Dinner was soft conversation, easy chewing, reruns ofReina de Corazonesplaying low on the old TV in the living room. They talked aboutTake the Floor. Her mom was obsessed. Of course she was. In Holly’s experience, Latin mothers loved two things more than anything: telenovelas and asking invasive questions.
“So.” Her mom sighed, settling back like the effort had finally caught up to her. Holly reached for her glass, throat tight, pretending not to notice. Her mom took a bite of chicken. “This Nate…”
Holly could just imagine that Joker gif, with Heath Ledger gesturing like a deranged band conductor.
And here we go.
“He’s just my dance partner,” Holly said, too quickly.
“Mmhmm. He dances like he wants to die on your hips.”
Holly almostchoked on her rice.
Her mom sipped herAgua de Jamaicalike she hadn’t just lobbed a verbal grenade. “What? I have eyes. And I havetaste. That man is…tall.”
“Mamá,” Holly groaned.
“I’m just saying,” she continued, lifting one hand like she was praising a higher power. “He looks at you like he already loves you. That scares you, doesn’t it?”
The silence that followed was louder than the TV. Louder than her fork scraping her plate. Louder than the ache Holly had been ignoring since the moment she saw him.
“We’re focused on the win. That’s it. We’re not…”
She trailed off. Couldn’t finish the lie.
Her mom didn’t press. Just finished her dinner like she hadn’t gutted her daughter with a sentence. Holly eventually stood, taking their plates to the sink before her mom could see the crack in her composure.
Behind her, she heard her mom sigh again. And then,that cough.Wet, heavy, and sharp. Holly froze with one hand on the faucet, the other clenched tight.
It passed, and her mom laughed it off. “Too much pepper.”
Bullshit.But Holly pretended she believed the lie. Like she wasn’t doing nightly math in her head, calculating chemo bills, grocery lists, and shoe repair costs while trying to choreograph a goddamn fairytale for cameras.
She dried the dishes in silence. Her mom curled up on the couch, blanket around her shoulders, pretending not to be exhausted. By the time Holly turned off the lights and kissed her forehead goodnight, her mom was already asleep. Hollylingered in the doorway. Watched her chest rise and fall. Quiet.Fragile.
“I’ve got you, Mamá,” she whispered. “I swear.”
Outside, the air was cool against her skin. East Hollywood never looked glamorous, but it knew how to dream. The Hollywood sign twinkled in the distance like a cruel promise, just visible over the rooftops from this angle. Same as it had been her whole life. She didn’t have time for dreams. For distractions. For Nate fucking Eriksson. But her body hadn’t gotten the memo, and her heart? Her heart saidlet’s risk it all for vibes.
Holly didn’t go home. She walked until the sky turned the color of unresolved feelings and she ended up back at the studio lot. She buzzed herself in, kicked off her sneakers, and padded barefoot across the darkened rehearsal space.
The mirrors caught her like they always did, with a judgmental eye that left her feeling raw. Luckily, she was a performer. She knew how to hold herself like she wasn’t breaking. How to smile and justkeep on keepin’ on, dancing like her life depended on it. Because it did.
She flicked on one strip of lights. Just enough to see herself, but not enough to see… other things she wasn’t ready to deal with. Her feet whispered against the floor as she ran the Quickstep routine again. Again. And again. Until sweat dampened her hairline, her chest, her spine. Until her body trembled not from effort, but from the weight ofeverything.
She didn’t hear the door open or notice the shift in air pressureuntil a shadow moved in the corner of her vision. And then a voice, low and rough, close enough to scrape against her spine.
“You’re gonna twist your ankle doing that turn alone.”
Her pulse stuttered like a scratched record. She didn’t stop moving. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I don’t remember inviting commentary,” she said, breath tight. She’d worked with models. Athletes. Men who looked like sculptures and moved like dreams. Buthim?
Nate Eriksson was something else entirely.
He was big in a way that short-circuited thought; shoulders like a linebacker, arms carved with ink. His hoodie couldn’t hide the cut of him, long lines and heavy muscle wrapped in lazy posture, every inch radiating leashed aggression.
When he moved?God help her.He didn’t dance like a pro. He danced like a fighter, like his body dared her to keep up. And his eyes? Those cold, glacier-blue eyes saw everything. They didn’t flirt. Theyunmade.
“I was on my way home,” he said. “Saw the light on.”
