also me: is holly okay bc if that man looked at me like THAT i would have to lie down
#ttf12 #hockeytohotstepper #enemiestoloversconfirmed
TTF Discord:
: rumba is actually… good??
: they had a Moment™
: she said “use your center” and he did and now I need a cigarette
: if they make it to week 5, we’re gonna need intimacy coordinators
7
THIS WASN’T IN THE SCRIPT, YOUR HONOR
Nate
“I’ve had concussions that rattled me less than on spin with her in that dress.”
Backstage at week one was chaos dressed in sequins. The air was thick with hairspray and sweat and the sharp chemical bite of spray tan, like someone had bottled anxiety and spritzed it on everyone for luck. Crew members swarmed with headsets and clipboards, calling cues like battlefield coordinates, while lighting rigs hummed overhead and monitors flickered with live shots from the floor.
Couples paced in corners, whispering last-minute instructions to each other, smiles already preloaded for the camera like weapons. A guy nearby was doing last-second ankle rolls with muttered prayers. Across the set, a costume handler was reattaching rhinestones with the intensity of a heart surgeon.
He could feel the entire building holding its breath between beats, like the show wasn’t entertainment so much as a machine that demanded nerves as tribute. The live audience filled the set, voices blending together into a low, continuous roll of thunder.
Nate stood in the middle of it all in his too-tight costume shirt and too-new dance shoes. He had the distinct sensation he’d accidentally wandered into a glittery Hunger Games arena where the only rule was to look perfect, even if you’re dying. He was already sweating, and it wasn’t just because of the heat radiating from the lights. It wasHolly.
She was in costume now. Deep red, low back, high slit. A dress that looked like it had been sewn directly onto her body by someone who wanted to punish the male gaze. Her hair was loose, styled into Jessica Rabbit-esque waves that made him think of gangsters and speakeasies. He couldn’t process her makeup, because if he looked too long at her smoky eyes and red lips, he might just combust.
“Holly. Nate. You’re on in two.”
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. With absolutely no warning, she was standing in front of him. Stepping into his space like she’d bought the rights to it, reaching up to adjust the open collar of his shirt with steady fingers and a mouth set in an unreadable line. They waited in the dark, cozy space at the side of the stage, waiting for their entrance cue.
“Don’t make me regret this,” she murmured, not looking at him as though if she did, she might flinch. Or melt.God, she was fucking hot.Like fire coral that you still wanted to touch, even if it meant begging someone to pee on you later to take the edge off the burn.
“Define regret,” he said, voice lower than it should’ve been, rough around the edges. “Because I already feel some things I probably shouldn’t.”
Her fingers hesitated at his neck. Just for a second. Then her gaze lifted to his. Cool, unflinching, daring him to mean it.
He leaned in before he could stop himself. Just a breath. Just enough to feel the hum of her next exhale on his cheek. His lips hovered a whisper from hers, close enough to taste cherry gloss and poor decisions. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Her eyes flicked down to his mouth, then back to his.
Invitation. Temptation.Sanctioned violence.He was going to kiss her. Right here, under the fucking fluorescents and stage-light spill, in front of techs and interns and a thousand tiny cameras aimed at the wings.
“Holly! Nate! You’re up!” a voice called from stage right.
The moment detonated. She stepped back fast and clean, professionalism snapping into place like a mask. Her face was unreadable, but he could still see her pulse thudding high in her throat. She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the curtain as though nothing had happened.
They walked onto the stage, the audience roaring as their names were announced like the start of a grudge match. He couldn’t stop staring at the sway of her hips. Couldn’t stop hearing her breath in his ear, remembering the shape of their almost-kiss like it had carved a mark on his mouth.
The lights were low. Smoke curled at the edges of the stage like a summoned spirit. And then the first notes of their track hit. Low, sultry, aching. It was a well-known Latin dance cover ofWicked Gameby Chris Isaak,with synth notes underpinned by a devilishly seductive Rumba beat. No guitar riffs. It was stripped back, bleeding vulnerability through every chord. Nate barely heard the audience. Barely registered the cameras. All he could see was Holly.
She walked like sin draped in silk, every step a dare, every step choreographed chaos. He wasn’t built for softness or trainedfor grace, but the second her hand touched his chest it was like gravity rewrote itself.
Holly moved first. They’d planned it like that, so he’d be able to start his count and catch up. And he did. Nate stepped into the lead she’d made room for, anchoring them in the rhythm that dragged him under like a current. Every move was smoother than it should’ve been, sharper than rehearsal, lit from the inside with something that felt real. Feltraw.
They circled each other. Her fingertips skimmed his chest, deliberate, a tease of touch designed to burn. His hand found her waist and stayed there, grip firm enough to bruise. She rolled her hips against his like sheknewhe was seconds from coming undone.
