The door clicked softly behind Bryan, leaving me alone in his room. The faint hum of muffled music from the party below was the only sound breaking the heavy silence. I sat on the edge of the bed, still clutching the blanket tightly around me, the warmth of his hoodie and sweatpants doing little to chase away the lingering ache of humiliation.

My fingers trembled as I ran them across the soft fabric of the hoodie. It was huge on me, falling well past my hips, the sleeves swallowing my hands entirely. The faint scent of cedarwood and something clean—probably his detergent—clung to it, grounding me just enough to keep my tears at bay.

I should have felt safe now. Warm. Protected. But all I could think about was the moment in the pool—the terror of sinking, the cold biting into my skin, the way my body refused to move. And then afterward, standing there in my transparent bandeau and skirt, completely exposed.

My cheeks burned with fresh shame, and I wiped at my face angrily, frustrated that the tears kept coming.

The silence felt too loud. I couldn't sit still any longer. My chest ached with the weight of everything—the cold, the humiliation, Bryan—and I needed something to distract me. Anything.

My eyes landed on my phone, sitting on the nightstand where Bryan must have set it earlier. Slowly, I reached for it, my fingers fumbling slightly as I unlocked the screen. The faint glow lit up the dim room, and my eyes stung as I stared at the contact list.

Mom.

Before I could second-guess myself, I pressed the call button. The line rang twice before the familiar warmth of her voice came through.

"Allô? Amber?"

"Salut, maman," I said softly, my voice trembling despite my effort to sound normal.

"Ma chérie, qu'est-ce qui se passe?" Her voice was immediately laced with concern. "Il est tard. Pourquoi tu m'appelles maintenant?" (Sweetheart, what's wrong? It's late. Why are you calling me now?)

I swallowed hard, blinking back fresh tears. "Rien." (Nothing.)

There was a pause on the other end, and I could picture her frowning, her brow furrowing the way it always did when she knew I wasn't telling the full truth. "Amber, tu pleures?" she asked gently. (Amber, are you crying?)

"Non," I lied quickly, wiping at my cheeks. "Je suis juste fatiguée." (No. I'm just tired.)

"Tu sais que tu peux tout me dire, n'est-ce pas?" she said softly. (You know you can tell me anything, right?)

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "Oui, maman. Je sais."

We talked for a while, her voice soothing and steady as she told me about her day. She didn't press me for answers, didn't demand to know why I'd called so late, but her presence through the phone was enough to calm the storm in my chest.

"Tu veux que je reste en ligne avec toi jusqu'à ce que tu t'endormes?" she asked eventually. (Do you want me to stay on the line with you until you fall asleep?)

I smiled faintly, even though the ache in my chest hadn't fully disappeared. "Non, ça va. Merci, maman." (No, it's okay. Thank you, Mom.)

"D'accord," she said softly. "Mais si jamais tu as besoin de parler, je suis là." (Okay. But if you ever need to talk, I'm here.)

"Je t'aime," I whispered. (I love you.)

"Je t'aime aussi, mon cœur," she replied. (I love you too.)

When the call ended, the room felt quieter but less suffocating. I placed my phone back on the nightstand and leaned back against the pillows, letting out a slow, shaky breath.

Bryan's scent still clung to the hoodie, faint but present, and I couldn't stop my mind from wandering back to him. To the way his hands had been so careful, so steady, even as he undressed me and dressed me again. To the way he'd looked at me—not with pity, but with something else.

I pulled the blanket tighter around me, curling into myself as I stared at the ceiling. Bryan had seen too much tonight—more than anyone had in years—and the thought of facing him again made my chest tighten all over again.

But for now, at least, I was warm. Safe. Alone.

The party still raged below, but I let my eyes drift closed, hoping the chaos in my mind would quiet too.

The house was quiet now. The muffled thump of music from the party had faded hours ago, leaving only an eerie stillness. Yet I couldn't fully relax.

I stirred under the blanket, the soft warmth of Bryan's hoodie doing little to chase away the lingering chill from earlier. My mind refused to rest, replaying the events of the night over and over—the pool, Bryan's hands steadying me, his dark eyes filled with an intensity I couldn't place.

I shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around me, but my chest still felt tight, my breathing uneven. Sleep refused to come, and when I finally glanced at the clock on the nightstand, the glowing red numbers read 3:13 AM.

Letting out a soft sigh, I rolled onto my side, staring out at the faint shadows stretching across the room. My heartbeat had finally begun to slow, my body settling into the warmth cocooning me. But then something caught my attention—a faint, flickering glow.

I blinked as my eyes adjusted. Across the room, nestled on the corner of the desk, was a small nightlight.

The soft, warm glow pulsed gently, casting faint patterns of light onto the nearby wall. It was shaped like a cartoonish star, its friendly smile and closed eyes giving it an almost childlike charm.

I frowned. It hadn't been there before—I was sure of it. When Bryan had left earlier, the only light in the room had come from the desk lamp. So where had this come from?

I stared at it for a long moment, the warm glow strangely comforting despite its sudden appearance. My chest felt lighter, my body relaxing bit by bit as I settled back against the pillows.

I reached for the blanket, pulling it tighter around me as the soft light washed over the room. My breathing slowed, the tension in my chest easing as the faint hum of the nightlight lulled me into a sense of calm.

As I curled up again, the memory of Bryan's voice from earlier echoed faintly in my mind.
"You're tougher than you think, Amber."

I let out a soft breath, my eyes fluttering shut as the warmth of the hoodie and the steady glow of the nightlight wrapped around me.

This time, sleep came easier.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the nightmares stayed away.

—-----

The morning light streamed through the blinds, pulling me out of the restless sleep I'd fallen into. I blinked against the brightness, disoriented for a moment as my surroundings came into focus.

Bryan's room.

The events of last night hit me like a wave. The pool. The cold. The way Bryan had carried me, dressed me, his hands steady and careful as if I might break. And then the memory sharpened—the moment I'd realized I was nearly naked in front of him, my skin visible through the soaked fabric of my bandeau.

My stomach churned, but it wasn't the nausea I'd expected. Instead, a warmth spread low in my belly, tangled with embarrassment and something heavier, something I didn't want to name.

I sat up slowly, brushing my damp hair out of my face as the ache of exhaustion settled over me. My body still felt cold, though the sweatpants and hoodie Bryan had lent me were soft and warm.

I froze as the image of his gaze flashed in my mind—dark and unreadable, flickering over my bare shoulders and chest for the briefest moment before he'd looked away. My cheeks burned hot, and I shook my head, trying to force the memory out.

I padded down the stairs, my bare feet making soft sounds against the hardwood. The house was quieter now, the chaos of the party reduced to faint murmurs from a few lingering guests.

When I stepped into the kitchen, Bryan was leaning against the counter, a mug of coffee in his hand. He'd changed into a plain black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his damp hair sticking up in tousled waves. The sharp lines of his jaw and the ink of his tattoos peeking out from under his sleeve caught my attention before I could stop myself.

He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto mine immediately. His lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk, and I hated how my pulse jumped under his gaze.

"Morning," he said, his voice low and casual.

"Morning," I replied, avoiding his eyes as I moved to the sink.

"Sleep okay?" he asked, watching me over the rim of his mug as he took a sip.
I nodded, setting down the glass I'd brought with me from his room. "Yeah. Thanks for, uh, helping last night."

Bryan chuckled softly, setting his mug down on the counter. "No problem. Though I wasn't expecting you to pass out in my bed."

My cheeks flamed, and I turned away, busying myself with rinsing the glass. "I didn't exactly plan it."

"You're welcome to stay if you want," he teased, the smirk in his voice making my stomach flip.

I glanced at him sharply, but the amusement in his dark eyes made my words catch in my throat. He stepped closer, leaning casually against the counter beside me. The proximity was enough to make the air feel heavier, and I tensed, hyper-aware of the warmth radiating from him.

"Where's Lily?" I asked, desperate to change the subject.

"Friend's house," he replied, his tone softening slightly. "Mom's pulling a double at the hospital."

I nodded, clutching the edge of the counter. "That's good. I was just wondering."

Bryan tilted his head, studying me with that infuriatingly intense gaze of his. "You miss Lily?"

