Between attending my classes, teaching ballet, and practicing for The Nutcracker auditions, I barely have a moment to breathe. Each evening feels like a mix of hope and mounting anxiety, as I push through dance routines and try desperately to stay on top of assignments. By the time Tuesday afternoon rolls around, I'm practically vibrating with nerves.

When I finally get back to the dorm after my literature class, exhaustion weighs me down, but I'm determined to keep going. I change into something more comfortable—a crisp white fitted long-sleeve top and my favorite navy blue sweatpants. I pull my long black hair back with a matching white headband, letting out a sigh of relief as the soft fabric of my sweatpants takes the edge off the day's stress. Sliding into my white fluffy Crocs, I wiggle my toes, reminding myself that if I'm about to face Bryan, at least I'll do it in peak cozy fashion.

But one glance around my room makes me groan. Textbooks, clothes, and random items are scattered everywhere, like remnants of a personal hurricane. "Why is everything always a mess when it matters?" I mutter, diving into a frantic cleanup. I shove clothes into drawers, smooth out my crumpled bedspread, and straighten up my desk. The mirror reflects my slightly panicked expression, framed by the warm glow of string lights. My calendar is a chaotic mess of deadlines and dance practice reminders, but at least the room looks somewhat presentable now.

Stepping out into the living room, I spot Izzy lounging on the couch in black leggings and a giant T-shirt, her blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She takes one look at my outfit and the stress written all over my face, then raises an eyebrow.

"You look... cozy," she teases, her gaze dropping to my fluffy Crocs. "Bryan is going to love those."

I roll my eyes, clutching the spray bottle I'm using to aggressively mist Steve, our beloved houseplant. "Comfort over everything," I shoot back. "Besides, he doesn't deserve the effort of real shoes."

Izzy laughs, setting her laptop aside. "Honestly, this is going to be entertaining," she says, hopping up to join me in a last-minute cleaning spree. "I mean, Bryan Munzo, the human hurricane, in our dorm? I'm here for it. But seriously, relax. You've handled way more stressful things than this."

"Yeah," I sigh, picking up yet another crumpled notebook. "Like trying not to wipe out during pointe class. But this feels different. It's Bryan, and he has a way of... getting under my skin."

Izzy hands me a lint roller, her grin mischievous. "Well, if he pushes your buttons, Steve is always here as a witness. And if things get too bad, we can throw paint at him—art night style."

I giggle despite myself, but the nerves are still simmering under the surface. "Thanks, Izzy," I say, grateful for the humor. "I just hope I don't end up committing a murder over a Spanish project."

Before Izzy can respond, there's a sharp knock at the door. My heart leaps into my throat. Izzy gives me a wide-eyed look, barely suppressing her laughter.

"Go on," she says, making a shooing motion. "You've got this. And remember, I'll be here silently judging from the sidelines."

I groan but square my shoulders, taking a deep breath. I approach the door, my hand hovering over the knob for a moment. With one last mental pep talk, I open it, bracing myself for whatever chaos Bryan Munzo is about to bring.

He walks in and surveys our living area like he's ready to dish out a scathing critique. His dark eyes roam over the neutral-toned couch, the scattered textbooks, and Steve, who's thriving in the corner. Bryan's mouth curves into that insufferable smirk of his.

"Nice decor," he drawls, dripping sarcasm. "Is this minimalist chic, or did you run out of money for decorations?"

My cheeks flush as I cross my arms. "Glad you're as charming as ever," I mutter, already feeling my patience fray. "Can we just get to work, or did you come here to roast my home decor?"

He shrugs, that smirk never leaving his face. "Relax, Ballerina," he says, wandering further into the room. Then, without warning, he heads straight for my bedroom. My heart drops. Oh no. Not my room.

"Wait!" I protest, but he's already stepped inside. I watch in horror as he surveys the semi-organized chaos: my cream bedding, the notes scattered across my desk, the string lights casting a soft glow. He strolls in like he owns the place.

