Applause.
He was hit with the slow, sinking realization that he was about to perform the most intimate dance in the ballroom canon with a woman who couldn’t even meet his eyes.
The lights dimmed to a low, sultry red. Smoke curled along the floor as a single pin spotlight tracked their steps, casting them in shadow like the set of some midnight, back-alley tango bar. The scene was built for seduction,for hunger.And Holly was the fucking centerpiece of all of it.
She always was.
Her dress clung in crimson silk, split high to reveal long, lethal legs and heels sharp enough to kill. Black lace kissed her collarbones, wrapping around her like a promise with an edge. Her hair was swept back into a sleek chignon that left her neck bare and elegant, the curve he’d dreamed of tasting. She looked like fire dressed for execution. And suddenly, Nate had no idea how he was supposed to survive this dance without burning alive.
They’d dressed him to play the part. Black trousers tailored to menace, a charcoal shirt with rolled sleeves and an undone collar suggesting casual competence. But none of it felt like armor. Not with her standing inches away like she was bracing for a storm he’d caused. Nate felt less like a leading man and more like a ghost trying not to haunt the room too loudly. The music started. A popular Dancesport rendition ofBad Guyby Billie Eilish remixed by DJ Ice.
How fucking fitting that song felt now.
They stepped into frame, her fingers pressing insistently into his armpit and his hand finding the curve of her lower backwith a touch that barely registered. They moved as one, the choreography precise and razor-sharp. Snapping footwork, clean pivots, staccato walks that crackled with theatrical precision. The crowd responded instantly, pulled into the illusion, all feeding off the tension they’d rehearsed to exhaustion.
But underneath the polish, Nate felt hollow. Like he was dancing inside a memory already fading, trying to hold on to something that had already slipped through his hands. But it wasn’t them. Notthemthe way they’d been. Not rooftop-ruthless. Not hospital-soft. Not couch-wrecked and shower-soaked, and dancing like they didn’t care who knew.
It was choreography without heart. Performance without presence. Beautiful. Impressive. Hollow. And worst of all? It was exactly what he deserved. There was no spark, just chilled perfection. As though someone had programmed them tosimulatechemistry. Like passion was an app they’d downloaded, but forgot to open.
Holly moved like a goddess engineered in a lab. Flawless, precise, magnetic from every angle. And him? He kept up. Hit every step. Matched every accent, every line. Caught her when he was supposed to, turned her when he had to, held her when the choreography demanded.
She executed a perfect contra check, body arching away before snapping back into his frame with practiced ease. Her breath brushed his neck as her leg slotted effortlessly between his. Her fingers tightened slightly on his hand as she shifted weight into the next pivot.
It should’ve melted him, but now it felt like dancing with a stranger who wore her skin like armor. She wasn’t there with him. She was dancing for the audience. For the version of ‘them’ people were so desperate to believe in. The version that had been theirs for just a few perfect moments before the pressure of real life had fucking snatched it back.
They reached the final bars of the music, and they executed a series of pivots with the sort of precision that should’ve made hearts race before sliding into a long, slow drag into the explosion of their final pose. It was an endingdesignedto feel like foreplay in disguise. Him leaning slightly down towards her. Holly’s body snapping to his so their lips were inches apart with her hand finding his jaw, fingers splayed like he was an itch she justhadto scratch.
But when Holly whipped toward him with her signature deadly precision, it was with the care of a professional dancer.Not a lover.Not the woman who’d gasped his name against his mouth just a few nights ago. Picture-perfect. Sotechnicallybeautiful it should’ve been electrifying. And colder than any rink he’d ever played in.
Applause thundered through the studio, bright and hollow. Lights burned hot in his eyes, and someone let out a whistle from the balcony that was sharp and enthusiastic, but meaningless. Holly peeled away from him with that same spine-straight poise that made judges fawn and fans scream, beaming for the cameras like he wasn’t burning for her where everyone could see it.
His lungs burned from the raw, choking effort of pretending itdidn’t matter.Of standing tall while everything inside him caved in. The cameras swept past, the crowd still clapping, the judges scribbling on their notepads like none of it meant a damn thing. And maybe it didn’t, to them. But to Nate, it was everything. In that moment, under blaring lights on live fucking television.He knew.
He didn’t care about what she hadn’t said. He’d rather lose the show than lose her. And right now, he was doingboth.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Holly and Nate!” Indie crowed, like she hadn’t just watched a man bleed out in real time. “That was a Tango and a half, folks! Sultry, sharp, and so controlled I swear I could feel Stan twitching from across the room! Stan?”
Nate forced himself forward, edging himself into place beside Holly, who didn’t even glance his way.
Stan lifted a brow for dramatic effect, winding up the crowd with uncomfortable silence before he spoke.“Technically,”he said at last, dragging the word like it bored him, “it was impeccable. Lines were clean. Footwork was tight. Transitions, seamless.” The eagle-eyed judge sat forward in his chair, folding his hands on the desk in front of him as he peered at Holly and Nate. “But emotionally? I’ve seen more chemistry between two IKEA bookshelves.”
The audience booed, telling the viewers at home that Holly and Nate were still firm-favorites, at least here in the studio.
“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking,” Stan added with a shrug, unrepentant. “It looked good. But it didn’tfeelgood. 7 from me, this week.”
Chantreuse was next, drumming her killer manicure on the desk in front of her as she stared at them like she was deciding whether to buy it.
“Well,” she said, voice warm and crisp, “I disagree with Stan…slightly.”She smiled at them. “I thought the musicality was quite lovely. The shaping, particularly in the final eight counts, was gorgeous. Nate, your frame has comeso farsince week one. And Holly, you’re clearly doing everything you can to pull the best out of him.”
He wasn’t touching her, but he sensed Holly tensing beside him all the same. Nate almost reached for her, but stopped himself at the last moment.
Chantreuse continued, a knowing brow hiked up for their benefit. “But Idoagree... it felt a little disconnected tonight. And that’s okay. Not every performance has to be fireworks. Sometimes you have to strip it back. Reconnect with the foundation. It’s a 7 from me tonight.”
Translation: You’re slipping. Don’t let it show.
Then came Muffy, bless her chaos. “I mean…” she drawled, dragging the word out like it owed him money. “Youlookedhot. Nate, that suit is giving‘gentleman hitman who knows where the bodies are buried.’”
Laughter rippled through the room.