"She's sweet," I said, meeting his eyes briefly before looking away. "Unlike someone else I know."

His smirk widened, and he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Sweet, huh? I didn't think you liked sweet things, Ballerina."

My breath caught as his arm brushed against mine, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. I took a step back, my cheeks burning as I glared at him. "Can you stop calling me that?"

"No," he said simply, his smirk never fading. "It suits you."

I rolled my eyes, trying to ignore the way my heart pounded as he stepped even closer, his hand resting casually on the counter beside mine. The movement was subtle, but it felt deliberate, like he was testing how far he could push before I snapped.

"You're impossible," I muttered, turning away before he could see the effect he was having on me.

"You've said that before," he said, his voice warm with amusement.

My gaze flickered down to his hand resting on the counter. My breath hitched when I noticed the faint bruising on his knuckles—red and angry against his skin.

"What happened to your hand?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

Bryan glanced down quickly, then shrugged, shoving his hand into his pocket like it was no big deal. "Oh, that? It's nothing. Just caught it on the edge of a locker at practice."

I frowned, studying his face. "Doesn't look like nothing."

"It's fine, Ballerina," he said smoothly, flashing me an easy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm tougher than I look."

Something about his tone didn't sit right. As I turned to leave, Bryan caught my wrist gently, his touch warm against my skin. "Wait," he said, his voice softer now.

I froze, my heart racing as I looked back at him. His expression had shifted slightly, his smirk fading into something more serious.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his dark eyes searching mine.

"I'm fine," I said quickly, though my voice wavered. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Bryan's gaze lingered on me, flickering briefly. His grip on my wrist loosened, but he didn't let go entirely.

"You don't have to keep pretending," he said quietly.

I pulled my hand back, clutching the edge of the hoodie as I took another step away. "I'm not pretending," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "I'm just tired."

Bryan nodded slowly, his dark eyes still locked onto mine. "Right. Tired."

There was a beat of silence, the air between us thick with tension. His gaze dipped briefly to the hoodie I was wearing, and for a moment, I thought he might say something else. But then he smirked again, stepping back and giving me space to breathe.

"Don't let anyone throw you into a pool again," he said, his voice lighter now but still carrying that teasing edge.

I rolled my eyes, finally managing to move toward the door. "Noted."

"Good," he called after me, his smirk audible in his tone. "Because I'm not saving you twice."

The chilly morning air followed me into the dorm building as I pushed the door open, my muscles still aching from the night before. The warmth of the hallway was a welcome relief, and I trudged up the stairs, eager to collapse in my bed. The night had been exhausting—physically and emotionally—but at least it was over.

When I opened the door to our dorm, I was greeted by an unexpected sight: Blake, sprawled across the couch, fast asleep. His dark blond hair stuck up in messy waves, and his green hoodie was slightly unzipped over a white T-shirt. One arm dangled lazily off the side of the couch, and the other rested across his chest, rising and falling steadily with his breaths.

I blinked, surprised but not exactly mad. Blake was a good guy, and honestly, seeing him so relaxed made me smile.

"Morning, sleepyhead," I muttered under my breath, stepping inside and closing the door as quietly as I could.

"Amber!" Isabella's voice rang out, and she emerged from the bathroom, toothbrush in hand and her blonde hair piled in a messy bun. She grinned when she saw me. "Good, you're back! Blake crashed here last night. Isn't he adorable?"

I raised an eyebrow, gesturing to his lanky form draped across our couch. "He looks like a starfish."

Isabella giggled, leaning on the counter. "He didn't want to drive home after the party, so I told him to stay. And look at him! Just look. He's perfect."

"He's unconscious," I said, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. "What exactly is perfect about that?"

"He's here," she said dreamily, propping her chin in her hand as she watched him.

I rolled my eyes but smiled. "You're hopeless, Izzy."

As I moved toward the couch to grab a throw blanket for myself, I accidentally bumped into the coffee table. The soft thud wasn't particularly loud, but it was enough to wake Blake.

He stirred, blinking groggily as he pushed himself up on one elbow. His green eyes were half-lidded with sleep as he yawned and ruffled his already-messy hair.

