Tuesday morning's literature class felt strangely relaxed without the weight of The Little Prince project hanging over us. The sense of accomplishment from finishing the assignment lingered, but so did the camaraderie that had formed in our group. Even though the project was over, Wes, Celeste, Kyle, and I still sat together, falling into the same rhythm we had during those long planning sessions.

Professor Ray, with his ever-disheveled hair and round glasses perched precariously on his nose, strode to the front of the room. He clapped his hands together, his usual gesture to command attention. "All right, everyone. New unit today. Open your books to chapter one of The Scarlet Letter."

The sound of pages rustling filled the room as everyone obeyed. I glanced at Kyle, who was flipping his book open lazily while keeping one earbud in, and then at Celeste, who already had a color-coded pen in hand, ready to annotate.

Wes leaned over slightly, his voice low. "Think this one's going to be as heavy as the last unit?"

"Probably," I replied, pulling out my notebook. "But at least we don't have a group project this time."

"Small mercies," he muttered, leaning back in his chair.

Professor Ray dove into a spirited lecture on the themes of guilt and redemption, weaving historical context into his explanation with his usual flair. Celeste eagerly raised her hand at every opportunity, firing off questions that were more like mini-essays, while Kyle occasionally muttered sarcastic comments under his breath, earning glares from her.

At one point, Professor Ray asked, "What do you think the letter represents in today's context?"

Celeste's hand shot up, but Wes beat her to it. "Social media shaming," he said. "It's basically the modern scarlet letter."

The professor nodded, his eyes lighting up with interest. "An interesting parallel. Elaborate."

"It's like... instead of wearing a red letter, people get dragged online," Wes explained. "And everyone piles on, judging them for one mistake."

"That's actually insightful," Celeste admitted, grudgingly impressed.

As we packed up our things, the easy banter between us continued. Celeste was already planning her next set of annotations, while Kyle claimed he'd probably just watch the movie version instead of reading the book.

"You're hopeless," Celeste said, rolling her eyes.

"Efficient," he corrected, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "You should try it sometime."

"You two are exhausting," Wes said, stepping between them as we exited the classroom. "Amber, back me up here."

"Not getting involved," I said, holding up my hands. "I have enough drama in my life without adding yours."

Kyle smirked. "Speaking of drama, don't you have tutoring with Bryan tonight?"

I groaned, feeling the weight of the evening ahead settle on my shoulders. "Don't remind me."

"Oh, we're reminding you," Wes said with a grin. "Because if you survive that, you can survive anything."

Celeste looked intrigued. "Wait—Bryan is tutoring you? Bryan Munzo?"

"Unfortunately," I muttered, pulling the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder.

Kyle grinned. "I'd pay good money to watch that. Baseball boy and ballerina in a battle of wills."

"You're hilarious," I said dryly. "But for your information, it's not a battle. He's helping me with Spanish."

"Helping?" Celeste echoed, raising an eyebrow. "Or torturing?"

"Hopefully the first," I said, though I wasn't entirely convinced.

As we parted ways, I tried not to dwell on what the evening had in store. Bryan tutoring me was a necessity—I couldn't afford to flounder in Spanish class anymore. But spending time with him outside of school, in my own space, felt like inviting chaos into my life.

And knowing Bryan, he'd bring plenty of it.

Tuesday afternoons had become predictable yet exhausting. After a whirlwind morning in literature class and a quick practice session at the studio, I always rushed back to the dorm to brace myself for Bryan's arrival. It was efficient, practical, and utterly maddening.

Bryan was an effective tutor—when he wasn't being smug, infuriating, or dragging up things I'd rather forget. Tonight, though, we not only had to go over Spanish but also finalize the progress on our project, which we'd be presenting to Señora Álvarez tomorrow.

And, because it was Bryan, there was no way this night would pass without some kind of chaos.

When I walked into the dorm, Isabella was on the couch as usual, munching on chips and scrolling through her phone. The room looked like a tornado had passed through: pillows on the floor, a pile of laundry near the corner, and an empty mug from last night's tea still on the table.

"You're home," she said, glancing up. "Bryan's coming, isn't he?"

"Like clockwork," I muttered, setting my bag down. "And if this place looks like this when he gets here, I'll never hear the end of it."

Isabella smirked, kicking a pillow onto the floor with exaggerated flair. "Oh no. Not Bryan's judgment."

I ignored her, grabbing the mug from the table and heading to the kitchen to rinse it out. "You're leaving, right?"

She sighed dramatically, standing and grabbing her bag. "Fine. But only because watching you two is exhausting. So much tension. If it wasn't tutoring, I'd think it was foreplay."

