Chapter Text
This was a mistake.
It's all Ilona can think after the cameras go down and the live taping concludes, even as she smiles and waves to the balcony and greets the fans who make their way to the floor. It plays on a loop the entire time they do post-show interviews, which makes half-answering bait questions even more insurmountable a task. It's what whispers at her when Britt and Ezra pull her aside to disagree once again with her scores and invite her out for drinks.
When she responds with, "I'd love to, but the two dances really wrecked me. I need a bath and bed. ASAP," she knows they'll understand. And they do, all soft smiles and support for her prioritizing self-care. Ilona's just grateful she doesn't have to fully lie to the pros. She is sore. Exhausted. But the need to avoid Alan Bersten outweighs all else.
Slightly unfortunate, given the whole 'partners on Dancing with the Stars' thing. But she's decided to take the evening to feel her feelings, cry to a movie, wake up at an ungodly hour for a workout, pay far too much for breakfast wraps and lattes, and even arrive early for their Wednesday morning rehearsal. She'll be a professional team player in the morning.
For now, on the other side of filming her final vlog segment and hugging her sister goodbye, she's grateful for the quiet solitude of her trailer, especially after a day surrounded by people, cameras, and confetti. She quickly changes out of the tight black dress she'd thrown on for a cute final look, opting for a plush sage green sweater set and a white sports bra. She studies herself in the soft white lighting of the vanity mirror, taking in the spiraling curls and blood spatter for the last time. As she drenches a cotton ball in micellar water and begins to scrub at her makeup, she finally lets herself process Halloween week.
A mindfuck, to say the least. The scores that started out as fair but disappointing eventually grew to feel like a slap in the face as other couples moved up the leaderboard. As scary as the threat of elimination felt, she could handle it. She was ready and willing to put in the work. Ilona thrived when she had a goal to strive towards, and the 9 and 10 paddles were proving excellent motivators. Embarrassingly, the thing that had been keeping her up at night was Alan.
It had been weeks of this lingering feeling that maybe there was something. She wasn't stupid; she knew a lot of it was for show. Dancing was about emoting and connecting, about the language of movement, so of course the intimacy forged in their partnership could read as romantic at times. They had stellar natural chemistry and forged a fast, close-knit friendship that just so happened to lend itself well to shipping culture and fan speculation. Alan was a natural flirt. Ilona was unfortunately susceptible to crushes. She knew all of that.
But there had also been... moments. Like his interest in her Hinge profile—"for bestie approval purposes, obviously." Like the night they went for drinks after a really solid rehearsal, and his hand kept finding its way to her thigh. Like how he gazed at her right before they walked onto the ballroom floor. The way he looked at her when they danced was electric, but those moments just between them were a unique mix of pride, excitement, and what Ilona was increasingly sure was desire.
Until this week, when sexual tension was literally the assignment, and they were at each other's throats. Alan had been tough on her all season—and Ilona admittedly loved it—but something was different. His corrections felt meaner, his tone sharper, and his gaze colder. They were their usual playful selves with one another on camera, both for the show and their social feeds. But he disappeared on meal breaks and was on his phone or lost in thought whenever they had downtime.
Then today, the filming day they'd agreed she should vlog for her YouTube channel, things had gone right back to normal. He was there to hug her as soon as her car pulled up at the lot, was charming as shit to her sister behind the camera, and was her biggest cheerleader after their first run-throughs. Her stomach was in knots, but him squeezing her hand in the skybox during dress rehearsal helped to untangle her nerves. Things felt normal, which made the week of icy behavior even more infuriating. Of course she jokingly threatened to strangle him while recording a video for the show's socials.
"Then he has the fucking audacity to say, 'You looked incredible?'" She murmurs to herself while opening a fancy facial cleanser the makeup team recommended. Every single part of her wants to crawl into her car, stop at In-N-Out, and fall into bed with a face full of makeup, but brand partnerships and HD cameras necessitate a thorough skincare routine.
As she rubs small circles across her cheeks and forehead, Ilona tries her absolute best not to think about the almost kiss. It doesn't help that it was mentioned during press interviews after or that she's already being tagged in reaction videos and fan edits on TikTok. She can't help but laugh, realizing she's cursed herself. Not only did she not actually get to kiss Alan—not even accidentally, once, in rehearsal—but the evidence will haunt her for the rest of her digital life. How spooky. How endlessly confusing.
