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Chapter Text

Eve could feel the bobby pins digging into her skull.

“Hold still,” the hair stylist said, fixing one last glittering clip above her high ponytail.

“I am holding still,” Eve replied. “I’ve been holding still for forty minutes. I’ve entered an advanced meditative state.”

The woman laughed, sprayed another cloud of hairspray, and stepped back.

“There. Perfect.”

Eve looked up at herself in the mirror.

For a second, she didn’t recognise the woman staring back: black, floor-length evening dress, the fabric densely beaded so it caught the light like a night sky; shoulders bare, collarbones defined; hair scraped up into a high, curled ponytail that swung when she turned her head. Dramatic liner. Dark red lipstick. Earrings that looked like they cost more than her car.

“You look incredible,” Elena said, appearing in the reflection behind her.

Elena was in emerald satin, hair loose around her shoulders. She beamed, half giddy, half terrified.

“I look like I’ve wandered into someone else’s midlife crisis,” Eve said.

Elena snorted. “You say that like this isn’t exactly the kind of ridiculous thing you secretly love.”

“I investigate crimes,” Eve objected. “I don’t… do sequins.”

“Elena! Eve!” A runner popped his head into the dressing room. “Five minutes to red carpet interviews, then live intro. You good?”

“No,” Eve said.

“We’re great,” Elena chirped over the top of her. “Thank you.”

The door closed. Elena squeezed Eve’s shoulder.

“At least we’re doing it together,” she said. “If you have a breakdown, I’ll dramatically faint on camera and give you cover.”

“True friendship,” Eve said dryly.

Her phone buzzed on the dressing table.

Niko: Good luck tonight. Try not to swear on live TV. xx

A second later:

Niko: You’ll be great. I’m proud of you, idiot.

Despite herself, Eve smiled.

She typed back:

Thanks. If I fall over, tell everyone I died doing what I loved: panicking.

She hesitated, then added a heart. Deleted it. Changed it to a thumbs-up. Deleted that. Put nothing.

Coward, she thought.

“Come on,” Elena said. “Time to go be sparkly.”

Eve stood, the dress heavy and cool against her legs, and followed her friend out into the frenetic corridors.

⸻

The red carpet was a long strip of Strictly-purple with a photo wall at one end and Claudia Winkleman at the other, holding a sparkly microphone like a wand.

Lights flashed. Pros and celebs mingled, laughing, adjusting outfits. Bill - comedian, travel documentarian, cardigan enthusiast - was already doing a bit for someone’s Instagram story. Konstantin was holding court near the prosecco table, in a suit just slightly too loud. Carolyn was nowhere to be seen, which meant she was very nearby.

“Elena Felton! Eve Polastri!” a floor manager barked. “You’re up next with Claudia.”

Eve’s stomach flipped.

They stepped into the glare.

“LOOK AT YOU TWO!” Claudia shouted, as if they were across a football pitch instead of three feet away. “My goth queen and my jewel of daytime telly. You look AMAZING.”

Eve smiled tightly. “Thank you. I’m very… flammable.”

Claudia gasped, delighted. “This dress is EVERYTHING. Eve Polastri, award-winning investigative journalist, podcaster, woman of mystery - what possessed you to say yes to Strictly?”

“My agent stopped answering my calls unless I agreed,” Eve said. “Also I was promised there’d be free food.”

The audience in the studio (the red carpet was being played in live) laughed.

Claudia turned to Elena. “Elena, doctor, TV host, national sweetheart - are you going to show her how it’s done?”

“I’m going to cry more than anybody,” Elena said cheerfully. “I thought it would be fun and now I’ve seen the shoes.”

“Yes, the shoes,” Eve muttered darkly. “Weapons, really.”

“WHO,” Claudia leaned in, eyes huge, “are you hoping to be paired with?”

Elena said, “Nikita,” at the same time Eve said, “Someone with workers’ rights.”

Claudia howled. “We will find out soon. Off you go, my sparkly angels.”

They moved aside as the next pair were called.

On a monitor, Eve saw the captions cycling through the celebrity roster as they were introduced to the audience:

CAROLYN MARTENS – Former Head of MI5, now a best-selling memoirist and national enigma

KONSTANTIN VASILIEV – Talent manager, reality TV judge, professional survivor

KENNY STOWE – Investigative tech journalist and whistleblower

FRANK HALBRIDGE – Former MP turned political commentator

BILL PARMENTER – Comedian and travel presenter

EVE POLASTRI – Journalist, podcaster, known for her true crime series Dark Corners

ELENA FELTON – TV doctor & health show host

…and eight more.

