24 | shaky hands

SHAKY HANDS

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The morning sunlight streamed faintly through the half-drawn curtains of Diana's room, warming the sheets tangled around her legs. The muffled hum of Los Angeles traffic leaked in from outside, but it barely registered in her ears. She lay flat on her back, hair spread across the pillow, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

Her body should've felt electric, buzzing with pride. Last night had been monumental—her first 10s on Dancing with the Stars. She should have been replaying the moment when the paddles flipped up, the way the crowd erupted, the feel of celebrating with everyone. She should have been grinning, scrolling through videos and comments online, texting everyone back with joy.

Instead, her chest felt heavy, her stomach knotted.

Because as much as she wanted to relive the perfection of the dance, her mind betrayed her—dragging her back to that single moment at the end of the night.

Grayson.

The image of him standing there, arms crossed, jaw locked, eyes burning with something close to disgust, was seared into her brain. She had seen the way he looked at her in Malachi's arms. She had seen the scoff, the dismissive roll of his eyes, the way he turned his back and walked away without a word.

It replayed in loops, louder than the applause, sharper than the cheers.

She groaned softly and rolled onto her side, tugging the blanket tighter around herself, as if she could cocoon against the dread clawing at her. She should've been bouncing into rehearsal today, proud and motivated after such a breakthrough performance. Instead, every time she pictured walking into that rehearsal studio, her heart sank lower.

How was he going to act?

Would he be cold? Angry? Would he pretend nothing happened at all, flashing that same fake smile he always did after their fights, as if arguments could just be erased with denial? She didn't know which version of Grayson she'd get—and that uncertainty gnawed at her worse than anything.

Her phone buzzed softly on the nightstand.

Diana stretched an arm out, grabbing it without sitting up. The brightness of the screen stung her eyes, but she blinked through it, scrolling past the time until the little notification banners caught her attention.

A flood of messages waited for her.

The first ones were from Aspen. Her best friend had sent an avalanche of texts in all caps, complete with reaction videos, emojis, and way too many exclamation points.

babe 😘: YOU DID THAT!!!!!babe 😘: My little star is growing up!!!"

Diana couldn't help but smile faintly at the pure chaos of Aspen's excitement.

Then there were the messages from her parents. Long, heartfelt paragraphs filled her screen, words of pride and love spilling through.

mom💞: We are so proud of you. Your dance was incredible. So much passion and fire. We can't believe you got your first 10s, honey!

Diana's chest tightened, her throat prickling with guilt. She wanted to take comfort in their words, but her mind still clung to Grayson's glare.

Her thumb hovered, swiping down further.

And that's when she saw it.

One more message, simple, standing alone at the bottom of the screen.

starboy💫: good morning! have a great day at rehearsal. you've got this!

Just that. No emojis, no jokes, no over-the-top cheering. Just a quiet, steady encouragement—exactly what she hadn't realized she needed until she read it.

Her lips curved slowly, her chest loosening. For the first time since waking up, the heaviness in her body lightened just a fraction. She could picture him so clearly as she read it, his crooked smile, his soft laugh from last night when he told her not to cry. The memory of his arms around her, steady and warm, washed through her like a balm.

She read the message again. And again. Letting the words sink in until they pushed back, even slightly, against the dread.

It was enough.

Enough to make her throw the covers off, swing her legs over the edge of the bed, and plant her feet on the floor.

Enough to make her pick herself up, walk to the bathroom, and begin getting ready for the day.

Her mind was still a storm—Grayson's reaction, the arguments of the past week, the pressure of rehearsals—but tucked in the middle of it, that single message anchored her.

you've got this.

And for the first time that morning, she almost believed it.

Diana's stomach twisted the entire ride over to the rehearsal studio. She had been gripping her water bottle so tightly on the drive that the plastic had softened under her fingers. The butterflies in her stomach weren't the good kind—the ones she usually felt before stepping into rehearsals. These were heavy, frantic things, flapping with dread instead of excitement.

When she finally parked, she sat there for a moment, staring at the steering wheel, trying to will her heartbeat to slow down. Her hands were trembling as she pulled her bag from the passenger seat, the straps slipping slightly as she slung it over her shoulder.

Just breathe. It'll be fine. Maybe he's over it by now.

The mantra repeated over and over in her head as she pushed open the side door of the studio. The familiar scent of polished wood and faint cleaning supplies greeted her. The rehearsal room was empty, the mirrored wall gleaming back at her with an almost too-clear reflection of her nerves.

She was the first one there.