"Out," I said, pointing to the door as my cheeks flamed.

The knock came at precisely 6:00 PM. I opened the door to find Bryan leaning against the frame, smirking like he owned the place. He was dressed casually, as always—joggers, a fitted T-shirt that made his muscles annoyingly noticeable, and his backpack slung over one shoulder.

"Buenas noches, Amber," he greeted, strolling inside without waiting for an invitation. His backpack hit the couch with a heavy thud, and his eyes swept over the room. "Wow. Limpio. You do all this for me?"

I shut the door and crossed my arms. "Let's just get started."

"Relax," he said, plopping onto the couch and stretching out like he owned it. "It's just Spanish. And a little project. No need to act like the world's ending."

"You might not care," I said, sitting down across from him. "But I'd like to show Señora Álvarez that I can at least keep up."

"You'll be fine," he said, flipping open his notebook. "Unless you overthink it. Which, let's face it, you probably will."

I shot him a glare, and his smirk only widened. "Okay, fine," he said, gesturing to the coffee table. "Let's get to it. ¿Lista?"

We started with the project, going through the slides we'd been piecing together over the past couple of weeks. Bryan handled the formatting, claiming I was "too much of a perfectionist" to trust with the design, while I reworked my section on cultural context.

"This is fine," he said, pointing to my notes, "but you're overloading it. Just say flamenco is cool, people like it, done."

"It's more than that," I argued, glaring at him. "It has historical significance."

"Yeah, and you can sum that up in two sentences," he shot back. "No one cares about a three-paragraph deep dive."

I clenched my jaw, deleting a sentence even though it pained me. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic," he said, leaning back. "See? Was that so hard?"

"You're insufferable," I muttered, closing my laptop.

"Gracias," he said, grinning. "Now let's move on to the fun part."

Bryan pulled out the Spanish textbook, flipping to a section on subjunctive verbs. "All right, repeat after me: 'Si tuviera tiempo, iría contigo.'"

I hesitated, carefully piecing the sentence together in my head. "Si... tuviera tiempo... iría contigo."

"Better," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied me. "But you still sound like you're scared of the words. Say it like you mean it."

"I am saying it," I said, my voice sharp.

"No," he said, leaning forward. "Say it like you're trying to convince someone. 'Si tuviera tiempo, iría contigo.' Feel it."

I stared at him, his voice low and deliberate, and my stomach twisted with irritation—and something else I refused to name. I tried again, my voice firmer this time.

"There," he said, his tone softening slightly. "Almost like you're human."

"Wow, thanks," I said dryly.

He grinned, leaning back and crossing his arms. "You're not bad. Just tense. Maybe you need another game of spin the bottle to loosen up."

The air in the room shifted instantly, and my entire body stiffened. "That was a stupid game," I said, my voice tight.

"Was it?" he asked, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Because you looked pretty invested."

"I wasn't," I snapped, my cheeks flaming.

He tilted his head, his smirk growing. "Sure you weren't, Lee. You didn't even push me away."

"Because it was a game," I said, standing and grabbing my water bottle to give myself something to do. "And I didn't have a choice."

He stood too, his presence suddenly feeling much closer, much larger. "Maybe not. But you didn't exactly hate it."

"Are we done here?" I asked, my voice shaky but firm.

He watched me for a long moment, his smirk fading into something harder to read. "For now," he said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "Don't freeze tomorrow. And don't trip on Friday."

"I won't," I said through gritted teeth, opening the door for him.

He paused in the doorway, his gaze lingering on me. "Sure you won't. Buenas noches, Ballerina."

The door clicked shut, and I let out a shaky breath, my mind spinning. Bryan Munzo was a nightmare—but the worst part was how easily he got under my skin.

Wednesday morning arrived far too quickly. Despite my best efforts to prepare the night before, my nerves were on edge as I made my way to Spanish class. Bryan's words from the previous evening still rang in my ears—"Don't freeze tomorrow." Easy for him to say. He wasn't the one struggling to conjugate verbs correctly.

When I walked into the classroom, Bryan was already there, leaning back in his chair with that ever-present smirk. He spotted me immediately, raising an eyebrow as I slid into the seat next to him.

"Ready, Ballerina?" he asked, his voice low enough that only I could hear.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I muttered, pulling out my notebook.

"You look tense," he said, tilting his head. "Relax. It's not like she's going to bite."

"Not helping," I snapped, flipping through my notes.

"Fine," he said, leaning back again. "But if you mess up, I'm taking over."

I shot him a glare, but he just grinned, clearly enjoying himself.

