28 | halloween week

HALLOWEEN WEEK

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The first thing Diana noticed when she opened her eyes was the heaviness sitting in her chest. It wasn't exhaustion, though her body still felt weighted from the long night. It wasn't nerves exactly either—not the butterflies she normally got before rehearsals. No, this was different. It was dread.

She blinked against the weak morning light filtering in through the half-closed blinds of her bedroom, the soft gray glow of early Los Angeles daylight. She stayed still for a moment, listening. The apartment was quiet, but her stomach twisted anyway.

Because quiet meant time was running out. And today, like it or not, she had to face Grayson again.

The memory of their fight backstage replayed in her mind like a film she didn't want to watch again. The harshness in his voice, the blame in his words, the way he had looked at her like she was the enemy instead of his partner—it all lingered, unsettled, unresolved. And now, today, there was no avoiding him. Eleven a.m., studio call time. The thought made her throat tighten.

Finally, with a slow exhale, Diana pushed the blankets back and sat up. She rubbed her face with both hands, willing herself to wake up, to shake off the unease. Her feet found the soft rug beside her bed, grounding her, and she stood, stretching slightly before making her way out of the bedroom.

She headed towards the kitchen, grabbing herself a glass of water. She paused, only for a second, when she saw him.

Malachi sat curled into the corner of her couch, his phone in his hand, head bent slightly forward as he scrolled. He was in sweats and a t-shirt from last night, hair messy from sleep, but his presence filled the quiet space. He looked up at the sound of her footsteps, and his face softened instantly.

"Morning," Diana said quietly, her voice still hoarse from sleep.

Malachi smiled back at her, small but warm. "Morning," he returned, setting his phone down on the arm of the couch. "Did you sleep okay?"

She hesitated for a beat, then nodded lightly. "Yeah. Better than I thought I would." It wasn't a complete lie—she had eventually fallen into a deep sleep after everything, comforted by his presence, knowing that he was just outside her door.

He nodded, studying her carefully for a moment before asking, "What time do you have to be at the studio?"

"Eleven," she said, running a hand through her hair.

"I'm gonna shower and get ready," she spoke soft, pointing toward the hallway. "There's food in the fridge—help yourself to whatever you find."

"Got it," he said with a small grin. "Don't worry about me."

Diana lingered for a second, taking in the sight of him on her couch. He didn't look out of place at all. If anything, he looked like he belonged there. She shook the thought away before slipping into the bathroom.

The hot shower did its job, at least partially. The steam filled the small space, loosening the tightness in her chest, calming her nerves bit by bit. She let the water wash away some of the dread, focusing instead on the practical: hair, makeup, outfit. Her "armor" for the day.

By the time she stepped back into the bedroom, dressed in leggings and a soft sweater, her hair smoothed and her makeup light but camera-ready, she felt at least a little more herself. She grabbed her rehearsal bag, slipping her phone inside, then padded back out toward the kitchen.

What she saw made her stop in her tracks.

Malachi sat at her counter, plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. The smell filled the kitchen, warm and inviting. Another plate was left untouched next to him.

Diana blinked in surprise. "Eggs?"

Malachi looked up with a sheepish grin. "Told you I'd figure something out." He motioned toward the plate on the counter. "This one's yours."

A small smile pulled at her lips as she walked closer. "Thank you," she said softly, and she meant it.

She moved to the fridge and pulled out the ketchup bottle, setting it beside her plate. Malachi arched a brow at the sight.

"Want some?" she asked, glancing up at him.

The face he made was nothing short of disgust. "Absolutely not."

That got a real laugh out of her, soft but genuine. "You're missing out. It's good."

Malachi shook his head again, still making the face. "No way. That's wrong. Eggs are already perfect—you don't ruin them with... with that."

Diana laughed again, the sound lighter this time. She slid into the seat next to him at the counter, picking up her fork. For a moment, the two ate in comfortable silence, the clink of silverware and the faint hum of the fridge filling the space.

But Diana couldn't resist. "You should try it," she said after a few bites, her eyes flicking toward him mischievously.

Malachi gave her a look. "Not happening."

"Please," she pushed, drawing out the word just slightly. "I promise, it's good. Just one bite."

He sighed dramatically, leaning back in his chair as if the request was physically painful. "You're not gonna let this go, are you?"

She shook her head, grinning.

He groaned, then leaned forward, stabbing his fork into her plate and scooping up a bite of eggs with ketchup. Diana watched him expectantly as he hesitated, then finally popped it into his mouth.

For a second, his expression was unreadable. Then his brows shot up slightly, his lips twitching. "Okay... wait."

Diana burst out laughing. "See? I told you!"

He laughed too, shaking his head. "Alright, fine. It's... actually not that bad. Still weird, but... not bad."

She smiled, the lightness of the moment easing some of the weight in her chest. For a little while, they ate in silence again, feeling the comfort of one another.

Diana checked her phone, eyes widening slightly at the time. "I should go," she said, pushing back from the counter.

