I let out a long sigh once Bryan finally leaves my room, the tension he left behind still clinging to the air like a bad smell. My shoulders are tense, my heart is thumping too hard, and I can practically feel my blood pressure skyrocketing. But nope—no more thinking about Bryan and his stupid smirks. I have more important things to focus on, like not spontaneously combusting from stress.

I march over to my closet, digging around until I find one of my ballet practice outfits: a fitted lavender leotard and a pale chiffon skirt that makes me feel like a ballerina fairy. Well, a magical ballerina fairy with a mild case of existential dread. I pull it on and twist my long black hair into a neat bun, securing it with enough bobby pins to set off a metal detector.

I catch my reflection in the mirror, lit up by my string lights. The leotard looks great, the skirt is perfect for dancing, and... my face still has that "just argued with Bryan Munzo" glow, which is not the aesthetic I'm going for. I sigh, pressing my palms against my cheeks to will the redness away. "You've got this, Amber," I tell myself, though my voice wobbles a bit. "Sugar Plum Fairy, here we come. Or, you know, hopefully."

I grab my dance bag, making sure my ballet slippers are safely tucked inside. But for now, I slide into my fluffy white Crocs—an absolute fashion crime when paired with my elegant ballet outfit, but hey, they're comfy, and no way am I ruining my precious slippers on the pavement outside. The Crocs have little charms on them, including one shaped like a tiny ballet slipper, which feels like the perfect combination of irony and practicality.

When I step into the common area, Izzy looks up from her spot on the couch,, looking way too relaxed for my frazzled state.

She raises an eyebrow when she sees me. "Whoa," she says, eyes widening. "Look at you, all dressed up like a ballet goddess... with Crocs. Is that a new trend or something?"

I groan, throwing my dance bag down dramatically. "Listen, these Crocs are the only thing keeping me from having a mental breakdown," I declare. "And I am not about to let my ballet slippers touch the dirty ground. Sacrifices must be made."

Izzy snickers, her mouth curving into a grin. "Fair enough. But how did it go with Bryan the Menace? Did he drive you to the brink of insanity, or just halfway there?"

I collapse onto the armrest of the couch.. "He is the worst," I whine. "He barely said anything, but when he did, it was just to point out how much I'm struggling. And the way he looks at me, like he's trying to decide if I'm a puzzle worth solving or just a joke—it's maddening!"

Izzy makes a face, her sympathy barely masking her amusement. "Yikes," she says. "Sounds like he's a walking, talking headache. But hey, at least you get to dance your stress away now. Just pretend you're stomping on his ego every time you land a jump."

I laugh, despite myself, and finally push myself off the armrest. "Good idea. Maybe I'll dedicate a whole pirouette to him. The 'I Hate Bryan Munzo' special."

Izzy chuckles, giving me a thumbs-up. "You'll do great. Just remember, Sugar Plum Fairy is yours to lose. You've got the magic."

I roll my eyes but smile. "Thanks, Izzy. I'll try not to trip over my Crocs on the way there."

She snorts, and her laughter follows me out the door. The autumn air hits me, crisp and cool, making me shiver. I adjust the straps of my dance bag and make my way to the studio, my fluffy Crocs squeaking slightly with each step. I probably look ridiculous, but hey, at least my feet are comfy.

—---

The dance studio is my sanctuary—or at least, it's supposed to be. The warm light from the overhead fixtures bathes the room in a soft, golden glow, and the polished wood floors gleam so perfectly that I could probably use them as a mirror for existential crises. The air is thick with the familiar scent of polished wood and rosin, a comforting combination that usually melts my stress away. But not today. Nope, because apparently, the universe hates me.

I'm standing in the middle of the studio, dressed in my lavender leotard skirt that floats gently around my legs, brushing against my toned thighs and calves that have earned their strength from years of dancing. The pink pointe shoes on my feet are tightly laced, the ribbons criss crossing up my ankles and providing the kind of support only dancers understand. Off to the side sit my fluffy white Crocs, a sharp contrast to the otherwise elegant image I'm supposed to be projecting.

I take a deep breath, pressing play on my phone, and let the soft strains of classical music fill the room. As I begin to move, everything else starts to fade. My arms sweep gracefully, my feet glide over the floor, and for a few precious hours, I'm not Amber Lee, Spanish-class disaster and accidental Bryan Munzo magnet—I'm just a dancer, free and light. The world is perfect.

Until I glance at the door.

Standing just outside, peering through the small glass window, are Bryan Munzo and his best friend, Kyle. My heart drops straight into my stomach, and my peaceful ballet moment shatters like a bad pirouette. Bryan's smirk is already firmly in place. His dark hair, thick and just slightly tousled, falls over his forehead in a way that looks annoyingly perfect, and his deep brown eyes—so dark they almost look black—are locked onto me, glinting with amusement. He's leaning against the doorframe, his athletic build relaxed but undeniably powerful, dressed in a black hoodie that stretches slightly over his broad shoulders and a pair of dark jeans that fit a little too well. His tanned skin hints at his Dominican heritage, a warmth to his complexion that always stands out against the dark clothes he favors.

