Page 78 of One Last Encore

Beck just grinned, pure evil. "Too much?"

"I have daddy issues, and even I think that’s psychological jump scare," she said, wrinkling her nose as a furious blush spread over her face. "Title revoked. Stripped. Shredded. Set on fire. Good riddance."

"But think of the merch," he said, mock-wounded. "Matching jackets. Embroidered onesies. A line of branded drumsticks."

Ingrid smacked his chest, laughing. "If you ever bring a ‘Drum Daddy’ onesie near our hypothetical future child, I will actually divorce you before we’re even married."

Beck chuckled, the sound fading into a softer pause as he looked at her.

"Do you think you’d ever want kids?" he asked.

"I never really thought about it," she said slowly. "When I retire from ballet, though... I would definitely consider it. But that would be... I’d be in my late thirties by then."

Beck nodded, pulling her in a little closer, his hands resting on her hips. He hadn’t expected to be having this conversation now, with the future so far off.

"I get that," he said quietly, his thumb brushing the soft fabric of her shirt. "To be fair, I'm not sure myself." He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous laugh escaping him. "I guess I have some... trauma from my own childhood. I’m afraid of repeating the same mistakes my mom made."

She reached out, fingers curling around his arm. "I think you’d be a really good dad," she said, quiet but certain.

Beck’s throat tightened. A good dad? He wanted to believe her, to see himself the way she did, but deep down, he wasn’t sure he could. He didn’t come from a healthy, normal family. He didn’t have a blueprint for that kind of love.

"You really think so?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Part of him wasn’t sure he deserved to hear it.

She nodded. "Yeah. You’re patient, you’ve got a big heart, and you listen–reallylisten."

He let out a breath, almost a laugh, but it came out bitter. "Yeah, well… what if I screw it all up anyway? What if I turn out just like her?"

Ingrid’s hand tightened around his arm. "You’re not her."

He looked away, jaw tight. "She loves us, I think. In her own way. But love didn’t stop the yelling, the walking on eggshells, the... damage."

"I know," she said softly. "But you see it. You’re not pretending it didn’t happen. That’s what makes you different."

"I don’t want my kid to flinch at the sound of my footsteps. Or wonder what mood I’m in before they decide if it’s safe to talk."

Ingrid stepped closer, her hand coming up to his face, thumb brushing just beneath his eye. "Then you won’t be that kind of father. Safe isn’t about getting everything right. It’s about showing up. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re scared."

Beck blinked, and he saw it in her eyes. That she believed it. Believed in him.

"I don’t know if I can be that guy," he said quietly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to even hope.

"You already are," she murmured. No hesitation. No doubt.

He didn’t answer. Just looked at her like maybe, for the first time, he was letting himself consider it might be true.

Then she rose onto her toes and kissed him, just enough to make his breath catch, just enough to make her point. God, she was perfect.

She turned, heading for the couch with a playful sway. "Now come on. My nightly program isn’t gonna watch itself."

Beck dropped onto the couch next to her. "Program?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "What are you, a grandma?"

Ingrid didn’t even look up. "Careful. That’s how people get hexed."

He chuckled. "Okay, but if you start knitting and yelling at the TV, I’m calling the nearest retirement home."

"I’ll have you know I’m a youthful seventy-eight," she replied, flipping through channels.

"Seventy-eight and thriving," Beck said, slinging an arm around her. "What’s your secret? Kale? Dancing under a blood moon?"

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