The past two days in Costa Rica had been a whirlwind, each moment pulling me further into a rhythm I wasn't entirely sure I could keep up with. Between the museums, the beach outings, and spontaneous pizza runs with Ethan and his friend Kevin, I barely had time to catch my breath. Ethan had been a constant source of humor and encouragement, his easygoing nature making my halting Spanish feel less intimidating. Kevin, quieter but just as kind, had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of local history, offering little anecdotes during our outings that made everything feel more meaningful.

Bryan, on the other hand, was... complicated. Ever since the fight, there'd been a layer of frost between us that neither of us seemed willing to thaw. He wasn't openly rude anymore, but the tension hung heavy, his every smirk or pointed comment reminding me of the cracks in whatever fragile truce we'd established.

Still, Costa Rica was beautiful, and I was determined not to let the complexities of Bryan ruin my trip. I'd thrown myself into every planned activity, ignoring the nagging ache in my booted foot and the frustration of being sidelined from anything physical. The wildlife sanctuary had been a highlight—seeing vibrant toucans and lazy sloths up close was enough to make me forget, for a moment, the dance I couldn't perform and the looming shadow of my Nutcracker rehearsals.

But today was different. Today wasn't about sightseeing or lounging by the pool. Today was the day I'd been dreading since we received our trip itinerary.

The dance school interview.

I stood in front of the hotel lobby, clutching my bag like it was a shield. The warm morning sun cast long shadows across the cobblestone driveway, the air thick with the scent of tropical flowers and the faint hum of cicadas. Bryan sauntered up beside me, his hands shoved into the pockets of his dark jeans, his expression unreadable.

"You look nervous," he said, breaking the silence.

"I'm not," I lied, straightening my posture.

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that infuriating smirk. "Sure you're not."

I ignored him, focusing instead on the approaching cab. The small white car pulled up to the curb, and Bryan opened the door with an exaggerated flourish, motioning for me to get in.

"After you" he said, his tone dripping with mock politeness.

I climbed in without a word, sliding across the worn leather seat. Bryan followed, closing the door behind him as the driver set off toward the city. The cab smelled faintly of citrus and gasoline, the windows rolled down to let in the warm breeze.

The streets of Costa Rica blurred past, a vibrant mix of colorful buildings, bustling markets, and lush greenery. I tried to focus on the scenery, but the weight of the assignment—and Bryan's presence—pressed heavily on my chest.

"You're muttering again," Bryan said, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine.

I glanced at him, startled. "What?"

He smirked, leaning back against the seat. "You always mutter when you're stressed. It's kind of cute."

My cheeks flushed, and I turned back to the window. "I'm just going over the questions."

"Relax," he said, his tone lighter now. "You'll be fine. Besides, I'll be there to bail you out when your Spanish falls apart."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I muttered, my grip tightening on my bag.

"Anytime," he replied, the smirk never leaving his face.

The rest of the ride passed in a tense silence, the only sound the occasional honk of a car horn and the driver's low hum as he navigated the winding streets. When we finally pulled up in front of the dance school, my stomach flipped.

The building was modest but charming, with large windows framed by colorful murals of dancers in motion. The entrance was adorned with a small sign that read Escuela de Danza Sol in elegant script, and the faint strains of classical music drifted out each time the door opened.

Bryan stepped out of the cab first, holding the door open for me without a word. I adjusted the strap of my bag, taking a deep breath before following him inside.

The receptionist, a woman in her early thirties with a warm smile and impeccable posture, greeted us in rapid Spanish. I managed to catch most of what she said, but Bryan, of course, replied effortlessly, his deep voice flowing with a confidence I envied.

As she led us down a hallway lined with framed photos of past performances, I tried to shake off my nerves. But the sound of pointe shoes on polished wood and the faint scent of rosin in the air transported me back to my own studio, and the ache of not being able to dance surged anew.

"You good?" Bryan asked, his voice low as we walked.

"Yeah," I said quickly, though the tightness in my chest told a different story.

He glanced at me but didn't press further, his expression unreadable.

The receptionist stopped outside a set of double doors, pushing them open to reveal a spacious studio bathed in natural light. The floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflected a group of dancers warming up, their movements fluid and precise. My breath caught at the sight—it was beautiful, but also a painful reminder of what I couldn't do.

"Señorita Valeria estará aquí pronto," the receptionist said before excusing herself.

(Translation: "Miss Valeria will be here soon.")

I nodded, my hands gripping the strap of my bag tightly as I tried to focus on the task ahead. Bryan leaned casually against the mirrored wall, his relaxed posture a stark contrast to my rigid one.