It didn't help that his performance was particularly intense. That he definitely swallowed hard when they mapped out the choke for the first time, deliberately during a rehearsal that wasn't being filmed. That he kept making comments about how good she looked in his clothes. As she applies her moisturizer, she lets her mind wander, deciding feeling her feelings can include one (1) harmless bout of fantasizing. When she's finally satisfied with her skincare for the evening, she takes in her reflection again before flicking off the vanity light. The trailer is plunged into a much more tolerable glow, lit only by a small, warm lamp in the corner. The sudden darkness is soothing, until there's a knock on the metal door of her trailer, and she jumps.
"Ilona. It's me," Alan calls.
Fuck.
"I can hear Chappell playing. I know you're in there."
She glares at her phone, thrown on the couch and proudly playing "Casual." She gnaws on her lip for a moment, tapping her toe gently against the laminate flooring, before sighing as she moves towards the couch. She turns Spotify off and moves towards the door, pausing to take a deep breath.
When she finally pulls the door open towards her, she can't help but gasp because Alan is perched on the top step, inches away from her face. He's still in costume—she knows someone in wardrobe is fuming, but he'll likely flirt his way out of it—and covered in fake blood and lipstick. She feels her cheeks flush and immediately backs up to lean against the vanity, gesturing for him to come in, looking anywhere but at him. She's never been so interested in a lamp in her entire life.
"Britt said you seemed upset," he says as the door swings shut behind him. His voice is low and a little raw. Of course it is; they've been crying all night, terrified their journey would be coming to an end. She couldn't believe it—how he held her at arm's length for six calendar days and then had his arms around her the entire night.
"I said I was tired. And sore. And I am," she replies, wincing a little at the edge of her own tone. This is why she needed the distance.
"I bet. But she's also really good at reading people, so tell me the full truth," he snaps back. Part of her enjoys that, how he'll meet her right where she's at, even when she's being a bit of a dick. They match each other well. It's kind of infuriating.
"Yeah, well. Spooky fucking night, you know?"
"I told you, we were underscored. Your frame was stunning, and your footwork was—"
"Where were you?" She interrupts, finally letting herself look at him, only to catch confusion clouding his expression. He's standing directly across from her, leaning against the wall. Ilona is proud of herself for maintaining eye contact, especially with his crossed arms highlighting the hours he's put in at the gym.
"With Sasha and Jenn. They're taking it pretty hard, which is fair, because what the fuck did that ever come out of nowhere?" Alan replies, stepping a bit closer, arms still crossed.
Something in Ilona's stomach twists, and feeling brave all of a sudden, she counters with, "I mean this week."
Alan stills in his tracks, examining her carefully. He opens his mouth, almost like he's about to speak, before his eyebrows furrow and he closes it again.
"Do I really need to say it?" She whispers, like anything too loud will be overheard by production, even though they're both free of mics and any real desire to lean too hard into the showmance angle. They'd agreed, in a very early coffee meeting in his car, that they'd have fun with the flirting, but dance was the main focus.
Alan doesn't respond, instead tilting his head back and looking ever so slightly down his nose at her, like he does during rehearsal when he's trying to amp her up. Something in this particular way of challenging her feels like it's reserved just for her, and he might actually be casting spells because she finds herself speaking without thinking.
"Just like... we were different this week, dude. You were different. Like, when we'd be in the studio, you'd be Alan times ten, this stickler for frame and footwork and selling the story—"
"And we did all those things! The judges are just too... "
"That's not what we're talking about! In rehearsal, it's all about those things and sexual tension, your fucking word of the week, and then as soon as it's just us again, no dancing, you're gone. It felt like you wanted nothing to do with me."
It hangs there, in the air between them, for a moment that stretches on for what feels like a century. Ilona watches Alan's jaw tighten; she can see him weighing what's just been said. She's surprised when he moves again, edging closer into her personal space.
"That couldn't be further from the truth," he says carefully, like he's choosing each word.
"I don't know about that," Ilona laughs.
"I think you do, actually."
"Really? Because from where I'm standing, it felt like you couldn't stomach the thought of having to pretend like there was sexual tension."
