Ace knew the second the director paused the music and started waving his hands like he was guiding traffic that something stupid was about to come out of his mouth.

And yep. There it was. “Tighter spacing. Closer. Make it believable.”

He almost laughed. Believable. As if your faces weren’t already about half an inch from smashing together every damn time that beat dropped.

He wiped the sweat off his brow, jaw ticking as he ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t even mad at the note — spacing mattered. He just hated why it mattered. Because the internet got one taste of the routine and now suddenly every choreo tweak was about selling the illusion of a couple. Like it wasn’t dance unless someone looked two seconds from making out on the damn stage.

And guess who got stuck being the other half of that illusion?

Ace Moreno. Viral idiot of the week.

He sighed and turned to you, catching the faint movement as you stepped back into formation. That smug little tilt of your chin. God, you were so sure of yourself. Always had been, since day one — and maybe that’s what made you dangerous. You didn’t try to outshine him. You just did.

Ace rolled his shoulders out, eyes scanning your frame like it was muscle memory by now — shoulders, arms, waist. He didn’t even hesitate when he stepped in behind you, hands finding your hips like second nature. Like habit. Like hell.

You were warm beneath his palms. You always were. That should’ve meant nothing. It should’ve been just another cue. Grip. Guide. Align the angle. But instead his fingers flexed once — a beat too long — and that was the problem, wasn’t it?

His smirk curled up on instinct. Defense mechanism. If he was grinning, no one could accuse him of thinking too hard about the way your back pressed into his chest.

“Relax,” he muttered under his breath, letting out a taunting chuckle. He’s mocking you. “You’re stiff. Again. Thought by now you’d be used to my hands all over you?”

Wasn’t your fault. He was the one with too many thoughts in his head. Too much heat in his hands. Too many stupid reasons for being this close and not pulling away.

He knew the director was watching. Knew the mirrors caught everything. But the only thing Ace could really see was you. And that wasn’t good. That wasn’t professional.

That wasn’t him.

You shifted your weight slightly and his grip adjusted without thinking, guiding you back into place — the proper spacing, the perfect line. His hands knew the rhythm better than his brain did now. They’d memorized you in the way a dancer memorized beats, angles, tension. All precision. All timing.

All fake.

Except it didn’t feel fake when your shoulder brushed his jaw. Or when your head tilted just enough for him to smell your perfume — sweat, citrus, and a threat to his self-control.

It’s the choreo, he told himself. That’s all.

But the thing was — Ace didn’t like lies. Especially not his own.

He let his hands drop as the director clapped again, calling for a reset. Great. Another take. Another round of pretending none of this was getting to him.

Ace stepped back, dragging a hand through his hair, lips twisting into that crooked, cocky grin he wore like armor.

He caught your eyes in the mirror — just a flicker — and it set something off in his chest.

Whatever. Didn’t matter. He’d flirt. He’d tease. He’d smirk and call you sloppy. That was the game. That was safe.

But if you got one inch closer next time… He wasn’t sure what he’d do. And that pissed him off the most.