"Wow, this is where the magic happens?" he teases. "I thought ballerinas were supposed to be neat and graceful. Looks like a tornado had a field day."

My face burns, and I clench my fists at my sides. "Excuse me," I snap. "At least I'm not a tornado of bad attitude."

He ignores me, sauntering over to my bed and—without permission—flops onto it. He stretches out, taking up way too much space. "Your bed's comfier than I expected," he says, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Almost makes up for the chaos."

Seriously? I drag my desk chair over and drop into it with a huff. "Of all the places to sit," I mutter, glaring at him. "Really?"

Bryan raises an eyebrow, his grin infuriating. "What, did you want me to squeeze into that sad little chair and look like I'm in time-out?" He gestures mockingly at the chair I'm sitting on.

I roll my eyes, feeling my grip tighten around my pen. "I'm regretting this already," I mutter, but I'm not about to let him get under my skin. "Let's just get this over with."

We pull out our Spanish notebooks, and he effortlessly switches into Spanish. "Alright, Ballerina," he says, voice smooth and annoyingly confident. "Let's hear your best attempt at describing your future career. En español."

My stomach twists, but I push through, stumbling through a shaky explanation about being a flight attendant. Bryan watches with that mocking smirk, and when I mess up a verb conjugation, he lets out a low laugh.

"Did you just say you want to marry your future job?" he asks, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Wow. Committed, I see."

Heat rushes to my face, and I glare at him. "It's not my fault Spanish is impossible," I snap. "Some of us didn't grow up fluent, Mr. Show-off."

He leans back, folding his arms. "It's not that hard," he says, eyes dancing with humor. "You're overthinking. Relax, Ballerina."

My jaw clenches. "Easy for you to say," I shoot back. "You're not the one getting laughed at every two seconds."

His smirk turns meaner. "Aw, did I hurt your feelings?" he taunts. "Want me to get you a tissue?"

I groan, slamming my notebook shut for a moment. "How do you even have friends?" I demand, exasperated. "You're literally the worst."

Bryan's grin widens. "Winning personality," he says, leaning closer. "People can't resist."

We keep working, but the tension only thickens. Every mistake I make, he points out with that infuriating grin, but there are moments I catch him looking at me a little too long, his gaze flickering with something I can't quite read. I try to ignore it, but my pulse is racing, and I hate that he affects me like this.

Suddenly, as I'm stumbling through another sentence, Bryan grabs the armrests of my chair and pulls me forward. The wheels glide over the floor, and I'm suddenly inches from him. My heart jumps into my throat.

"Hey—" I start, but the words die when I meet his gaze. His dark eyes lock onto mine, and the tension shifts, becoming sharper, more electric. I can feel the heat radiating off him, and my breath catches.

"You weren't paying attention," he says, voice low and taunting, but there's something else there, something I don't understand. His eyes flick to my lips, and I freeze.

"Let go of the chair," I manage to whisper, my voice barely steady.

He studies me for a moment, then slowly lets go, leaning back. The air is still thick, charged with something I can't shake. "Fine," he says smugly. "But try to focus, Ballerina. We don't have all day."

I shove the chair back, desperate for space. My mind is a mess, and I hate how he gets under my skin so effortlessly.

—----

My mind is still reeling as I try to regain focus. My palms are sweaty, and my heartbeat pounds in my ears as I turn my attention back to my Spanish notes, desperately attempting to shake off the way Bryan's nearness had made me feel—flustered, angry, and something else I refuse to acknowledge.

Bryan, of course, looks completely unfazed. He's sprawled out on my bed like he owns it, stretching with that same cocky confidence that drives me insane. He watches me with a lazy, almost arrogant amusement, like he knows exactly how rattled I am and finds it endlessly entertaining.

"Come on," he drawls, voice full of mock impatience. "Are we doing this or what? Or did my explanations fry what little brain power you've got?"

I glare at him, jaw clenching so hard it hurts. "I'm not brain-dead," I snap, though my voice comes out a bit too high-pitched. "I'm just trying to make sense of your terrible explanations."