Zara Reed, Olympic sprinter.
Lila Hart, soap actress.
Mason Cole, reality star.
Priya Shah, chef and TV host.
Archie Bloom, ex-boyband member.
Imogen Wells, “serious” stage actress and outspoken “front-runner.”
Tom Kingsley, rugby player.
Jaden Monroe, influencer with alarming followings across several platforms.

“Look at them,” Elena whispered as they watched the monitor. “A whole island of beautiful idiots.”

“We’re the ugly idiots,” Eve replied.

“Elena and Eve to the holding area, please!” someone shouted.

They joined the group near the stage doors. Gowns rustled. Jackets were adjusted. Someone’s false eyelash stuck to someone else’s shoulder.

Carolyn appeared at Eve’s elbow, serene in a dove-grey dress and a necklace that probably had history.

“You look nice, Eve,” she said, like she was commenting on the weather.

“You look like you’re attending three funerals and a coronation,” Eve replied.

“As one does,” Carolyn said. “Are you ready to be humiliated on national television?”

“Not remotely,” Eve said.

“Good,” Carolyn said. “We want authenticity.”

⸻

The launch show opening VT played on the studio screens, glitter and archive footage and Tess’s voiceover about “another fabulous series.” Then the doors opened, and one by one, the celebrities walked down the famous stairs to take their places on the dancefloor.

Eve’s heels clicked on the steps. She managed not to trip. Small victories.

From her mark at stage right, she looked around.

The pros came on next, to a roar from the crowd. Familiar faces: Katya, Dianne, Johannes, Jowita, Nikita, Nadiya, Vito, Karen, Gorka, Amy, Carlos, Lauren, Nancy, Aljaž.

Tess, in a white sequinned jumpsuit, beamed.

“Welcome to the Strictly Come Dancing launch show!” she cried. “Tonight, our fifteen brand new celebrities will find out which of our professional dancers they’ll be spending the next few weeks… very, very close to.”

The audience whooped.

Claudia joined her. “We have actors, athletes, reality stars, comedians, a former spymaster - hello, Carolyn - and one woman who has spent the last ten years investigating murders and now has to cope with spray tan.”

The camera cut to Eve, who pulled a face of dignified horror. Laughter.

“But before we reveal who’s dancing with who,” Tess continued, “we wanted to see how they got on meeting our pros for the very first time…”

“Speed-dating!” Claudia announced gleefully. “With glitter. Roll VT.”

⸻

They’d put them in a sort of makeshift bar set in another studio - low lighting, tiny round tables, fairy lights. The kind of place where on a normal night you’d regret your choices at 2am.

A caption appeared: Celebs meet the pros… Strictly style.

Eve watched herself on the screen, sitting at one of the tables, clutching a glass of water like a life raft.

On screen, Gorka slid into the chair opposite her.

“Hola,” he said, grinning.

“Do you come here often?” Eve asked, deadpan.

He laughed. “Uhm… No?”

They cut quickly through montages: Eve with Vito (“Your podcast scared my grandmother”), with Karen (“We will have fun or I will kill you”), with Amy (“I can work with two left feet, but not two left opinions”), with Carlos (“I want DRAMA”).

Then the VT slowed.

A caption appeared: And then…

Eve’s table again. She was checking her note card, muttering to herself.

“Last one,” she’d said under her breath. “Then I can go home and pretend this never happened.”

“Don’t pretend,” a voice had replied, velvet-smooth and accented.

Eve’s head snapped up.

The woman who sat down opposite her wasn’t any of the pros she recognised.

She wore black - black wide-leg trousers, black vest, a soft black shirt rolled to the elbows. Blonde hair slicked back into a knot, mouth painted a sharp pink. Eyes pale green, amused, a little dangerous.

She extended a hand across the table.

“Villanelle,” she said. “I am new.”

The studio, watching live with the VT, made a collective “ooh” sound.

On screen, Eve took her hand, brow furrowing. “That’s your… name?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “Stage name.” She leaned in, conspiratorial. “Real name is boring. Oksana.”

“Right,” Eve said, equally thrown and intrigued.

In the VT, there was a tiny pause; the editorial had left it in. A moment of quiet between them in the fake bar, with the fairy lights and the hum of other conversations in the background.

“You are Eve Polastri,” Villanelle said. It wasn’t a question. “I listened to your podcast.”

“You did?” Eve sounded sceptical.

“Mmm.” Villanelle tapped the table gently. “Season two. The one about the woman who killed her husband with the… how do you say…” She mimed something around her neck. “Cable tie.”

