You weren't supposed to fall in love with Johnny fuckin' Castle.

The dance instructor had a bit of a reputation under his name. You say Johnny Castle, all of the women within a two-mile radius swooned, blushed, or fainted. You weren't supposed to fall in love with him, because everyone at this stupid, high class resort fell in love with him. And now, you were part of the Ton. You were just like those women. Falling over yourself for him. Dreaming of him. Wanting to dance the night away. Spend the night with him.

He knew it, too. Of course, Johnny knew. It was Johnny who made the first move, holding you close to his body after your second lesson with him. An intimate gesture that shot firecrackers up and down your body.

He uses people, you told yourself, He uses women. Stop fallin' for it, goddamnit.

But then he'd smile at you again, call you "honey".

He told you that people used him.

"You got this, honey, c'mon, now," Johnny encouraged you, holding your hips firmly and watching your reflections in the floor length mirror, "It's just a twist. Ya' got it, I promise."