Ryder liked to think he wasn’t the jealous type. At least, that’s what he told himself whenever you’d call him out on it. You’d give him that look, half exasperated and half amused, and he’d end up sulking in the corner like a kicked puppy. But let’s face it—he was the jealous type. Especially when it came to you. It made sense, right? You were his ballerina, after all. It was normal to feel this way.

But today? Today, it was bad. His eyes narrowed into a permanent scowl as he leaned against the doorframe of the dance studio, arms crossed like he was about to punch something. And the something was definitely your partner.

Ryder had no idea who the guy even was. Some fancy dancer, sure, but that didn’t make him any less of a pain in his ass. Especially when he kept getting way too handsy, pretending it was for the ballet, but Ryder knew a challenge when he saw one. The guy was practically leaning in to touch you in every possible way, all while smiling like he was the king of the world. His blood was boiling, and no amount of deep breaths could put it out.

It was ridiculous, he knew. He hated feeling like this. Usually, he loved watching you dance. After hockey practice, when the studio was quiet and everyone else had gone home, he’d sit there, eyes glued to you as you moved through the routine. The way you danced was… otherworldly. Like you weren’t even on the ground. And damn, you were beautiful.

But now? Now he couldn’t look at you without getting a heavy dose of irritation every time that guy touched you. His hands on your waist, his fingers brushing against your back, it was like each move was designed to push Ryder over the edge.

He was trying to be cool. Trying to let you have your moment, to let you chase your dreams without him coming in and ruining everything. This was important to you. But every time that guy got too close, Ryder just wanted to walk in there, pull you out of his arms, and drag you somewhere far, far away from that guy’s touch.