He chuckles, a low, infuriating sound that only makes my blood boil. "Terrible? You mean 'perfect,'" he counters, his dark eyes glinting with that insufferable smugness. "Not my fault you're still struggling with the basics, Ballerina." He emphasizes the nickname like a taunt, and it makes my skin crawl.

I huff, flipping through my notebook with more force than necessary. "Maybe if you didn't spend half the time acting like a condescending jerk, I'd actually learn something," I bite back, feeling my cheeks heat up, half from anger and half from embarrassment.

He leans forward slightly, his expression turning meaner. "Aw, come on," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm trying to make this fun. Would you rather I lie and tell you you're doing great when you can barely string together a sentence?"

My hands tighten into fists, and I force myself to take a deep breath. "I don't need your fake encouragement," I mutter, hating how small my voice sounds. "I just need you to stop being such a—"

My phone buzzes on the desk, cutting through the tension. Grateful for the distraction, I snatch it up and see a text from Izzy, asking if I want to grab dinner later. My mind is still spinning from Bryan yanking my chair closer, and my fingers shake a little as I type out a response, trying to keep it together.

When I set the phone down, Bryan's eyebrow quirks up, his lips twisting into a mean grin. "Boyfriend texting you?" he asks, and there's a mocking edge in his voice, but his eyes are watching me with a strange intensity that makes me even more flustered.

My eyes widen, and I can feel my face heat up again. "What? No," I sputter, my voice cracking. "It's just Izzy. And for the record, it's none of your business."

He leans back, arms crossing over his chest, his smirk never faltering. "Relax," he says, voice laced with disdain. "I didn't think anyone would be able to handle your constant whining long enough to date you, anyway."

My mouth falls open, and I'm left gaping at him, momentarily speechless from the sheer audacity of that comment. "Excuse me?" I finally manage to sputter, my voice rising. "You're literally the most insufferable person I've ever met, and I'm the one with the bad attitude?"

He shrugs, his smirk growing. "Just calling it like I see it," he says, his tone casual but mean. "You're not exactly a ray of sunshine, you know."

My irritation bubbles over, and I throw my hands up. "Unbelievable," I mutter. "I can't believe I have to spend an entire semester dealing with you."

His smirk softens, but there's no kindness in his expression—just that ever-present amusement, like he enjoys watching me squirm. "You'll survive," he says, voice quieter but still taunting. "I mean, if you can survive me dragging your Spanish skills through the mud, you can probably survive anything. But hey, no promises."

The way he looks at me then—like he's daring me to react—makes my stomach twist uncomfortably. I'm about to fire back when my phone buzzes again, reminding me of the babysitting job I have tomorrow. The interruption snaps me out of my rage spiral, and I take a shaky breath, trying to pull myself together.

Bryan stretches, his long limbs making my bed creak, and stands up, grabbing his bag. "So, are we done here?" he asks, but there's an irritating glint in his eyes, like he's waiting for me to admit defeat.

I bite my lip, hating how off-balance he makes me feel. "Yeah, we're done," I mutter, shoving my notes into a messy pile. "You can leave now."

As he walks past me, he pauses, leaning down just enough for his voice to be a low, condescending whisper in my ear. "Good luck with your babysitting gig, Ballerina," he murmurs. "Try not to trip over your words—or your Crocs."

My heart skips a beat, and I clench my fists, desperately resisting the urge to scream. Instead, I scowl, watching as he saunters out of my room, leaving a storm of anger, frustration, and something else I refuse to name.

Once he's gone, I flop back into my chair, hands still trembling. "Unbelievable," I whisper, but my heart is pounding for more reasons than just rage, and that realization only makes me feel worse.

--------------

Hi there, wonderful reader! 💖

I'm so grateful you're here and following Amber and Bryan's journey, it truly means the world to me. Chapter Fourteen was such a fun one to write, and I hope you enjoyed it!!

Your support means everything, so thank you for being a part of this story. I'd love to hear your thoughts—feel free to share anytime!

See you in the next chapter! ✨