The sunlight pierced through the curtains with a vengeance, landing squarely on my face like it was sent there to mock me. I groaned, rolling over and trying to bury myself deeper into the blankets, but it was useless. Morning had arrived, dragging me into its unwelcome embrace.

I hadn't slept much—just a few restless hours here and there. The nightmare had clung to me through the night like a shadow I couldn't shake, and even the warmth of my blanket and the glow of my lamp hadn't been enough to keep it completely at bay. My body ached with exhaustion, but my mind refused to settle.

Reluctantly, I pushed myself upright, rubbing at my tired eyes. The faint hum of the fridge and the soft snores from Isabella's room were the only sounds in the dorm, and for a moment, I let myself enjoy the quiet. The events of last night felt like a fever dream—Isabella's antics, Bryan's smirks, the kiss during spin the bottle that I was trying very hard to forget.

I glanced at the mug sitting on my nightstand, the one I'd used for hot chocolate during the long hours of the night. The faint brown ring at the bottom reminded me it needed a good cleaning. I picked it up and shuffled out of my room, my legs heavy with sleep deprivation.

The kitchen was bathed in soft morning light, the pale rays streaming through the window above the sink. I set the mug down next to the sink and reached for the water pitcher in the fridge. The cool air rushed out as I opened the door, making me shiver slightly.

I filled a glass of water, the soft clink of the pitcher against the glass the only sound breaking the stillness. Isabella was going to need it—along with some ibuprofen—if she wanted to survive the morning after her very enthusiastic embrace of party life.

I grabbed the bottle of pills from the cabinet, shaking out two onto the counter. My eyes drifted back to the mug sitting by the sink. With a faint sigh, I rolled up my sleeves and turned on the faucet, letting the warm water run over my hands as I scrubbed the mug clean. The rich scent of last night's chocolate still lingered faintly, and I couldn't help but smile at the memory of the small comfort it had brought me.

With the mug rinsed and placed on the drying rack, I picked up the glass of water and the pills and headed toward Isabella's room.

I nudged her door open with my foot, peeking inside. Isabella was sprawled across her bed like she'd been dropped there from a great height. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess, sticking out at odd angles, and one arm dangled off the edge of the bed. The other clutched a pillow to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

Her makeup, smeared across her face, gave her the appearance of a very tired raccoon. The blanket was wrapped around her haphazardly, and she let out a low groan that made me think she might actually be dying.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," I said, stepping into the room.

She didn't respond. Instead, she groaned again, shifting slightly before pulling the blanket over her head.

I set the glass of water and the pills on her nightstand, careful not to disturb the pile of last night's relics—a granola bar wrapper, an unopened bag of chips, and what appeared to be a single earring. "Here. Water. Pills. You're going to need them."

She groaned again, her voice muffled by the blanket. "Why... does my soul hurt?"

I smirked, crossing my arms as I leaned against the wall. "Because you thought it was a good idea to drink half the punch bowl last night."

She pulled the blanket down just enough to glare at me with one bleary eye. "Why didn't you stop me?"

"I tried," I said, holding up my hands defensively. "But you were very committed to your 'one more cup' philosophy."

She groaned again, sitting up slowly and clutching her head. "The world is too loud. Make it stop."

"It's not loud, Izzy. That's just your hangover talking," I said, handing her the glass of water. "Drink this. You'll thank me later."

She took the glass with the enthusiasm of someone being forced to drink poison. "Water tastes weird."

"It's water. It doesn't have a taste," I said, biting back a laugh.

She popped the pills into her mouth, swallowing them with a dramatic grimace. "You don't understand. It's... too wet."

I raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh. "Too wet?"

She flopped back onto her pillow, her arm draped over her face. "Yes. Water shouldn't be this wet. It's unnatural."

I rolled my eyes, setting the empty glass back on the nightstand. "You're stupid."

"And you're bossy," she muttered, peeking at me from under her arm. "Why are you even awake? Didn't you stay up all night babysitting me?"

"I couldn't sleep," I admitted, shrugging. "But you're welcome for making sure you didn't end up in a bush."

"Thanks," she mumbled, her voice muffled. "I think."

"You owe me," I said, heading for the door. "Big time."

"I'm not making it up to you with coffee," she called after me, her voice weak but teasing.

"Who said anything about coffee?" I replied, grinning as I stepped into the hallway. "I'm thinking laundry duty for a month."

Her groan followed me out, and I couldn't help but chuckle as I made my way back to the kitchen. Cleaning the mug and helping her survive her hangover were small victories, but they made the morning feel lighter somehow.

After leaving Isabella groaning in her room, I returned to the kitchen and leaned against the counter for a moment, letting the quiet of the apartment settle over me. The glass of water I'd handed her and the pills on her nightstand felt like small victories. Now, I just needed to take care of myself.

I glanced toward the bathroom, my body already craving the warmth of a shower to wash away the restless night and the lingering weight of my nightmare. The thought of the soothing water was enough to get me moving again.

I stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind me. The familiar space, with its simple white tiles and the faint smell of lavender soap, felt grounding. I turned on the shower, the sound of the water splashing against the tiles filling the small room. Steam began to rise almost immediately, curling around me like a gentle hug.

