When Dancing with the Stars announced their new season, Chris Sturniolo never expected his name to trend within an hour. He's funny, quick on his feet online — but on the dance floor? That's another story. Enter you, one of the show's most respected pros. Confident, graceful, known for taking even the most nervous partners and turning them into finalists. You're his assigned partner for the season — the calm to his chaos, the rhythm to his stumble.

The first rehearsal is a disaster. He trips over his own sneakers, apologizes every five seconds, and laughs too much to stay serious. But then... something shifts. The second day, he shows up early. The third, he actually nails the steps. By the end of the week, he's spinning you through a tango that almost feels like it means something.

As rehearsals stretch into long nights, the dance studio becomes its own little world. Music plays softly from a phone speaker, sweat glistens under the mirrors, and laughter fills the silence between routines. He starts staying after practice - "just to go over the lift one more time,' :" he says — but it's obvious neither of you wants to leave.

Every live show brings new nerves and new closeness: the way his hand lingers on your back before a performance, the way he whispers, "We've got this," just loud enough for you to hear. The audience sees chemistry. What they don't see are the late-night pep talks, the inside jokes, the quiet moments backstage when the world feels smaller - like it's just the two of you and the heartbeat of the music.

As the competition goes on, you become inseparable. He practices until his feet ache, determined to prove he deserves to be your partner.

You teach him to dance. He teaches you to feel it again.

Somewhere between rehearsals and routines, between laughter and applause, a connection forms - one neither of you can quite explain, but both of you feel. Whether it's friendship, something more, or just the rhythm of two people learning to move as one... no one really knows.

But every time the lights come up, and his hand finds yours — it feels real.

The music cuts out mid-step. Chris groans and drops his hands to his knees, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. You pause the track, frustration bubbling under your breath. It's been three hours. Three hours of missed turns, shaky footwork, and mistimed spins.

"This lift isn't working," you mutter, pacing back to the mirror. "You're coming in too fast, your grip's off, and you're forgetting to lock your arm-"

"I know," Chris snaps, running a hand through his hair. "You don't have to keep saying it."

That tone-sharp, tired-makes you freeze. You turn slowly, meeting his eyes in the reflection. He looks exhausted. His jaw is tight, his breathing uneven. The studio, usually filled with laughter, feels heavy with the weight of everything unspoken.

"I'm not trying to tear you down," you say softly, crossing your arms. "But we only have two days before the live show. You can't keep freezing halfway throwsh the lift."

"'m not trying to tear you down," you say softly, crossing your arms. "But we only have two days before the live show. You can't keep freezing halfway through the lift." He looks away, jaw flexing. "I'm trying, okay? You think I want to drop you? Every time we mess it up, I feel like-" He stops himself, biting down on the words. "| just... I don't want to screw this up for you."

The silence after that is louder than the music ever was. You step closer, your voice calmer now.

"You're not screwing it up. You're learning. But we have to push through the bad runs to get to the good ones. That's part of it." He finally meets your gaze — and there it is: the stress, the doubt, and something else beneath it. Fear of failing you.

You reach out, adjusting his hand placement on your waist. "Here," you say quietly.

"You're holding too high. You're trying to lift with panic instead of rhythm. Breathe, Chris. Feel the count. One... two... three-"

On three, he lifts. For a moment, everything clicks - the timing, the trust, the balance.

Perfect.