Señora Álvarez entered the room with her usual presence—warm but commanding. Her sharp eyes scanned the class as she greeted us.

"Buenos días, clase," she said. (Good morning, class.) "Hoy vamos a revisar el progreso de sus proyectos. Are you ready?"

The class murmured varying degrees of agreement, and I felt my stomach twist. Bryan, of course, looked completely unbothered.

Before diving into the presentations, Señora Álvarez clapped her hands together. "Before we begin, I have an exciting announcement," she said, her voice brightening. "The Costa Rica trip is officially scheduled."

A buzz of excitement rippled through the room as everyone straightened in their seats.

"The trip will take place at the beginning of December," she continued. "It will last two weeks, and we'll be staying in San José as well as traveling to other locations to explore the language, culture, and history. I'll be sending out the finalized itinerary by the end of the week. Please make sure your permission forms are submitted. This is a fantastic opportunity for you to immerse yourselves fully in Spanish."

Two weeks. The words hit me like a brick. My excitement about the trip was instantly overshadowed by a sinking realization: I wouldn't be able to practice for The Nutcracker for two whole weeks.

My heart started to race. Two weeks away from the studio, away from rehearsals, so close to the performance date? It wasn't just inconvenient—it was a disaster.

"You okay?" Bryan's low voice broke through my spiraling thoughts.

I glanced at him, his dark eyes narrowing slightly in concern. "Fine," I muttered, though my pulse was still pounding in my ears.

He smirked, leaning closer. "You look like you're about to hyperventilate. Don't tell me you're scared of a little sun and Spanish."

"It's nothing," I said quickly, turning my attention back to the professor. But in the back of my mind, all I could think about was how I was going to juggle this trip and The Nutcracker.

"Munzo y Lee," Señora Álvarez called, looking directly at us. "You're first."

Of course, we were.

I stood, clutching my notebook like a lifeline as Bryan strolled up to the front of the room with all the confidence of someone who didn't study at all. He glanced at me, his smirk firmly in place, as if to say, Follow my lead.

Bryan started, his voice smooth and confident as he explained the outline of our project. His Spanish was flawless, each word rolling off his tongue effortlessly. It was infuriating how easy he made it look.

"Y ahora, Amber va a explicar el contexto cultural," he said, stepping aside and gesturing for me to speak. (And now, Amber will explain the cultural context.)

My heart was pounding as I faced the class. "Uh, sí," I began, glancing at my notes. (Uh, yes.) "El flamenco es un estilo de danza y música tradicional de España..." (Flamenco is a style of traditional dance and music from Spain...)

I stumbled over a few words but managed to keep going. Bryan stood beside me, arms crossed, watching me with that infuriating smirk. Every time I hesitated, I could feel his amusement radiating off him.

"Más despacio," he muttered under his breath, low enough that only I could hear. (Slower.)

I shot him a glare but adjusted my pace, my voice steadying as I continued. By the time I finished my section, I was sweating but relieved. Bryan stepped forward again to wrap up, his tone effortlessly charming.

"Gracias, Amber," he said, his eyes glinting with amusement. (Thank you, Amber.) "Buen trabajo." (Good job.)

As we sat back down, I could feel the tension ease from my shoulders. Señora Álvarez nodded approvingly. "Bien hecho, ustedes dos," she said. (Well done, you two.) "Your progress is solid. Just keep refining for the final presentation."

"Gracias, profesora," Bryan said smoothly, flashing her a grin that could probably charm anyone. (Thank you, professor.)

I sank into my seat, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. "Well, that wasn't a total disaster."

"Not bad," Bryan said, his voice low. "But next time? Try not to look like you're about to pass out."

I turned to glare at him, but before I could respond, Señora Álvarez called the next group. Bryan leaned back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself.

As the class ended, I gathered my things quickly, eager to escape Bryan's teasing. But, of course, he wasn't going to let me go that easily.

"Hey, Ballerina," he called as we walked out into the hallway. "You didn't freeze. I'm impressed."

"Wow, a compliment," I said dryly. "Should I frame it?"

He chuckled, falling into step beside me. "Don't get used to it. You still looked like you were two seconds from bolting."

"At least I didn't forget my lines," I shot back.

"True," he said, his smirk widening. "But I carried us."

"Barely," I muttered, clutching my notebook tighter.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "Just admit it, Amber. You're lucky to have me."

I rolled my eyes, quickening my pace. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

As we parted ways, I couldn't help but feel a strange mix of relief and frustration. Working with Bryan was like dancing on a tightrope—exhilarating and nerve-wracking all at once. And with the Costa Rica trip on the horizon, I had a sinking feeling that this balancing act was far from over.