"Because there is, Ilona."
She can't help it: the words are such a shock to her system that her jaw drops open. Her cheeks flush again, and she is somehow not at all surprised at how smug Alan looks as he takes yet another step closer, his ballroom shoes coming toe to toe with her fuzzy socks.
"Keep...you should keep going," she says, her voice soft. He gives her a small nod and smile, before clearing his throat. She can't believe this is happening, that they've arrived at this moment where they're talking about it, that she wasn't imagining things.
"Obviously there's sexual tension. There's a reason it's easy to sell it out there with you."
"I am pretty charming, I've been told," she interrupts, like she can't help herself.
"I thought you wanted me to keep talking." He laughs, stooping ever so slightly so their gazes are level. She raises one hand to zip her lips jokingly. He rolls his eyes, but causes her to inhale sharply when he easily catches her hand in his, rubbing slow circles with his thumb.
"You are charming, to be clear," he assures her, his voice low as he brings her hand to his lips, watching her to gauge her reaction. She gives a tiny nod, and he softly kisses the inside of her wrist. With her other hand, Ilona grips the vanity counter even tighter, white-knuckling it.
"You're also intelligent," Alan whispers before pressing another kiss on the back of her hand. "Hard-working." The heel of her palm. "Funny." Her forearm. "Beautiful." The pad of her thumb.
"Then why were you so weird all week?" She asks, feeling particularly emboldened by his honesty. By the fire in his eyes. By the need in his voice.
"Because I know how much you care about this," he responds, his other hand coming to rest on her lower back, "I do too—it'd be pretty sick to have a matching set of mirror ball trophies—but I want to win this for you, Ilona. You've come so far."
"We're making that finale," she promises.
"Exactly. I didn't want to risk that. I thought that taking space would make it easier to deal with—"
"Deal with what, Alan?" She asks, her breathing heavy. She realizes that, much like their ritual before a dance, his is too. Their breath is in sync with one another. He squeezes her hand. She watches, almost like it's in slow motion, as his gaze drops to her lips, longing written all over his face.
"How badly I want to kiss you. Have wanted to. For weeks."
With that, she pulls him forward, closing the world's tiniest gap and bringing their mouths together in a kiss. He drops her hand to cup her jaw, pressing his other hand into her lower back, curving her body against his. She immediately slides her arms around his neck. It's the kiss she's been lying awake thinking of all season. Alan kisses her like he's been doing the same before pulling back abruptly, panting.
"This is not very professional," he declares halfheartedly.
"Fuck professionalism," she counters, bringing her hand to slide the one rubbing circles into her cheek back along her jaw. She guides Alan's hand to the root of her hair, thrilling at the glint in his eye.
"I couldn't agree more," he groans before kissing her like it's the first time all over again.
He tugs gently at the root of her curls, which have somehow survived the day. She gasps, prompting a delighted hum from Alan, who drops down to press a row of kisses down her neck, searching for a spot to make her shiver. As he lavishes her with attention, he alternates between giving the occasional tug to her hair and winding the ringlets around his fingers.
"I meant it earlier; I like the curls," he whispers into the crook of her neck before he plants another searing kiss there.
"Alan," she whines.
"What? You already got all your kisses out earlier. It's my turn." He continues across her neck and jawline.
"That was a stencil, and you know it," Ilona says as an idea dawns. She slowly trails her hands down his arms, drawing circles and nonsensical shapes across his muscles, delighting in the goosebumps she raises across his skin and the way his hips buck ever so slightly against her thigh. She can feel the effect she's having on him, and it's a bit of a head rush, how obviously into her he is.
When her hands finally reach his, where they've landed on her ass, she grabs his wrists, moving quickly so their limbs are between them and he's separated from her neck. Partially because she's dying to kiss him again, partially because she doesn't think she can convincingly lie to makeup about the origins of any potential hickeys. Barring a groan of displeasure as his worship is interrupted, Alan lets Ilona steer him back to the wall, boxing him in with her body.
"If you want to kiss me so badly, then why aren't you kissing me, Bersten?" She teases, positioning her lips just out of reach of Alan's. When he surges forward, she presses a firm hand to the center of his chest, enjoying the way his eyes flash.
"Please," he whines.
And who is she to argue with that?