for me. Not just my body—but my heart.
I keep glancing at the clock.
Hoping he'd come back soon, if only so I could say—thank you. For the barre. For the playlist. For everything.
The front door unlocks.
I sit up quickly.
He steps inside and everything in me stills. His hoodie is half-zipped, dark with sweat. His jaw is tense. His shoulders drawn tight.
And his face—
My breath catches.
Bruised.
Faint swelling on his cheekbone. A split along his lower lip. A smudge of red by his brow.
"Xavier?"
He glances at me—and the look on his face softens the second he sees me.
I scramble up, rushing to him. "What happened?" My voice rises. "Are you-gosh- are you-"
"Sparring," he says, voice flat. "It's nothing."
"Are you kidding me?" My hands hover awkwardly near him—unsure where to touch. His face? His shoulder? Anywhere he isn't hurt? "Who did this?" I ask, more breath than sound.
He exhales slowly, carefully closing the door behind him. "No one you need to worry about."
"That's not an answer, Xavier."
A smile almost twitches at his lips, but he hides it. "You worried?"
I want to yell at him. I want to ask why he didn't ice it, why he didn't text, why he's always so fine with being hurt. "No," I lie. "I'm furious."
He steps closer, "You look beautiful, Amara."
"I am yelling at you." I mutter.
Not yelling anymore.
"You can yell later." he says, voice low.
"I should probably clean that up." I say, changing the topic and pulling his wrist and dragging him to the couch. "Sit."
Surprisingly, he doesn't say anything but just sits and I sit beside him.
I get my ballet bag, and open my pouch which I've been carrying ever since he patched my knee up.
I glance up once before I unzip it. He's watching me.
I pretend I don't notice and focus on the cotton pad instead. "This might sting." I say, dampening it gently with antiseptic.
"I can handle it."
"You said that last time and still hissed."
He smirks faintly. Doesn't deny it.
I move in slowly, gently pressing the cotton against the cut near his cheekbone. His skin is warm under my fingertips, a little rough from the fight, but still familiar now. He doesn't flinch—just watches me from under heavy lashes, close enough that I can feel his breath against my cheek.
"You're being weirdly quiet." I murmur, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I don't want to break your concentration."
"You're staring."
He shrugs slightly. "You're interesting when you're focused."
I try not to react. Try not to let the compliment settle in the middle of my chest like a warm stone. But I feel my fingers falter, just for a second.
"Hold still." I whisper, brushing a soft cloth over the dried blood by his lip.
His eyes don't leave mine.
I reach for the final touch—a bandaid and stick it on his cheekbone. "You know not many people get their wounds treated like this."
"No?" He asks
"No, they don't get a pretty lady in a white dress baby wiping their cheeks." I huff
He tilts his head slightly, amused. "Yeah? What do most people get?"
"Hmm, I don't know but maybe ice pack or-"
"I think I prefer this." he cuts me off.