Chapter 27 Almost Kissed, Fully Fucked
ALMOST KISSED, FULLY FUCKED
Nate
“I thought I was protecting her. Turns out, I just embarrassed her on national television. Love that for me.”
It was quiet as he waited at the side of the stage with Holly before their Viennese Waltz performance.
Not literally. There were still footsteps echoing behind them, production running final checks, and the warm buzz of the crowd on the other side of the curtain.
But it felt quiet. Like the moment before a storm, or the moment after a car crash.
Like everything important had already happened, and now all that was left was gravity.
Nate stood just off-center, bathed in the pre-performance glow of low amber lights and invisible expectation.
He was used to being dressed to kill, but this was a completely different game.
No pads, no helmet. He’d swapped out all his gear for a black-on-black tuxedo, bowtie sitting perfectly poised.
His black curls had been pushed back, but were already falling loose onto his forehead.
He glimpsed himself in a pre-show-check mirror and did a double-take.
Looked like Nate. Felt… so very un-Nate-like.
Because Holly was standing next to him in a dress that made her look like Ginger Rogers.
Her pastel pink gown floated with an airiness that defied gravity.
The color set off the deeper sun-warmed tone of her skin, like the kind of miracle that doesn’t happen twice.
A neckline so delicate it felt accidental.
The fabric clung like memory, brushed her ankles like a secret.
If it wasn’t for the fact that he could literally reach out and touch her, he wouldn’t have believed she was real.
And fuck, he wanted to touch her.
But she was wearing that look again. The one that said she’d rather eat glass than admit she was nervous.
He wished he could take the edge off it by saying something cocky and ridiculous and Nate-shaped.
But his mouth didn’t work right when she was like this.
The version of her he wasn’t supposed to know.
“And now, dancing the Viennese Waltz… please welcome Holly and Nate!”
He held up his hand, and she placed hers into it.
This time, he led her onto the floor as though he couldn’t wait to show her to the world.
The audience applauded with breathless anticipation so thick Nate was sure he could taste it on the air.
They found their mark, took up their position.
He took one last deep, lingering breath, and then he met her gaze.
Don’t fuck this up, Nathanael.
The music started low and ominous, a heartbeat in the dark, thick with grit and gospel.
Unholy War by Jacob Banks wasn’t a love song, it was a warning.
The staccato piano chords hit like a racing heartbeat until the drums kicked in and gave the song a vintage flavor that spoke of old scores to settle.
It was the sound of two people circling each other with everything to lose: sexy, cinematic, and just raw enough to hurt.
Not a song you danced to. A song you survived.
His hand pressed into her waist, hers pushed against his bicep to give them the leverage they needed to maintain their momentum.
Their connection was strong and immediate, and Nate reveled in the warmth of her skin and her elegant movement as they swirled along the dance floor as if they were each dancing with their own private demons represented in each other.
The Viennese Waltz didn’t give you time to think. You had to trust. You had to let go. And from the outside, that’s what it looked like they were doing. Floating, breathing together. Every rotation a confession. Every step a promise to be there. But Nate wasn’t floating. He was drowning.
Because it wasn’t a performance anymore. Not for him.
Not with the way she softened when he spun her under his arm and then waited for her to come back to hold again.
Not with the way her hand rested so lightly on his arm, yet felt like fate.
And absolutely fucking not with the way her gaze kept flicking to his mouth, like she was thinking about something she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about.
The music stopped at the perfect moment, creatively edited to give a sharp ending like a heartbeat held hostage.
Nate threw his weight forward in that suspended second, cradling Holly in his arms for a dip that was aggressive as it was desperate.
They stopped on a dime in what would have been a classic Hollywood-esque kissing pose, but this version of it was soaked in aged whiskey and pure need.
The crowd erupted with sharp gasps and a ripple of breathless noise that surged like a wave crashing the stage.
Someone in the front row clapped a hand over their mouth.
No one was breathing, and every eye was on them in a moment that looked so raw and so unscripted, it could only possibly end one way.
Her breath hit his mouth like a dare. Her lips were parted, her eyes locked on his like they were the only two people left in a world that never made sense to begin with. There wasn’t a cue for this. This wasn’t in the goddamn routine. She was going to fucking kiss him on live TV.
Fuck. Every muscle in Nate’s body braced like he was about to get hit. Every instinct screamed don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t scare her off. Because he wanted it. Wanted her more than he’d wanted anything that didn’t come with laces and ice.
He wanted to fall forward and claim her in front of the entire world and stop pretending that this wasn’t killing him. Every nerve in his body screamed for it. His pulse roared in his ears. His hand at her waist tightened without permission.
But he didn’t move. He held. Stopped. Just a breath before their lips met.
It wasn’t enough to be noticed. Anyone watching would think it was perfectly planned. Only Holly would feel that half-second hesitation. The space he didn’t let her cross.