"Morning," he mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion.

"Morning," I replied, taking a seat on the armrest of the couch. "Rough night?"

Blake gave me a sheepish smile. "Yeah. Thanks for letting me crash here. Izzy said it was okay."

I nodded, glancing over at Isabella, who was now trying (and failing) to act casual. "Of course, she did."

"You didn't snore or anything, so you're forgiven," I added with a small smile.

"Good to know," he said, chuckling as he swung his legs over the side of the couch and stretched.

Isabella practically skipped into the room, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Amber," she said, her voice sing-songy, "did you have a nice night? Or should I say morning?"

I sighed, already bracing for whatever she was about to say. "What do you mean?"

She pointed dramatically at the hoodie I was still wearing—Bryan's hoodie. "That. You're wearing his clothes. Explain."

Blake raised an eyebrow, glancing between me and Isabella. "Wait, Bryan? As in the Bryan you're always complaining about?"

"Don't get her started," I muttered, trying to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks.

"Oh, I'm getting her started," Isabella said, plopping onto the couch beside Blake. "Spill. What happened?"

"It's not what you think," I said quickly, holding up my hands.

Isabella leaned closer, her grin widening. "So you didn't fall into a pool and get saved by your mortal enemy, who then dressed you in his clothes like some kind of hero in a rom-com?"

Blake snorted, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Wait, seriously? He gave you his clothes?"

"Yes," I admitted, groaning as I buried my face in my hands.

"Amber!" Isabella gasped, grabbing my arm. "Did he see your boo—?"

"Don't finish that sentence!" I said, my voice muffled against my palms.

"Oh my God, he totally saw," she said, cackling. "This is amazing."

"It's not amazing," I said, glaring at her. "It was humiliating. End of story."

"Amber, you were wearing his hoodie," Blake said, smirking. "That's not exactly the worst thing that could've happened."

"Thank you, Blake," I said, shooting him a grateful look.

"Still," Isabella cut in, wagging her finger. "Bryan Munzo saved you, saw you practically naked, and now you're walking around in his clothes. This is comedy gold."

I groaned again, shaking my head. "I hate both of you."

"No, you don't," Isabella said, grinning. "Now, let's talk details. Did he—"

"I'm going to bed," I interrupted, standing up and heading toward my room. "Wake me up when you're done being ridiculous."

"Never!" Isabella called after me, her laughter filling the room.

Blake's voice followed, lighter and teasing. "Good luck escaping, Amber."

I sighed, shutting the door behind me as their voices faded into the background. I loved them both, but they were absolutely impossible sometimes.

I'd barely had time to kick off my shoes and flop onto my bed when there was a knock at my door.

"Amber," Isabella's voice sang from the other side, followed by the telltale creak of the door opening. "You can't escape me that easily."

I groaned, burying my face in my pillow. "I'm tired, Izzy."

"You'll want to hear this," she said, her tone dripping with mischief. "Trust me."

"What now?" I asked, reluctantly rolling onto my side to face her. She leaned against the doorframe, her phone in hand, her blue eyes practically sparkling.

"Oh, nothing major. Just a little something I think you should see." She tapped her screen a few times before holding the phone out toward me.

"What is it?" I asked, sitting up and narrowing my eyes at her suspiciously.

"Just watch."

I hesitated but took the phone from her, the video already playing. It was shaky, clearly filmed on someone's phone, and the first thing I noticed was Bryan. He was standing in the middle of what looked like the backyard from the party, facing off with the guy who'd thrown me into the pool. My stomach dropped, my chest tightening as I realized what I was about to watch.

The audio crackled, but I could hear the guy's voice, loud and slurred.

Bryan's stance was calm but rigid, his jaw clenched as he stared the guy down. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Bryan's fist shot out before I could process what was happening, connecting with the guy's jaw in one clean motion. The force sent him stumbling backward, and the crowd around them erupted in noise—shouts, gasps, and a few cheers.

Bryan didn't follow up. He just stood there, his shoulders tense, his dark eyes locked on the guy who was now holding his jaw and glaring up at him. "Don't. Ever. Touch. Her. Again."

