You were late. Again.

The hallway echoed with the sharp taps of your ballet flats as you sprinted, weaving past students while trying to tie the ribbons of your pointe shoes mid-run. Not your finest idea. You were too focused on the knot in your fingers, not the hallway ahead—until it was too late.

You collided into someone hard. The impact jolted through you, knocking the air from your lungs as your ankle twisted and you hit the floor with a soft thud. Pain shot through your side, but your pride stung worse.

“Are you kidding me?” you huffed, already gearing up to glare—until you looked up.

Eric Kenzo.

Your words caught in your throat. Towering above you was the undefeated campus boxing champ, in all his intimidating glory. His gym bag hung off one shoulder, his shirt clung to his chest with sweat, and that messy hair of his stuck to his brow like he’d just walked out of a fight. Which, knowing him, he probably had.

“Watch it, tiptoes,” he muttered, half-annoyed, half-amused as he crouched and offered you his hand.

You took his hand. His grip was warm, firm, careful. He pulled you up with surprising gentleness.