As I undressed, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair was messy, the faint smudges of makeup I hadn't completely removed last night still clinging to the edges of my eyes. I turned slightly, my gaze landing on the faint scar along my hip. It didn't hurt, but the sight of it always sent a small pang through my chest—a reminder of what I'd survived and what I couldn't quite leave behind.

I pushed the thought aside, stepping into the shower and letting the warm water cascade over me. The tension in my shoulders began to ease as I ran my hands through my hair, massaging shampoo into the strands. The faint lavender scent filled the air, soothing and familiar.

As I rinsed out the suds, my thoughts drifted to the upcoming week and the looming Nutcracker auditions. Just thinking about it made my stomach twist with a mix of excitement and nerves. It wasn't my first audition, but this one felt different. More important.

I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, wrapping myself in a fluffy towel. My fingers reached for the moisturizer on the counter, the routine automatic as my mind wandered to the studio.

The plan was to book extra practice sessions starting today. I needed to sharpen every movement, every line, if I wanted to stand out. The competition was fierce, and I couldn't afford to let my nerves get the best of me.

The studio always felt like a safe place—its polished wood floors, the mirrors stretching from wall to wall, the faint smell of rosin in the air. It was a place where the world outside melted away, where it was just me and the music. That was what I needed now. To feel that focus, that clarity.

"Today's the day," I murmured to myself, tightening the braid. "Time to get serious."

I stepped out of the bathroom feeling more awake, more centered. The fog of the night had lifted slightly, replaced by the sharp awareness of everything I needed to do. The auditions were just a week away, and while the memory of the nightmare still lingered faintly at the edges of my mind, the thought of dancing pushed it back.

As I passed by Isabella's room, I heard her groan faintly, and a small smile tugged at my lips. She'd survive the morning, eventually, and I'd be there to tease her mercilessly once she did. For now, though, I had my own plans to focus on.

The studio was calling, and I wasn't going to waste another minute.

If I wanted to feel ready for the audition next week, I needed every moment of practice I could get. The studio was only a ten-minute walk away, and the idea of escaping the apartment, the lingering memories of last night, and the heaviness of my restless sleep was too tempting to ignore.

Back in my room, I rummaged through my dresser, pulling out a fitted black leotard and a pair of soft, flowy ballet shorts. The color always made me feel more confident, like I was channeling some kind of inner grace. I layered a loose hoodie over the outfit to keep warm on the way to the studio and grabbed my dance bag, double-checking it for my water bottle and my pointe shoes. Slipping on my favorite white sneakers, I caught my reflection in the mirror, the faint shimmer of my skin after moisturizing made me feel just a little more put together.

With one last glance at the apartment—Isabella still dead to the world in her room—I grabbed my keys and stepped out into the crisp morning air.

The chill of the morning bit at my cheeks as I walked, my breath visible in the cool air. The streets were quiet, the occasional car passing by, and the faint hum of life beginning to stir around me. My mind drifted as I walked, the soft sound of my sneakers on the pavement grounding me.

The familiar nervous excitement of audition prep started to bubble in my chest. My muscles already ached slightly from yesterday's class, but it was the kind of ache I loved—the reminder of hard work, of pushing myself to my limits.

By the time the studio came into view, the world around me seemed to fall away, replaced by a quiet focus. The large windows gleamed in the sunlight, the inside just visible enough to show the glossy wooden floors and the long wall of mirrors.

The familiar smell of polished wood and faint traces of rosin greeted me as I stepped inside, the quiet hum of the building wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. The receptionist, a friendly older woman named Marie, glanced up from her desk and smiled.

"Morning, Amber," she said, her voice warm. "You're early today."

"Had some extra energy to burn," I replied, setting my dance bag down near the sign-in sheet. "Room three free?"

"For you, always," she said with a wink, sliding me the key. "Don't work yourself too hard, though. You dancers never know when to stop."

I gave her a small smile, knowing she was right, but I had no plans to take it easy. Not today.

Room three was my favorite—it was tucked in the far corner of the studio, quieter than the others. The moment I stepped inside, the world outside seemed to melt away. The mirrors stretched across one wall, reflecting the natural light streaming in through the windows. The wooden floor gleamed, and the faint scuff marks told stories of countless hours of dedication and hard work.

I set my bag down and pulled off my hoodie, leaving me in my leotard and shorts. The chill in the room faded quickly as I slipped on my pointe shoes, lacing them up with practiced ease. My fingers dusted the soles with rosin before I stood, stretching my arms overhead and rolling my shoulders.

I walked to the center of the room, my reflection staring back at me. For a moment, I just stood there, letting the quiet settle over me. The weight of last night, the nightmare, the kiss at the party—they all fell away, replaced by the steady rhythm of my breathing.

I moved to the barre first, letting my body ease into the motions. Plies, tendus, rond de jambes—all the basics flowed together, each movement sharpening my focus. The slight pull of my muscles and the precision of each line reminded me of why I loved this, why I needed this.

