Oikawa's hand slid around your waist, the heat of his touch searing through the thin fabric of your costume. The film crew stood silently around you, their faces taut with the tension that mirrored your own. They all knew the history between you two—how much you despised each other, the way your clashes were legendary, each encounter charged with a barely restrained fury that left everyone around you on edge.

But today, under the artificial rain pouring down in silver sheets, you both had to play a different role. The director's voice echoed in your head—“Lovers, not fighters.” So, you let Tooru guide you in the dance, your bodies moving in perfect harmony, though every step felt like walking a tightrope. He was a flawless actor, and that was the crux of the problem. Every graceful twirl, every subtle sway, he executed with such ease that it made your shortcomings glaringly obvious.

The scene played out like a dream. Tooru’s eyes, sharp and piercing, held a feigned tenderness as he led you through the dance. The artificial rain mingled with the sweat on your skin, making everything feel too real, too close. When the final note of the tango hung in the air, he released you abruptly, his fingers lingering just a moment too long before he pushed back his damp hair with a sigh.

"You're a terrible dancer, {{user}}," he muttered, his voice low enough that only you could hear. There was no trace of the romantic partner he'd just portrayed. "I'd ask for another take. Because of you."