"Don't overthink it," he said, his voice soft but firm. "Just stick to the questions, and you'll be fine."

I didn't respond, my nerves too overwhelming to muster a comeback. The soft tap of pointe shoes and the distant strains of piano music filled the silence, the energy in the room buzzing with anticipation.

When Valeria finally entered, her presence commanded the room. Tall and elegant, with an air of quiet authority, she greeted us with a warm smile that made my heart pound even harder. Her Spanish flowed effortlessly, and I stumbled through my introduction, praying I didn't butcher the language too badly.

"Hola, soy Amber, y este es Bryan," I said, my voice shaky but determined.

(Translation: "Hello, I'm Amber, and this is Bryan.")

Valeria's smile widened, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Es un placer conocerlos," she said, gesturing for us to take a seat.

(Translation: "It's a pleasure to meet you both.")

As we settled in, Bryan leaned over and whispered, "Not bad, Lee."

I shot him a glare, but the hint of pride in his voice softened the edge of my annoyance.

Valeria's warm demeanor helped ease some of my nerves, but not enough to stop my heart from racing. Sitting across from her, I opened my notebook and glanced at the first question, carefully rehearsed in my head. The dancers in the background moved gracefully, their steps so seamless that it made me feel small by comparison.

"Entonces," I began hesitantly, gripping my pen as if it would anchor me. "¿Cuál... es... uh... el aspecto más importante... de... enseñar... a bailar?"

(Translation: "What... is... uh... the most important aspect... of... teaching... dance?")

I winced as I stumbled over my words, the awkward cadence making me cringe. Valeria tilted her head thoughtfully, her lips curving into a patient smile as she answered in a steady stream of fluent Spanish. Her explanation was beautiful, but I caught maybe half of it.

I nodded along, pretending to jot notes, when Bryan leaned closer, his voice low but clear. "She's saying it's about discipline and nurturing passion in equal measure."

I glared at him for a second but mouthed a quick "thank you." He smirked and leaned back, clearly enjoying my struggle.

When it was my turn to ask the next question, Bryan didn't wait for me to fumble. He smoothly interjected with, "Amber quiere saber cómo motivas a los estudiantes en los días difíciles."

(Translation: "Amber wants to know how you motivate students on difficult days.")

Valeria lit up at his question, launching into another eloquent response, while I sat there trying not to feel like an idiot. Bryan glanced at me from the corner of his eye, clearly pleased with himself.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" I whispered under my breath.

"Maybe a little," he whispered back, his lips twitching into a grin. "But I'm also saving your ass."

Just as we were wrapping up the interview, Valeria clapped her hands together, her smile growing wider. "Bueno, creo que ya tenemos suficiente teoría. Ahora, ¿por qué no hacemos algo práctico? Me encantaría ver cómo bailan ustedes dos."

(Translation: "Well, I think we have enough theory. Now, why don't we do something practical? I'd love to see how you two dance.")

My stomach dropped. "Oh, no," I said quickly, shaking my head. "I can't. I mean, I'm injured." I gestured toward my boot for emphasis.

Valeria waved her hand dismissively. "Solo movimientos simples, nada que te lastime. Pueden bailar juntos. Será divertido."

(Translation: "Just simple movements, nothing that will hurt you. You can dance together. It'll be fun.")

Bryan, of course, jumped in before I could protest further. "Por supuesto, podemos hacerlo," he said, his grin practically glowing with mischief.

(Translation: "Of course, we can do it.")

"Bryan," I hissed under my breath, glaring at him. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you," he replied, standing and offering his hand. "Come on, Amber. It'll be fine."

I reluctantly took his hand, muttering under my breath, "Yeah."

Valeria guided us through a simple routine, her instructions flowing in Spanish that Bryan translated on the fly. The movements were gentle—thankfully nothing that strained my injured foot—but dancing in the boot felt clunky and awkward. I stumbled more than once, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Bryan, to my surprise, was patient. When I faltered, he steadied me, his hands firm but careful on my waist or arm. His usual teasing smirk was replaced by something softer, something almost encouraging.

"You're overthinking again," he murmured as we practiced a basic turn. "Just follow my lead."

"I am following," I snapped, though my tone lacked any real bite.

"Relax," he said, his voice low and steady. His hand rested lightly on my lower back, guiding me through the movement. "You've got this."

The closeness between us was unnerving. His touch was warm, grounding, and I hated how much it calmed me. The tension that had simmered between us all week seemed to shift, becoming something else entirely—something I didn't know how to handle.

