nate eriksson is auditioning for the role of ‘problem i’d forgive repeatedly’
Take the Floor: Confidential
(post-show interview reels)
Interviewer:“Lars, you’ve been watching the competition heat up. What did you think of Holly and Nate’s Quickstep?”
Lars (smiling thinly):“Well… I always knew Holly had a way of bringing out the best in her partners. Even the… unpolished ones. So I’m happy she’s getting a chance to shine again. Truly. And Nate? He’s clearly… enthusiastic. That counts for something.”
He sips his water. Then, with a shrug and that signature Danish smirk:
“It’s just a shame she’s always attracted to chaos. But then again, I guess some women like fixer-uppers.”
END CLIP.
16
WE DON’T TALK ABOUT TIVOLI
Holly
“Don’t read into it. I gave him a bite of garlic bread and half a trauma dump. That’s just manners.”
The studio reeked of stale ambition, overstretched hamstrings, and the frustration that only came from trying to teach a six-foot-four hockey bruiser the difference between ‘attack’ and ‘annihilate.’
“I said featherlight, notfreight train,” Holly snapped, slamming pause on the music so hard the speaker popped.
Nate threw his hands up. “Iwaslight!”
“You’re never light. You are gravity with biceps.”
He flashed her a lopsided grin, like being called a dancing black hole was a compliment. His shirt clung to him, soaked in sweat and sin. The thick line of his thigh flexed under his black Latin practice wear pants as he shifted his weight, smirk deepening like he knew her eye had dropped to track hisassets.
Bastard.
“You know,” he drawled, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were checking me out.”
She narrowed her gaze, ever-ready to jump in and put him in his place. “I check out disasters all the time. Doesn’t mean I want to pop on my ruby slippers, climb inside the wreckage, and flee Kansas.”
He laughed, deep and smug. Holly had to physically turn away and press her tongue to the roof of her mouth as a control mechanism. It was either that, or say something that’d get them both kicked off the show and canceled on Twitter.
Instead, she reset the track. “Again. From the top. This time, try not to fuck it up like you’re doing it on purpose.”
“You’re a tiny dictator in heels with a vendetta,” he muttered, rolling his neck, before his arctic gaze cut to her. “I fuckin’ love it.”
Holly rolled her eyes and restarted their track.
The music was stripped-down strength; soft piano over bruised vocals, building into something raw and defiant. It wasn’t a song she usually moved to. There were no crisp chasses, no syncopated turns or playful flicks. This week was contemporary, all breath and pain and reach, and Holly could already feel the tightness in her chest.
She was a technician by nature, sharp and rhythmic, trained in control and clean lines. Contemporary was chaos in a different way—emotional, expansive, dangerously unstructured. And as much as she hated to admit it, she was nervous. This wasn’t her arena. It was like stepping into someone else’s skin and hoping it didn’t show.
But Nate seemed to be doing okay. Despite her needling, he really was dancing so much better. And if Holly allowed herself a flicker of satisfaction at the way his hold had improved, at the way his gaze stayed locked on hers through the spin? Well. No one had to know.
She caught movement near the doorway and felt her spine go rigid.
Sophie Laurent. The show’s Executive Producer.
The woman was perched in the doorway wearing heels that probably cost more than Holly’s rent, clipboard in hand, lips pursed in that fake-nice smile she wore when she was plotting a PR stunt or a public execution. The fact that Lars wasn’t far behind her, leaning against the far wall in the corridor outside with his arms crossed and that smug, lazy smirk only confirmed it.
