DON’T FALL, DON’T FALL—SHIT
Nate
“Put me on the long-term injury list, boys. I’m emotionally concussed and cock-first in love.”
It wasn’t just another show night. Nate could tell the second he saw Holly backstage, because he’d never seen her look like this. Her hair was down, cascading like silk over her shoulders. There was no precisely applied makeup, just a classically understated look that left her looking soft and vulnerable in a way that made his throat tighten uncomfortably when she glanced his way.
“What’s your fucking problem?” she asked, reaching into the little black shoe bag she always brought with her to the side of the stage.
There she was.
Sharp tongue, arched brow, already daring him to push back. But she was different now. Ever since the prop closet, she’d treated him the same as always, but something had shifted. There was a softness around the edges now. She'd left a piece of her armor behind in that tiny, mothball-ridden room. It’d hit the floor like a secret, and now it lived between them…quiet, unspoken, and impossible to ignore. And fuck if he wasn’t determined to help her find a way to set down the rest of it too.
Contemporary wasn’t her world. She’d told him that in their first rehearsal for the week, with the defensive humor she wielded like a blade."I’m not a lyrical girl, alright? I don’t do vulnerable. You want ballet hands and deep-seated trauma, call literally any white woman with an MFA and a tragic ex-boyfriend."
But she'd choreographed something anyway. She’d built the number like a fortress, embracing every beat with intent. The choreography was a scaffold of clean lines, sharp shapes, and softness exactly where it would matter the most. Where the steps got fluid, she layered in story, knowing full well what the audience would focus on if she and Nate sold the tension right. Their fake dating arc had momentum now, and this performance?
It was meant to throw gasoline on it and light the fucking match.
Still, he could tell she was worried. Not of the dancing, because he knew well enough by now that Holly didn’t fear sweat, or work, or even pain. Shit, she had more resilience than half of the Hammerheads put together. But this number asked for them to expose themselves, and even with all her careful choreography he could tell she was terrified of looking weak in front of a room full of people already waiting to devour her cracks.
Holly’s hand stilled in her shoe bag and she froze, brows pulling tight as her hand fumbled. She felt around again, slower this time, like she didn’t trust herself… and then all the blood drained from her face asher lips parted with a sharp inhale.
“No,” she whispered desperately.“No, no, no, no?—”
Nate’s hand was on the small of her back in an instant as he leaned down toward her, instincts flaring like someone had just dropped a pair of gloves right at his feet.
“Holly?” His voice cracked sharper than he meant it to. “What’s wrong?Hey.Talk to me. What is it?”
But she didn’t answer. Just stared at her shoe bag like it had betrayed her and upended the entire bag onto the floor.
The shoes hit the ground like evidence. The satin uppers had been ripped clean through in jagged, deliberate slices. One heel was snapped off entirely, the other caved in like someone had stomped on it for fun. It was carnage in designer ballroom form, and Holly stared at it like she couldn’t breathe.
The hand not steadying her clenched on instinct. His heart kicked hard against his ribs as the sick realization landed.This was retaliation for the fucking shirt.
She’d chosen those shoes for this number on purpose. Not the lyrical ones with the flexible sole and suede pads. The ballroom heels. Her old reliables. Nate recognized it for what it was. A way to anchor herself in the moment by keeping something solid beneath her when everything else threatened to tip.
Some fucking asshole had taken that away from her. And Nate had a pretty good ideawho,but he’d deal with that later when his dance partner wasn’t about to implode.
“It’s okay Martinez, it’s gonna be fine, just breathe,” he coached her, because her eyes wereglassy and he could feel she was three seconds away from a panic attack. He scoured his mind for something—anything—he could say to snap her out of it.Fuck, fuck, fuck.What would be the one thing that would bring him back to earth if someone had fucked his skates right before puck drop?
A stagehand nearby announcing their names for call time made Holly look away from him and stiffen with fear.
“Hey,” he murmured, using one thick finger to gently turn her face back to his. “Don’t worry. Let’s just get you a new pair of shoes, and then?—”
Her head snapped up and she glared at him like he was a total fucking moron.
“I can’t justwear new shoes, Nate,” she snapped, and he was so relieved he could have kneeled at her feet like a fool. The instant she saw his reaction, she clocked what he’d just done for her. Her lips parted slightly, her gaze flickering over her face as though she couldn’t find a safe place to land.
“Holly and Nate, two-minute call!”
Holly shuddered. “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed in a whisper, as if she was scared that anyone but him might hear her. And that?Thatbroke his chest right the fuck open and carved her name across his heart. He closed the space between them with a steady exhale, letting her cling to him as his thumb swiped a slow, soothing arc across her lower back.
“Wear the lyrical shoes.”
She pulled away, just enough to look up at him like he was crazy, but he was already shaking his head at her.
“I know you say you’re not good at this, that it’s not your thing,” he told her, holding her gaze so she wouldn’t spiral any further. “But that’s not true, Holly. It’snot,”he reiterated firmly, cutting her off when she started to argue. “That’s your perception, and I get why you feel that way. But you’ve painted a picture with this dance. It aches in all the right places. It speaks from the heart.”