When I felt warm, I moved to the center of the room. The music playing softly from my phone filled the space, wrapping around me like an invisible partner. I ran through the steps I knew would be in the audition, the familiar choreography both a challenge and a comfort.

My reflection in the mirror was my only audience, and I pushed myself to give it everything. My legs stretched higher, my arms softer yet stronger, each pirouette tighter than the last.

By the time I finished, my chest was heaving, my skin damp with sweat. I leaned against the wall, my water bottle cool in my hand as I took long sips. The audition still loomed, a mountain I wasn't sure I could climb, but this morning, in the quiet of the studio, it felt just a little more manageable.

I wiped my face with a towel, letting my breathing steady as I looked around the room. The sunlight streaming through the windows highlighted the faint scuff marks on the floor, remnants of countless dancers who'd stood where I was now. I could almost feel their determination lingering in the air, mingling with my own.

The sound of the door opening startled me, and I turned to see Mrs. Lawson, the director of the studio, stepping inside. Her presence filled the room effortlessly—her sharp eyes and poised demeanor always carried a mix of authority and warmth. She was dressed impeccably, as always, in a navy blazer over a black dress, her hair pinned back in a neat twist.

"Amber," she greeted, her tone brisk but kind. "I thought I'd find you here."

"Good morning, Mrs. Lawson," I said, straightening instinctively.

She glanced around the room, her eyes scanning the mirrors and the floor before settling on me. "Practicing for the audition, I assume?"

"Yes," I replied, gripping my towel. "Just trying to make sure I'm ready."

"You're always ready," she said, giving me a small smile. "But I like your dedication."

The compliment warmed me, even if her tone made it clear she wasn't here just to chat. She reached into the folder she was holding and pulled out a single sheet of paper, extending it toward me.

"This," she said, "is the list of parents and children signed up for the parent-child dance class next Monday. Since you'll be leading it, I thought you should have it early to prepare."

I blinked, taking the list from her. "Oh, thank you. I didn't realize you had it ready already."

"I try to stay ahead of things," she replied with a faint smile. "You've been doing a wonderful job with the children's classes, Amber. I have no doubt this session will go just as smoothly."

I glanced down at the list, scanning the names. It was a mix of familiar ones—parents I'd seen lingering in the lobby during classes—and a few new ones. My mind immediately began organizing how I could make the class engaging for both the children and their parents, ensuring everyone had fun while still learning.

But then my eyes froze on one particular name.

Lily Munzo—Parent: Bryan Munzo.

I blinked, certain I was seeing things, but no. The names were right there, clear as day, staring back at me like a cruel joke.

Bryan? That Bryan? The same Bryan who smirked like he owned the world? The same Bryan who'd spent last night teasing me at the party and making me feel like I was losing my mind?

I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting. The idea of Bryan —tattoos, baseball swagger, and that maddening smirk—joining a parent-child dance class felt like the universe's way of playing some sort of elaborate prank on me. I couldn't imagine him willingly participating in something so wholesome, much less dancing.

"Everything okay?" Mrs. Lawson's voice broke through my spiraling thoughts.

"Uh, yes," I said quickly, forcing a smile as I looked up. "Just going over the list."

She nodded, her sharp eyes lingering on me for a moment before she stepped toward the door. "If you have any questions, let me know. And remember, Amber, don't overthink the audition. You've got the skill, and you've got the heart. Let them see that."

"Thank you," I said softly, the words stumbling out as I tried to process the fact that Bryan was going to be in my class.

As Mrs. Lawson left, the door clicking shut behind her, I looked back down at the list. The names seemed to mock me now, Bryan's standing out like it was written in bold letters. I could almost hear his voice in my head, that low, teasing tone laced with Spanish as he called me "Bailarina" and smirked at my frustration.

I groaned, pressing my towel to my face. Why him? Why couldn't it be literally anyone else?

The image of him fumbling through pliés or trying to do a simple chasse with Lily by his side flashed through my mind. A small, involuntary laugh escaped me—equal parts amusement and disbelief. As infuriating as he was, the thought of him in a dance class was... entertaining, to say the least.

Still, the idea of having to deal with him during what was supposed to be a lighthearted session made my stomach churn. Focus on the kids, I told myself. It's about them, not him.

With a sigh, I tucked the list into my bag and glanced around the room one last time. The studio had always been my sanctuary, but the thought of Bryan invading it—even for one class—made me feel like my safe space was under siege.

Still, I couldn't afford to let him get in my head. The auditions were only a week away, and I needed every ounce of focus I could muster. For now, I'd let future Amber deal with Bryan and his dance "skills."

With a deep breath, I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for the door. Despite the lingering dread, Mrs. Lawson's words echoed in my mind, her belief in me pushing back against my doubts.

Maybe—just maybe—I could pull this off. Even with Bryan on the horizon.

—-----

💌 Thank You for Reading Chapter Twenty-Three! 💌

Thank you for continuing to support The Bad Boy's Ballerina! Your reactions and love for the story mean so much to me. I'm grateful to have you on this journey with Amber and Bryan.

Stay tuned—there's more to come! 💕✨