At one point, Valeria clapped her hands in approval. "¡Perfecto! Tienen química. Muy bien."

(Translation: "Perfect! You have chemistry. Very good.")

Bryan glanced at me, his smirk returning. "Hear that? We've got chemistry."

"Shut up," I muttered, though my face felt like it was on fire.

Bryan's POV

By the time we stepped outside, the sun had vanished behind dark clouds, and a heavy rainstorm had taken its place.

The rain started as a soft patter and then turned into an all-out downpour within seconds, soaking us to the bone before we even realized what was happening. Amber muttered something under her breath—a string of words I couldn't quite catch, but I was certain they weren't complimentary.

"Great," she grumbled, clutching her bag against her chest as her soaked hair clung to her face.

I scanned the street quickly, spotting a small hut a few yards away. "Come on," I said, grabbing her arm and steering her toward it. She didn't protest, but the sharp intake of breath when my hand met her skin made me wonder if she wanted to.

The hut wasn't much—a tiny wooden structure with a thatched roof and a few flimsy posts—but it was enough to get us out of the rain. Barely. I stepped under it first, holding the edge of the roof to keep it from dripping directly onto her as she shuffled in.

Amber stood awkwardly, clutching her bag like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her white blouse was soaked, clinging to her skin in ways that made me glance away quickly, my jaw tightening. My gaze caught on her lips instead—soft, slightly parted as she caught her breath from the mad dash.

"Great weather," I said dryly, shaking the water from my hair.

She shot me a glare, and I had to bite back a grin. "Fantastic," she muttered, shivering as she pulled her bag tighter against her chest.

I noticed the slight tremble in her arms before she did, and that irritating part of me—the one that cared more than I'd admit—kicked in. Sighing, I shrugged off my jacket and stepped closer, draping it over her shoulders.

"Here," I said, my voice low. "You're freezing."

She blinked up at me, those big eyes of hers wide with surprise. For a second, she didn't say anything, just clutched the jacket tighter around herself. "Thanks," she murmured, and I hated how much that quiet, almost shy tone did to me.

"Don't mention it," I said, stepping back before I did something stupid, like tell her how good she looked, even with her hair sticking to her face and her blouse clinging in all the wrong—or maybe right—places.

The rain hammered down around us, drowning out everything but the occasional rumble of thunder. The hut was small, too small, and the air between us felt heavier than it should've. Amber shifted awkwardly, trying to wring water from the ends of her hair, but all it did was send more drops rolling down her neck.

"So," I said, leaning against one of the posts and crossing my arms, "not exactly what you pictured for today, huh?"

She didn't look at me, brushing a strand of wet hair from her face. "Not really."

Her voice was quieter than usual, and I caught the way she avoided looking at me directly. It wasn't shyness exactly—it was something else. Like she was afraid of what she'd see if she let her eyes linger too long.

"You okay?" I asked, keeping my tone lighter this time.

"Yeah," she said quickly, but the shiver that ran through her said otherwise.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "You're a terrible liar, I told you"

She shot me a glare, but it didn't have the usual fire behind it. "I'm fine," she insisted, but her voice wavered slightly.

"Right," I said, stepping closer without thinking. "Because shivering like a leaf is totally fine."

She stiffened as I reached out, my hand brushing against hers as I adjusted the jacket to cover her better. The warmth of her skin against mine sent a jolt through me, one I quickly ignored. Or tried to, anyway.

"Why do you do that?" I asked before I could stop myself.

"Do what?" she snapped, her eyes finally meeting mine.

"Act like you don't need anyone," I said, my voice lower now. "Like it's a crime to let someone help you."

Her cheeks flushed, whether from the cold or my words, I couldn't tell. "Because I don't," she said, but there was no conviction behind it.

I raised an eyebrow, smirking despite myself. "Sure you don't."

The tension between us was palpable now, the air thick with more than just humidity. Amber looked away, her fingers clutching the edge of the jacket like it was a lifeline. I should've stopped there, should've leaned back and given her space.

But I didn't.

"You're really bad at hiding how you feel," I said, stepping closer again. This time, she didn't back away, just looked up at me with defiance.

"And you're really bad at minding your own business," she shot back, but her voice was softer, her breathing uneven.

For a second, neither of us moved. The rain continued to fall, the storm outside nothing compared to whatever was happening between us. Her eyes flicked to my lips—just for a split second—and I had to clench my fists to keep from closing the distance.

"You're stupid," she muttered, breaking the moment as she turned her head, the tension snapping like a rubber band.