Kyle, meanwhile, stands beside him, wearing a backward baseball cap and a gray t-shirt that shows off his lean frame. His lighter complexion and easygoing grin make him look like the classic friendly athlete, and he's trying—and failing—not to laugh. My face goes from "post-dance glow" to "tomato on fire" in approximately two seconds.

Perfect. Just perfect. We only saw each other a few hours ago, and here he is, haunting my happy place. Of course.

I take a deep breath, trying to hold onto some semblance of calm as I march over to the door, yanking it open with more force than necessary. "What are you two doing here?" I ask, directing the question at Kyle with as much politeness as I can muster. I can't bring myself to be annoyed at him; he's always been the harmless, friendly one.

Kyle holds up his hands in mock surrender, his grin wide and genuine. "Hey, Amber," he says, his voice light and playful. "We're not here to mess with your dance practice, I promise. We just needed to ask Mrs. Lawson something about the sports-and-arts collaboration event next week. Didn't mean to disturb your... ballet masterpiece."

His good-natured comment makes me smile—just a little—but then Bryan steps into the studio, and the smile drops right off my face. He's still smirking, and up close, I can see the sharp angles of his jawline and the way his brows arch slightly when he's amused. His presence seems to fill the room, his broad frame making the space feel smaller. His hoodie does nothing to hide the definition of his chest and arms, and the way he holds himself—so confident, so annoyingly self-assured—makes my pulse race for all the wrong reasons.

"Relax, Lee," he says, his voice full of sarcasm. "Didn't mean to interrupt your little dance routine."

I grind my teeth, my patience evaporating in an instant. "It's ballet," I snap, my arms crossing over my chest. "And I was doing just fine until you showed up."

Kyle, sensing the rising tension, gives me an apologetic look. "I'll, uh, go find Mrs. Lawson," he says, backing away toward the hallway. "Be right back." He shoots me a sympathetic grin before disappearing, leaving me alone with Bryan.

I hate the way the room feels suddenly smaller, the way Bryan's presence seems to press against every corner of the studio. He strolls closer, each step slow and deliberate, until he's standing just a little too close. My heart starts pounding, and it's definitely not just from the dancing. I try not to notice how his smirk makes his full lips curve in a way that's both infuriating and—no, not attractive. Definitely not.

He cocks his head slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. "You always this uptight, Lee?" he asks, his voice low and taunting. "Or is it just when I'm around?" He leans in a bit, and suddenly the space between us feels charged, his nearness making the air heavy. His dark eyes flicker with something that makes my stomach do an involuntary flip, and I hate how he knows exactly how to rattle me.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to stay calm. "Don't flatter yourself," I shoot back, even though my voice sounds more breathless than I'd like. "You're not important enough to stress me out."

His smirk widens, and I notice how his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, a detail I've never paid attention to before—one I'd rather not think about now. "Sure," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, and his gaze flicks down to my lips for a split second. "Keep telling yourself that."

My face burns, and I can feel my hands trembling, but I refuse to back down. I square my shoulders, forcing myself to hold his gaze. "Is there a reason you're still here?" I manage to ask, hoping he can't hear how fast my heart is pounding.

Bryan's eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn't break eye contact. For a moment, something unreadable flickers across his face, but then he pulls back, the smirk firmly in place. "Just enjoying the show," he says, stepping back. "But don't worry. I've seen enough."

Before I can come up with a comeback, Kyle returns, holding a piece of paper and looking far too cheerful. "Got what we needed!" he announces, clearly oblivious to the tension between Bryan and me.

Bryan straightens up, his smirk still annoyingly present, but there's a glint in his eyes that makes my stomach twist. "See you around, Ballerina," he says, and the way he says it makes me want to throw something at him—or run away. I can't decide which.

I watch them leave, the door swinging shut behind them, and let out a shaky breath. My hands are trembling, my face is on fire, and my heart is pounding like I've just run a marathon. "Unbelievable," I whisper to myself. But the worst part? It's not just anger making my heart race. And that realization is enough to make me want to scream.

After Bryan and Kyle left the studio, I stood frozen for what felt like ages, staring at the closed door. My reflection in the mirror caught my attention, and I winced. My face was still bright red, a mix of embarrassment, frustration, and something else I refused to name.

Snap out of it, Amber, I told myself, shaking my head. I had no time to let Bryan Munzo, of all people, derail me any further. I was here to dance, not to get into verbal sparring matches with a guy who seemed to take pleasure in winding me up.

I took a few deep breaths, trying to steady my heart rate. The studio was quiet again, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning. My pointe shoes squeaked softly as I moved back to the center of the room, determined to focus on my practice. The Nutcracker auditions were next week, and I needed to be ready.

By the time I finished, my legs ached, and a thin sheen of sweat covered my skin, but I felt lighter, freer. My bun had completely unraveled, and loose strands of hair stuck to my neck, but I didn't care. I grabbed my water bottle and took a long sip, savoring the quiet victory of a good practice.