The video ended, and I sat there in stunned silence, the phone still in my hand. My mind raced as I tried to process what I'd just seen.

"Right?" Isabella said, flopping onto the bed beside me. "Bryan Munzo, ladies and gentlemen. Defender of damsels in distress."

"He—" My voice caught in my throat, and I swallowed hard. "He did that because of me?"

"Duh." Isabella propped her chin on her hand, watching me intently. "Do you know how rare it is for a guy like Bryan to get that mad about something that doesn't involve him directly? He wasn't even drunk. He just... snapped. Because of you."

I exhaled slowly, staring at the now-black screen of her phone. "He didn't have to do that."

"No, he didn't," Isabella agreed, taking the phone back. "But he did. And he made it pretty clear that if anyone tries to mess with you again, they're gonna regret it."

Her words hung in the air as I flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Bryan had fought someone—for me. The same Bryan who'd been cold and sharp during our tutoring session, the same Bryan who could barely stand me half the time.

"Do you think he's always like this?" I asked, my voice soft.

Isabella snorted. "Amber, guys don't just punch people for fun. If he did this, it's because he cares. Maybe not in the 'write your name in the stars' kind of way, but he cares."

I didn't understand him, and maybe I never would.

Isabella nudged me, grinning. "You don't have to say it, but I'm telling you, Amber. He's got a soft spot for you."

"Or he just hates guys like that," I muttered, closing my eyes.

"Sure," she said, clearly unconvinced. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Her laughter followed her out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the image of Bryan standing there, defending me. And I couldn't figure out why it mattered so much.

—--

The first two weeks of November flew by in a blur of rehearsals, classes, and late nights juggling responsibilities. The kids in the ballet program were brimming with excitement for The Nutcracker. They'd begun practicing their Polichinelle choreography in earnest, and while the sessions were intense, seeing their progress made every second worth it.

As for Bryan and me? Well, something had shifted.

He wasn't nearly as impossible as he'd been at the start of the semester. There was still teasing, of course—that was just part of who he was—but it had softened into something... almost fun. He'd been surprisingly supportive lately, showing genuine interest in my auditions and even offering me unsolicited but admittedly useful advice during tutoring sessions.

And babysitting Lily? Always a highlight. Her endless energy and love for crafting made our Thursday evenings fly by. Between coloring books, Disney movie marathons, and her insistence on choreographing "secret dance routines" with me, I'd become genuinely attached to her.

But now, something loomed on the horizon that made my stomach twist with nerves: the Costa Rica trip.

We'd received an email from Señora Álvarez earlier this week, outlining the itinerary for our ten-day adventure. The schedule was packed, filled with activities that promised an immersive experiences. It sounded amazing, and under normal circumstances, I'd be counting down the days with pure excitement. But there was one tiny detail that had me absolutely dreading it.

I had to share a room with Bryan.

How had this happened? My mind replayed the moment Señora Álvarez mentioned room pairings during class. "You'll be rooming with your assigned project partner," she'd said with a bright smile, clearly thinking this arrangement was brilliant.

Brilliant for her, maybe. For me? Torture.

I wasn't even sure how Bryan felt about it. When I glanced at him after the announcement, he just raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips like he thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

The thought of sharing a room with him for ten days made my stomach churn. He was always so laid-back, so annoyingly confident, and the idea of being stuck in close quarters with him—his teasing, his presence, his stupid tattoos—felt like a recipe for disaster.

If there was one bright spot on the horizon, it was my birthday. December 7th.

Since we'd be leaving for Costa Rica just a few days before, Isabella had taken it upon herself to plan a small celebration the weekend before we departed. She'd been secretive about the details, but knowing her, it would probably involve karaoke, cake, and a lot of embarrassing moments she'd orchestrate for her own amusement.

It was hard to believe how quickly the semester was moving. Between rehearsals, classes, babysitting, and now preparing for this trip, I barely had time to breathe. But I couldn't deny it—I felt... good.

Even with the impending chaos of Costa Rica, something about this moment in my life felt exciting. Scary, yes, but exciting.

And maybe, just maybe, I'd survive sharing a room with Bryan Munzo.

Maybe.