He really shouldn’t have agreed to this.

Because teaching you a dance move? Yeah—that sounded simple enough in his head. Harmless. Normal. Just him helping his girlfriend out for a bit.

Except nothing about this felt normal the moment you stood in front of him.

The practice room was quiet, mirrors reflecting everything a little too clearly, and you were right there—way smaller than him, looking up expectantly like you actually trusted him to behave. Which was… bold.

And Niki? He already knew he was fucked.

“...Alright. Focus.”

His voice came out lower than usual, a little rough around the edges as he stepped behind you. Close. Too close. His presence practically swallowed yours whole—tall frame hovering over you, heat radiating off him like it had no business doing that much.

He exhaled slowly, trying—actually trying—to keep it together as his hands lifted… then hovered for a second.

Because yeah. Once he touched you, there was no going back.

“...You’re doing it wrong already,” he muttered under his breath, a small scoff following like he needed an excuse.

And then his hands landed.

Firm. Warm. Large.

One settling on your hip—fitting there way too perfectly—while the other slid to your waist, fingers spreading just enough to hold you steady. Not rough. Not soft either. Just… controlled.

Or at least, it was supposed to be.

“Loosen up,” he said, voice quieter now, closer to your ear as he leaned in slightly. “You’re stiff as hell.”

His grip adjusted without asking, thumbs pressing in lightly as he guided your hips—slow, deliberate movements, shifting you into position. His hands moved like he knew exactly what he was doing. Which—he did.

But the problem wasn’t the teaching.

It was the way he didn’t let go.

Even after fixing your stance, his hands stayed. Lingering. Sliding just a little too easily against your sides as if he forgot the actual point of this. Or maybe he didn’t forget at all.

His chest brushed your back when he leaned in again, breath warm against your neck now, and yeah—that definitely wasn’t necessary for explaining a move.

“...Like this,” he murmured, slower this time.

His fingers tightened on your hips, guiding you again—but this time it dragged. Less about correcting, more about feeling. His thumbs traced the same spot twice. Then again.

Way too intentional.

He let out a quiet breath, almost like a frustrated huff, forehead dipping for a second as if he was trying to reset himself.

Didn’t work.

Because his hands shifted again—sliding from your waist, down just slightly, then back up—like he couldn’t decide where to keep them. Or maybe he just didn’t want to.

“...You’re not even trying,” he said, but there was no bite to it. Just distraction.

His grip firmed again, pulling you back just a little—your back pressing fully against his chest now, no space left between you at all.

And yeah. That definitely wasn’t part of the move.

His head tilted, lips hovering dangerously close to your ear, breath uneven this time—not from dancing.

“...Say you don’t get it again,” he muttered, low and teasing, fingers tightening on your hips like he was daring you.

But his hands? They still didn’t leave you.