She carried her plate to the sink, rinsing it quickly before setting it down. Malachi stayed where he was at first, just watching her. There was something steady in his gaze, something that made her chest ache.

"Do you... want me to come with you?" Malachi asked softly, his voice low but steady.

Her eyes flicked to his, then away. She exhaled, the question twisting her stomach. "No," she said after a moment, shaking her head. "I need to do this on my own."

As she set her bag by the door, he finally stood, carrying his own plate to the sink. When he turned back to her, they were closer than she expected—just a step apart, almost touching.

He studied her for a beat, then nodded slowly. "Okay. But you know I'm just a call away, right? If you need anything—anything—you call me."

Her throat tightened at the certainty in his voice. She nodded, stepping forward before she could second-guess herself, and wrapped her arms around him.

He didn't hesitate. His arms closed around her instantly, holding her tight against him. She buried her face in his chest, her eyes squeezing shut as she whispered, "Thank you."

Malachi's hold tightened, his hand smoothing over her back. "Always," he murmured.

And for a moment, with the warmth of his arms around her and the steady beat of his heart under her cheek, Diana almost believed she could face whatever waited for her at the studio.

Diana pulled into the lot outside the Dancing with the Stars rehearsal studios at 10:30. The sun had barely climbed to its highest point, casting a pale, hazy glow that stretched over the pavement.

She parked, sat for a second gripping the steering wheel, then forced herself out. Her sneakers scuffed against the sidewalk as she crossed toward the entrance, her dance bag slung over one shoulder. She kept repeating in her head: thirty minutes alone, thirty minutes to breathe, thirty minutes before Grayson gets here.

But as soon as she swiped into the building and pushed open the door to their rehearsal room, her stomach dropped.

Grayson was already there.

He was sitting on the floor with his legs stretched in a butterfly position, leaning over to press his chest to the ground. His phone was plugged into the wall, a water bottle beside him. The instant the door creaked open, his head lifted. Their eyes met across the room.

His expression was unreadable—neither angry nor warm. Just neutral.

Diana froze in the doorway for a beat too long before forcing a small, stiff smile. "Oh. I didn't think you'd be here this early." Her voice came out softer than she intended, hesitant.

Grayson straightened from his stretch, pulling his legs in and rolling out his shoulders. "Yeah. Well..." he stood, brushing off his sweats, "we dropped down five points last night. We can't afford to make that mistake again."

The words landed like a slap. Diana's hand tightened around the strap of her bag, but she nodded. "Right. We won't. As long as we focus on the dance, we can bring it back."

He tilted his head, and the corner of his mouth twitched—not in a smile, but in something edged. "I know I will. Not so sure about you."

It was casual, tossed out like an afterthought, but it cut her anyway. Her chest squeezed as heat rose behind her eyes. For a split second, every instinct screamed at her to snap back, to remind him that she had been carrying him through choreography since day one, that without her, he'd be lost in front of those cameras, that he was the one starting all the fights. But she forced herself to bite her tongue. The last thing she needed was another blow-up.

She inhaled, setting her bag down on the bench against the wall with more care than she felt. Her fingers lingered on the zipper as she forced calm into her voice. "Look," she said, turning back to him. "We can talk about all of... that later. But right now, we need to put everything aside and focus on this week's dance. That's the only way this works."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy and taut. His gaze locked on hers, sharp, testing. Then, after what felt like forever, he exhaled through his nose and gave a short nod.

"Fine," he said simply.

But even as he said it, Diana knew it wasn't fine. Not really. The words felt like a truce made of glass—fragile, temporary, one wrong move away from shattering.

The knock on the studio door pulled Diana out of her thoughts. She and Grayson had been stretching in tense silence for what felt like ages, the air between them heavy with everything left unsaid. She was still trying to find a rhythm—some way to settle into the day without letting last night's bruised emotions cloud everything.

The door creaked open, and the familiar sight of the camera crew walked in: two cameramen, a sound guy trailing behind with a boom mic, and a producer with a clipboard. They were all smiles, brisk and efficient, setting up with the casual rhythm of people who'd done this hundreds of times.

"Morning, guys!" the producer chirped. "Ready to get started?"

Grayson instantly lit up, flipping on the charm like someone flicking a switch. His grin stretched wide as he got to his feet, suddenly animated. "Absolutely. Let's go."

Diana forced her own smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. She knew this part well—the routine of filming their rehearsal packages for the week. The lighthearted banter, the playful energy, the sell. Sometimes it came easy, sometimes it didn't. Today, it was like tugging on a mask she wasn't sure fit anymore.

The cameramen finished setting up, one of them crouching for an angled shot, the other zooming in as Diana stepped into the center of the floor with Grayson at her side.

Diana smoothed a hand over her workout top and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before glancing at the camera. Her voice came out bright, practiced. "So this week... it's Halloween week!"

Grayson instantly let out a whoop of excitement. "Yes! Let's go! Halloween is literally my favorite holiday." He bounced on his toes, clapping his hands together with the kind of boyish enthusiasm that made the crew chuckle.

The corner of her mouth tugging upward despite herself. "Really? Your favorite?"