Diana let out a shaky exhale, moving toward the corner of the room where they always dropped their stuff. She set her bag down carefully, as though it might shatter if she wasn't gentle, and then pressed her palms against her thighs, grounding herself. She rolled her shoulders back, forcing a deep breath into her lungs.

The silence of the room was both a relief and a curse. No distractions. Just her and the storm of thoughts spinning in her mind.

Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest when she heard the door creak open.

She turned sharply, eyes snapping toward the sound, and there he was.

Her pulse spiked. Her palms went clammy.

He stepped inside casually, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his dark hair slightly messy in the way that made him look like he hadn't put much thought into it. Diana searched his face instantly, bracing for tight jaws, narrowed eyes, clipped words—anything that would hint at the way he had glared at her last night.

But none of that was there.

He looked... normal. Calm. His expression was neutral, even relaxed as he glanced at her.

Diana swallowed, her heart still hammering, but a flicker of hope sparked. Maybe this is a good sign. Maybe he really did move on from it.

She forced her lips into a smile, though it wavered at the edges. "Good morning," she said softly, praying her voice didn't betray the tremor in her chest.

Grayson looked over at her and—without hesitation—returned, "Morning." His tone was easy. Casual.

Relief trickled through her, though it wasn't enough to settle the nerves fully. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to keep things normal. "How're you feeling?" she asked, her voice careful, testing the waters.

He dropped his bag onto the floor near hers and stretched his arms above his head. "Ready for the new week," he replied with a shrug, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Diana nodded quickly, almost too quickly, the corners of her mouth twitching up. "Good. That's... good."

Silence settled after that. Not heavy like last night, but not light either. The kind of silence where she didn't know if it was safe to keep talking or better to let it linger. She rubbed her hands lightly together, trying to stop them from shaking, her eyes darting toward the mirror and then away again.

It was Grayson who finally broke it.

"I still can't believe we got two 10s," he said, the words spilling out with a laugh that was more genuine than she'd expected. His eyes flickered with something like excitement, not tension.

Diana blinked, caught off guard. She had braced herself for criticism, for coldness, for him to bring up Malachi again. But here he was, smiling about the dance.

A rush of warmth bloomed in her chest, relief mixing with pride. She let her own smile soften into something real. "You deserve it," she told him, her voice steady now. "You worked really hard."

He smiled—big and unguarded—and Diana felt the atmosphere in the room shift. The sharp edges of her dread softened, just a little.

"Thanks," he said simply, and for a moment, it almost felt like nothing had happened.

Like they were just two partners, celebrating their success, ready to take on the next week together.

But even as she let herself relax into that moment, some part of Diana stayed on edge. Because she knew how quickly things could change.

The steady hum of chatter filled the rehearsal room, only this time it wasn't just Diana and Grayson's voices bouncing off the mirrored walls. The camera crew had arrived, lenses clicking into focus, boom mics hovering like watchful birds. Their presence always shifted the atmosphere, tightening the air in a way that reminded Diana they weren't just practicing — they were building a story for millions of viewers to see.

She adjusted the hem of her workout top, glanced toward the corner where the crew had set up, then turned back to Grayson. He was leaning casually against the wall, sipping water, eyes flicking toward the cameras with a small grin that was half confidence, half nerves.

The producer off to the side gave Diana a nod. It was her cue. She clapped her hands lightly, pulling Grayson's attention fully onto her.

"Alright," she said brightly, her teacher voice slipping into place. "So, this week is a little different."

The cameras zoomed in closer, capturing the anticipation on Grayson's face.

"This week," she continued, drawing it out for effect, "is fusion week."

Grayson's brows furrowed, and he tilted his head. "Fusion week?" he echoed, clearly puzzled.

Diana smiled, already expecting the confusion. "Yeah. Fusion week means we're going to take two completely different dance styles and combine them into one routine. You'll have to switch seamlessly between them."

"Ahh," Grayson said slowly, nodding, though his eyes still held a flicker of uncertainty. "So, like... half one dance, half the other?"

"Kind of," Diana replied, stepping closer so the camera could catch them in frame together. "But the goal is to blend them so it feels natural, like one dance instead of two separate ones."

Grayson nodded again, this time a little more confidently. "Got it. Okay, what styles?"

"The first one," Diana said, pacing a few steps back so she could demonstrate, "is the waltz. Which you've already learned." She twirled gently, her feet brushing the floor in the smooth, sweeping motion that belonged to the dance. "You remember the flow, the rise and fall, the elegance."

Grayson smiled faintly, watching her. "Yeah. That one I can handle."

"Good." She stopped, her tone softening as she prepared to deliver the real challenge. "The second is one you haven't done yet... the rumba."

