@BallroomBaddies on TikTok:
CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW HOLLY IS A WORLD CHAMPION AND THEY KEEP GIVING HER PARTNERS WHO ARE LIKE rhythm allergic like babe she is NOT a rehab facility for emotionally constipated men
#saveholly2026 #takethefloor
Mamá
Hola mija did you stretch before rehearsal today don’t forget to ice after and eat something with real protein I’m doing okay the nurses are very sweet and one of them says she used to watch you dance she couldn’t believe you’re my daughter I told her you shine on and off the stage love you always x
Holly
Yeah, I stretched, Ma. Love you so much. I’ll come by this week. Let me know if you need anything x
3
WELCOME TO THE THIRST TRAP OLYMPICS
Nate
“She’s got Ice Queen energy and I’m a human penalty box. … this is fine.”
His studio-provided apartment smelled like the ghost of bougie oat milk and influencer desperation. The ceiling fan whined. The air was too warm, too clean, and toofake. Like someone had feng shui’d the place and then sprayed it with Lysol.
Nate slumped deeper into the leather couch, muscles stiff from the flight. He scrolled mindlessly through his phone, a sweating beer he was barely interested in drinking in his other hand. No call from Sully. No new chirps in the team group chat.Outta sight, outta mind.
I hate it here already.
His hair was still damp from the long-ass shower he’d taken, like maybe he could scrub off the shame of being sent to LA like a bad boy mailed to a glitter prison. He took a swig of the beer and instantly regretted it.
Then—ping.
Email from:Take the Floor– Production Team
Subject:Welcome to Season 12
Nate’s thumb hesitated, like maybe he didn’t really want to know after all. Like maybe if he just delayed the inevitable for a while longer, he could pretend like none of this was happening.
Then he tapped.
Holly
“I’ve seen that exact same jawline on Greek statues. And at disciplinary hearings.”
Across town, Holly curled deeper into the corner of her emerald-green velvet couch. Her hair was twisted into a towel turban, a face mask working its kiwi-fruit magic. The iPad balanced on her knees played a highlight reel of her own greatest hits. Last season’s rumba, the year she made it to the finals. The time the judges gave her a set of perfect tens, and she smiled like her heart hadn’t exploded under the weight of it all.
She pressed rewind. Again. The kettle clicked off behind her, but she didn’t move. This was her pre-show ritual; her reminder that no matter whatever else happened this year, she’d worked hard to be here. Now she just had to hope thatshe could get her blunt-force-trauma season partner to toe the line.
Ping.
The notification blinked at the top of her screen, and she tapped it on autopilot.
Email from:Take the Floor– Production Team
Subject:Welcome to Season 12
Nate
Nate’s eyes scanned the glossy image that loaded slow as hell on hotel Wi-Fi, like even the universe was bracing for the chaos. He scrolled through all the other pairings, looking for his own face. Waiting to see what the damage was going to be. And then there she was.