"Are you kidding? Costumes, candy, scary movies? It's the best." He gave the camera a grin, clearly playing to the audience. "I go all out every year. Haunted houses, pumpkin carving, the whole deal."

She shook her head, laughing softly. "Well, good. Because this week's dance is going to fit you perfectly."

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Okay, hit me. What are we doing?"

"We are doing a Paso Doble... to 'I Put a Spell on You.'"

Grayson pumped his fist in the air, "Yes! That's gonna be so sick!"

Diana's smile warmed. For the first time that morning, she felt a spark of genuine energy slip through the fog of tension. She gestured with her hands as she explained, slipping into teacher mode.

"You have no idea what the Paso Doble is, do you?" she asked, raising a brow.

Grayson nodded, "No idea."

Diana laughed lightly, "The Paso Doble is a very powerful, very dramatic dance. It's based on the idea of bullfighting—the male dancer is often the matador, and the female is like the cape. It's sharp, intense, and all about storytelling."

Grayson nodded seriously, though his grin still lingered. "So basically, I get to be this strong, commanding dude with a ton of attitude."

"Exactly," Diana confirmed, thinking about how fitting it is. "And I'm the cape—so I have to show off your power, your strength, but also hold my own. It's very much about push and pull, about fire and intensity. And with this song... it's going to have a really dark, spooky vibe. Perfect for Halloween."

"Perfect," Grayson echoed, clapping his hands once. "I love it already."

Diana exhaled, shifting into work mode. She clapped her hands, gesturing Grayson closer. "Alright. First, posture. Paso is all about strong lines. Your chest has to stay lifted, your arms sharp. Like this."

She straightened her spine, extending her arms outward with deliberate force. The cape. The matador. The story. She moved with precision, aware of the cameras capturing every detail.

Grayson mimicked her, puffing out his chest dramatically. "Like this?"

"Close," Diana said, stepping forward. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, adjusting it back. Then she pressed his elbow outward. "More strength. Imagine you're holding the cape, showing it off to the crowd. Every move has to have intention."

He tried again, this time sharper, more defined. Diana nodded. "Better. Now, let's add the walk. Paso walks are strong, grounded. Heel leads. Think: powerful strides."

She demonstrated, crossing the floor with long, deliberate steps, her chin lifted. When she turned back, Grayson copied her, his first few steps a little clunky but full of effort.

"Okay, okay," he muttered, focusing. "This is harder than it looks."

"It's all about control," Diana encouraged. "Don't rush. Each step has weight."

They practiced the walk several times, the cameras circling around them. The boom mic followed every laugh, every instruction. Diana pointed out where his foot needed to land, how his chest needed to stay open, how his arms couldn't drop.

"Think of it like... you're in a battle," she said, slipping into metaphor. "You have to look like you're commanding the space. No one else matters but you and me."

Grayson smirked. "So basically, I just have to own it."

"Exactly," she replied, her lips twitching into a smile.

As they moved into the first phrase of choreography, Diana began sketching out the counts. "Alright, so we start with the cape movement. I'm here, spinning around you. You're strong, holding the position. Then we go into the first pass—one, two, three, four..."

She demonstrated the sweep of her skirt, the dramatic turn, the sharp pose at the end. Grayson watched intently, nodding along to the rhythm she counted out.

"Your job," she explained, "is to stay grounded and sharp. Hold the frame, then drive into the lunge. Paso is all about drama—you can't go halfway."

He tried it, lunging forward with a burst of energy. The movement was a little too wild, but his enthusiasm filled the room.

"Good energy," Diana said, hiding a laugh. "But control it. Sharp, not sloppy. Like this."

She repeated the step with precision, her lines cutting clean through the air. Grayson tried again, tightening his movements. This time, it was better.

"We'll build in a lot of shaping," she said. "Paso needs those strong silhouettes for the audience. And lifts of the arms—like this."

She raised her arms, her fingers slicing upward like flames. Grayson copied, his brows furrowed in concentration.

"Yeah, there you go," she encouraged. "Now hold it. Don't break the line. That's where the power is."

The tension from earlier seemed to soften under the glow of the cameras, replaced by a rhythm they both knew well: teacher and student, performer and coach, pushing toward something bigger than themselves.

For the next hour, they drilled the opening sequence. Diana's voice was steady as she counted aloud, her hands occasionally reaching out to adjust his shoulders, his arms, the angle of his hips. Grayson listened, worked, tried again, sometimes messing up, sometimes landing it perfectly.

By the time the cameras wrapped for the day, Diana was sweating, her throat dry, but the skeleton of their Paso Doble was there—a fiery, commanding piece that just might save them after last week's stumble.

But once the crew left, Graysons smile dropped. He started to pack his stuff up. The only thing he said to her was, "Let's just hope this one actually hits."

And then he left.

Taking away any comfort that had started to form.

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multiple chapters a day is slowly becoming a habit...and i don't mind 😉

alsoi just wrote diana leaving for the dwts tour and i actually teared up writing it

keep commenting!!i love reading your thoughts 😊