He blinked. "The rumba?"

"Mm-hmm." She nodded, her lips curving into a grin. "It's a Latin dance. Very slow, very sensual. A lot of hip action, a lot of controlled body movement. It's... intense."

Grayson ran a hand through his hair, muttering, "Oh boy."

Diana laughed lightly, shaking her head. "Don't worry. We'll take it step by step. You're going to be fine."

She let him breathe for a second before adding, "And we'll be dancing to 'Say You Won't Let Go.'"

Grayson's head lifted at the mention of the song, and he nodded. "Okay, I like that one. Good choice."

"Perfect," Diana said, clapping once more to reset the energy. "So let's get to it."

The cameras trailed after them as they moved into position. Diana adjusted her ponytail and gestured for Grayson to step forward.

"Alright. The rumba is very different from anything you've done. Where the waltz is elegant and sweeping, the rumba is grounded and intimate." She placed her hands on her hips and demonstrated the iconic hip action, rolling her body slowly. "See this? It's all about that controlled motion. You lead with your hips, not your feet."

Grayson watched intently, eyes narrowing as he tried to mirror her movements. His hips moved stiffly, his shoulders jerking slightly out of sync.

Diana stifled a laugh, stepping closer. "Not bad for your first try. But relax your upper body. Think smooth, not sharp. Here—" She placed her hand lightly on his chest. "Keep this steady. Let your lower half do the work."

They worked through a few basic steps — the side-to-side motion, the slow counts, the way his hand should trail her back while leading her into a turn. Diana explained patiently, layering each correction with encouragement.

"Better," she said as he smoothed out his hip motion. "See how that feels? More fluid?"

Grayson smirked. "Feels a little ridiculous, to be honest."

"It always does at first," Diana assured him with a grin. "But trust me, once you connect it with the music, it'll feel natural."

They practiced again, this time with Diana demonstrating alongside him. She guided his hand to her waist, showing him how the connection should feel. "The rumba is all about chemistry. Every move has to look intentional, like there's a story between us."

The word chemistry made Grayson's eyes flicker, but he didn't comment. He just nodded, his grip firm as they moved together.

The crew circled them, capturing close-up shots of their footwork, the way Diana's skirt swished with each turn, the focused expressions on their faces.

"Now," Diana said, pulling back slightly, "here's where the fusion comes in. We'll take the softness of the waltz, the flow, and then we'll blend it into the grounded intensity of the rumba. So it's like—" She moved into a sweeping waltz step, then seamlessly dropped into a slow, controlled rumba motion.

Grayson's eyes widened. "That looks... hard."

She laughed, shaking her head. "It looks harder than it is. The trick is keeping your frame strong for the waltz and then loosening up for the rumba. You'll have to shift gears mid-dance."

He groaned playfully. "So basically, multitasking at a professional level."

"Exactly," Diana teased.

They practiced the transition slowly, Diana counting out the beats. "One, two, three—switch. Feel that? Don't think of it as stopping one dance and starting another. Think of it as one continuous story. Smooth into it."

Grayson exhaled through his nose, concentrating. The first attempt was clunky; his waltz step collided awkwardly with the rumba rhythm, and he stumbled slightly.

Diana steadied him with a hand to his arm. "Don't worry. That's normal. Try again."

This time, he moved with more focus, his eyes locked on hers as if she was the anchor keeping him steady. The waltz flowed into the rumba step — not perfect, but smoother.

"Yes!" Diana exclaimed, her smile lighting up her face. "That's it. That's what we want."

The cameras zoomed in on the moment, catching the subtle pride in her voice and the way Grayson grinned in response.

They worked like that for the next hour, Diana alternating between explaining, demonstrating, and drilling. She walked him through a slow waltz box step, then showed him how it morphed into a rumba walk, pausing every so often to tweak the angle of his arm or the roll of his hips.

"Think of it like breathing," she coached. "Waltz is the inhale, rumba is the exhale. One leads into the other naturally."

By the time they paused for water, sweat dampened Grayson's hairline and Diana's cheeks glowed pink from the effort.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, laughing breathlessly. "This is going to kill me, isn't it?"

Diana shook her head, her grin wide. "Nope. This is going to make you look amazing."

Grayson chuckled, but there was a spark of pride in his eyes. "If you say so, coach."

And as the cameras kept rolling, capturing the back-and-forth, the laughter, and the challenge of blending two worlds into one, Diana felt the smallest flicker of relief. Because for now, at least, things were focused. Professional. Exactly where they needed to be.

dianasinclair added to her story !

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another chapter!!

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