"Takes one to know one," I replied, my voice rougher than I intended.

She didn't respond, just tightened the jacket around herself and stared out at the rain. I leaned back against the post, forcing myself to look away, to breathe. This was Amber—stubborn, fiery, and completely off-limits.

And yet, standing here with her, the rain soaking the ground around us, all I could think about was how impossible it was to ignore her.

The second we got back to the room, Amber moved around like she couldn't wait to get away from me. Fine. I wasn't in the mood to deal with her either—at least, that's what I told myself. She grabbed her bag and disappeared into the bathroom without a word, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I sat down on the bed, scrolling through my phone, but it was useless. The rain earlier, the way she'd looked at me when I draped my jacket over her shoulders—it kept replaying in my head like a damn highlight reel. I shook it off, tossing my phone onto the nightstand as the bathroom door creaked open.

Amber stepped out in a towel, her hair clipped up messily but somehow looking perfect anyway. My eyes followed her before I could stop them, catching the way her damp skin glistened under the soft light. She avoided my gaze completely, heading straight for her suitcase like I wasn't even there.

"You're taking your time," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. My tone was sharper than I intended, but I didn't bother softening it.

She didn't look at me. "I have plans."

I sat up straighter, watching her rummage through her bag. "Plans?"

"Yes," she said, pulling out a satin dress that shimmered faintly in the dim light. It was a soft champagne color, the kind of thing that would cling to her curves in all the right ways, and just short enough to make my chest tighten. She laid it carefully on the bed, pretending not to notice my reaction.

"Let me guess." I leaned back against the headboard, crossing my arms. "Ethan?"

She froze for half a second before resuming her search, pulling out a pair of delicate heels that only made the outfit worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it. "Why does it matter?"

I scoffed, unable to hide the bitterness in my voice. "It doesn't. Just curious."

She grabbed her clothes and stalked back into the bathroom without another word, the door clicking shut harder than necessary.

I stared at the bathroom door, my jaw tight. Why the hell was she being so evasive? It wasn't like I cared what she did—or who she did it with. Except, apparently, I did, because the thought of her sitting across from Ethan, laughing at his stupid jokes and letting him make her blush, made my stomach churn.

This wasn't supposed to bother me. Amber wasn't supposed to bother me. She was stubborn, fiery, and frustrating as hell. That's all she was. So why couldn't I get the image of her out of my head? Her soft laugh, the way her cheeks flushed when she got worked up, the way she looked at me earlier in the rain like she didn't hate me as much as she claimed.

The bathroom door opened, and whatever train of thought I was on derailed completely.

Amber stepped out, her dress clung to her in all the right places, the soft material catching the light as she moved. Her damp hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and she'd added a touch of makeup—just enough to make her eyes look even darker, more intense.

I forced myself to sit up straighter, masking whatever the hell I was feeling with a smirk. "Big night?" I asked, keeping my tone casual, even as my stomach twisted.

She glanced at me briefly before grabbing her small crossbody bag. "It's just dinner."

"With Ethan?" I pressed, my voice harder now.

She sighed, clearly irritated. "Yes, Bryan, with Ethan. And his friends. It's not a big deal."

"Right," I said, standing now, unable to stop myself. "Not a big deal. Just you and the guy who's been glued to your side all week."

Her eyes narrowed, her cheeks flushing—not in that soft, shy way Ethan seemed to get, but in the fiery, pissed-off way that made my pulse race for entirely different reasons. "You're unbelievable," she snapped, brushing past me.

I stepped in front of her, blocking the door. "I'm unbelievable? You're the one sneaking around."

"Sneaking around?" She practically laughed, though there was no humor in it. "I told you I had plans. You're the one acting like it's some big conspiracy."

"I'm just saying," I said, leaning down slightly to meet her glare, "it's funny how you're all buddy-buddy with him now."

Her eyes flared, and for a second, I thought she might slap me. "Why do you care?" she asked, her voice sharp but wavering just enough to make me pause.

"I don't," I snapped, the lie tasting bitter even as I said it. "Why would I?"

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, neither of us moved. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her dark eyes flashing with something I couldn't name—hurt, maybe, or frustration.

"Exactly," she said finally, her voice quieter now. She brushed past me, her shoulder grazing mine, and opened the door. "See you later, Bryan."

I stood there, staring at the closed door, the knot in my chest tightening with every passing second. Whatever this was—this push and pull between us—it was spiraling out of control. And for the first time in a long time, I had no idea what the hell I was doing.