6
ONE RUMBA CLOSER TO A BREAKDOWN
Holly
“Dancing with Nate Eriksson is like negotiating with a broken refrigerator. But occasionally he spins like a dream, and I hate it here.”
By day three, Holly had reached the fifth stage of reality show grief: quiet resignation. Denial had died around minute seven of the first rehearsal, rage burned itself out somewhere between take seventeen and ‘step-ball-change my ass,’ and bargaining didn’t survive past his attempt to bribe her with a protein bar and that infuriating, lopsided grin of his.
So here she was. Somewhere between tolerance and full-body tension. Watching Nate Eriksson spin clumsily toward her with the lumbering grace usually reserved for drunk uncles at weddings. Telling herself calmly and professionally that she could weather this.
Because it was getting better.Technically.
He still moved like he was wearing shoulder pads, but he was in time now and his steps were cleaner. He was finally spotting his turns without looking like he was about to throw up. Andwhen he wasn’t mouthing off or smirking at her like a walking ad for OnlyFans, he actually seemed to be listening.
“Don’t lead with your arm,” she said, snapping her fingers to the beat. “Lead with your chest. One side in front, always. Tighten your core,” she told him, with a light back-handed slap to his abs that made him straighten. “Rotate your shoulders first for momentum. Use yourcenter,not your biceps. You’re doing a Rumba, not rushing a penalty kill, Nate.”
He smirked at her in the mirror. “You sure?”
She glared at him, refusing to let his easy charm penetrate her emotional stronghold. Because he was improving. He was trying. And she hated howsatisfyingthat was. They’d been dancing in two-hour blocks with minimal murder attempts, and while their Rumba was far from perfect, there was something there now. A click beneath her sternum when he moved in sync with her, body heat radiating between them like it had an old score to settle.
She adjusted the volume on the speaker, restarted the track, and turned back toward the mirror just in time for him to close the gap. And that’s when it happened. He took her hand and spun her cleanly, goddammit. She landed just a hair too close, his newly found momentum pressing them together for half a second too long. Her curves met 6’4 of solid muscle as his hand slid instinctively to her waist, grounding them both.
Their reflections caught in the mirror. His chest heaving. Her breath hitched. She watched his gaze drop to her lips, and neither of them dared to blink while her heartbeat fluttered against the inside of her rib cage like a bird set on a jailbreak. Then he spoke. Voice low, rough, andwaytoo close to the shell of her ear.
“Just tell me where you want me.”
He was talking about the dance.
She knew that.
She knew that.
But her legs went weak anyway, and the part of her brain responsible for maintaining boundaries had the audacity to picture what else he could apply that tone to. Her back. Her thighs. The bathroom wall tile at 2 a.m.
Holly stepped back so fast she nearly overbalanced, masking it as a stretch at the last minute. Letting it be anything but the full-body betrayal she was experiencing in inconvenient places she hadn’t paid attention to for far too long.
“Back to the intro,” she said, tapping her phone to restart the track. If he noticed her voice cracking, he didn’t say anything. Just reset his stance and waited for her count-in like the good little Hammerheaded heathen he was.
Holly was fine. She was focused. She was also very much not thinking about how his hand had curved perfectly against her waist like it had every fucking right to be there. Because there were worse things going on in her life at the moment, like the push notification from the oncology center about the unpaid balance of her mother’s treatment still sitting unread on her lock screen.
The world didn’t stop just because Nate Fucking Eriksson had gotten slightly better at body rolls. She didn’t get to unravel because his hand felt good and his voice made her thighs tense and her spine forget what it meant to stand up straight. So she didn’t.
Holly spun, counted, kept her mouth shut and her back straight while her eyes were anywhere but meeting his. And when the music ended, she reset.Again.Because Holly Martinez didn’t fall. Especially not for men with abs like redemption arcs and voices like bedtime threats.
@rumbarumbarumba on Instagram:
the new b-roll of nate holding holly like she’s the last thing tethering him to this mortal plane
and her pretending she’s not INTO IT??
girl be serious
#takethefloor #nateandholly #sexualtensionfordays
@HammerheadHaunts on X:
me: i’m here for nate’s redemption arc