He didn’t mean it to be cruel. He just didn’t want her to throw herself to the wolves for something he couldn’t quite believe she actually wanted.
Because in what fucking parallel universe did a woman like Holly Martinez want him?
Sure, he’d had flings. Models. Influencers.
The type who thought he was fun for a weekend and a story to tell their girlfriends about over mimosas.
It was impossible to believe Holly’d want him outside of the show environment.
This couldn’t be a real kiss. Not with the cameras, the pressure, the pretending. And if he kissed her now, taking it when it wasn’t truly offered, he’d lose her for sure. So he didn’t. Nate let the moment pass and felt the loss of her when she pulled back from him.
He’d felt it the second he stopped the kiss. A whisper of restraint, a breath of distance that landed like a slap. Her body hadn’t missed a beat.
Holly’s eyes shuttered, her mouth closed. She didn’t break frame, but the tension she usually carried came crashing back into her. Her softness was gone. The trust vanished like smoke. Her smile was camera-ready. But her eyes? Her eyes were fucking furious.
Nate helped her stand and stepped back, one hand held out in a gesture of gratitude to her as the cameras panned in.
Holly was already half a step away, chin up, eyes glittering with performative charm.
The soft flush on her cheeks could've passed for post-dance adrenaline, but he knew better. She wasn’t glowing, she was seething.
The applause was deafening, wild and adoring and utterly unaware that his chest felt like it had been ripped open on live television. Because all Nate could feel was the space between their mouths where a kiss should’ve been.
And then Indie barreled in like a sequined wrecking ball.
“Well, if that didn’t just rewrite the definition of intimacy, I don’t know what will!” She shoved a microphone between them, beaming like a gremlin on sugar. “Guys, that was gorgeous.”
She gestured to the crowd, which was still howling like they’d just witnessed a proposal. “The movement! The control! The almost-kiss! I mean, was that scripted? Or are you two trying to kill us?”
Holly’s mouth twitched into something that looked like a smile but had the soul of a death glare.
Nate cleared his throat. His voice came out low and too calm. “I mean, what can I say? Holly’s choreography is everything.”
“Come on,” Indie crowed, like she knew a secret. “That was a moment! Don’t be humble. That was the softest, sexiest thing I’ve seen in twelve seasons of this show!”
The cameras zoomed. Nate smiled. Dead inside. RIP dignity.
Indie was still shaking her head. “I can’t deal, y’all. Okay, let’s do this. Chantreuse?”
The fashionista pursed her lips as though savoring the last bite of dessert. “Darling, I need someone to call the fire marshal because that floor is smoking.”
Laughter from the crowd.
“But truly,” she continued, “that was a masterclass in restraint. Every brush, every look. The choreography was deceptively simple, but emotionally devastating. Nate, your lines were perfect! Holly, you're a miracle worker. It’s a 9 from me.”
The audience roared.
Muffy Duncan was already nodding along with her fellow judge before the camera even cut to her.
She leaned into her mic, glasses low on her nose.
“When this pairing was announced, I was expecting a hot mess. But what you two delivered tonight was… real. There were some minor foot placement issues, a slight loss of axis in some of your rotations, but I barely noticed because I was busy feeling things. 9.”
Indie was beaming and nodding as the audience continued their applause. “High praise! Bring us home, Stan!”
Stan adjusted his tie. “Technically? That was your cleanest performance to date. Emotional integrity? Off the charts. I’ve been watching couples fake chemistry for this show for a decade.”
He looked them dead in the eye.
“Whatever this is? It’s not fake. I think you two have a real chance at winning this season, and I can’t wait to see what you do next. 10.”
The crowd exploded.
The host squealed. “A total score of 28 out of 30! Nate, Holly, how does that feel?”
Nate opened his mouth, but he couldn’t make anything come out.
What he should’ve said was something about gratitude, hard work, and how proud he was of the routine.
Instead, all he could think about was how she’d leaned in and he’d fucking stopped it.
No one would ever know the truth of what didn’t happen except the two of them, and Holly wouldn’t even look at him.
So Nate just stood there and let Holly say something perfect for prime-time, breathless and aching and so fucking sure he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.
@waltzwithmepls on X:
nate eriksson just invented edging on live tv
#takethefloor #hollyandnate #viennesewrecked
Jaime
brICK!!!
you didn’t kiss her???
what the actual emotional celibacy is going on??
are you a fucking MONK bro???
if you tell me you’ve started doing yoga and drinking oat milk like its your religion, I’ll know you’re lost to LA forever
Nate
I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING!
Jaime
you’re a moron, dude, that’s what’s fucking happening
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In a season packed with chemistry, Holly and Nate delivered the most emotionally charged performance yet. Then detonated the fandom with a single almost-kiss. Was it restraint, miscommunication, or heartbreak in real time? Our source on set says… READ MORE →