Eve blinked. “Most people remember the cannibal.”

“She was… messy,” Villanelle said dismissively. “The cable tie was… simple. Efficient.” She smiled. “I like efficient.”

The studio audience laughed at the dryness, but there was a little shiver in it too.

On screen, Eve’s fingers twitched around her glass. “Right. Well. Good to know you weren’t taking notes.”

Villanelle’s eyes rested on her face, unblinking, assessing.

“You did not enjoy this,” she observed. “Meeting all of us. The… speed-dating.”

“No,” Eve said honestly. “Did you?”

“Yes,” Villanelle said, without hesitation. “I like to see who I am working with. Who I am beating.”

“You’re competitive,” Eve said.

Villanelle tilted her head, like a wolf scenting something. “Aren’t you?”

The VT cut there, on Eve’s slightly startled expression and Villanelle’s faint, satisfied smile.

Back in the live studio, Claudia clutched her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That felt like the beginning of a thriller.”

“It felt like the end of one,” Tess added. “And that was not even the dance.”

Eve tried not to look as rattled as she felt, standing there under the lights. Her palms were sweating.

Up on the balcony, behind the judges, she caught sight of a flash of blonde.

Villanelle - Oksana - stood with the other pros, ready for the next section of the show.

Right. They still had to meet properly. That hadn’t been… proper.

⸻

“And now,” Tess announced, “our phenomenal professional dancers are back, with a fiery Latin number to welcome someone very special…”

Claudia beamed at the camera.

“Please give a huge Strictly welcome to our brand new pro dancer… Villanelle!”

The band launched into a mashup - something percussive, with a sinister edge. The lights dipped, then flared.

The pros poured onto the floor in red and black, all sharp lines and spins.

Villanelle made her entrance late, on a sudden strong accent in the music.

She strutted out alone from the shadow of the Clauditorium stairwell, in a red fringed Latin dress that looked custom-built to get her arrested - open back, high slit, beading that flashed under the lights, hair sleek and high, eyes dark and lined.

The choreography put her front and centre immediately. Her hips hit every accent with terrifying precision. One second she was laughing at Gorka over her shoulder, the next she snapped into a series of spins so fast Eve lost count.

From her mark on the floor, Eve could not look away.

Villanelle’s face wasn’t doing the usual Strictly “big smiles” thing either. She smirked. She smouldered. At one point she looked directly down the barrel of the main camera and did the tiniest, slowest wink.

The crowd screamed. Someone in the audience actually shouted, “I LOVE HER!” which made Tess snort off-mic.

The number finished with Villanelle raised up on the shoulders of Vito and Carlos, like a glittering, dangerous queen. She flicked her hand like she was dismissing the crowd.

The music cut. Applause crashed.

Eve realised her heart was racing.

It was the dance, she told herself. The adrenaline. The spectacle. Anyone’s would.

⸻

PAIRINGS REVEAL – VTs

They did other couples first.

The format was familiar. Claudia would say a name, then they’d cut to a pre-recorded VT of that celeb “finding out” their partner, then both would walk down the steps together.

“First up,” Tess said, “it’s Carolyn!”

VT: Carolyn in a practice studio, examining the sprung floor like it contained classified material. Johannes walking in, Camp Joy personified. Carolyn’s small smile as she sized him up. Johannes saying, “We are going to SLAY, babe,” with reverence.

Back live, Johannes carried Carolyn down the stairs like a fainting duchess.

“Konstantin!” Tess called next.

VT: Konstantin in a chair, fiddling with a pen, trying to look like he hadn’t dressed up for this. Dianne striding in with neon hair and a blast of warmth. Konstantin standing, saying, “Ah, I got the firecracker,” like that was fine and not deeply worrying.

On and on they went.

Kenny with Jowita.

Elena with a delighted Nikita.

Frank with Nadiya, already slightly out of breath.

Bill with Katya, who looked like Christmas had come early.

Zara the sprinter with Vito.

Lila with Gorka.

Mason with Karen.

Archie with Amy.

Priya with Carlos.

Imogen, the terrifyingly capable, with Aljaž (everyone booed playfully; it was unfair).

Tom with Lauren.

Jaden with Nancy.

Finally, there were only three celebs left on the floor: Eve, Carolyn (already paired and standing off to the side), and Jaden, who had just taken Nancy’s hand.

Eve stood alone in her sparkly black dress, listening to her pulse in her ears.

Claudia tilted her head, listening to her earpiece. “Ooh,” she said. “This is exciting. Tess?”

Tess smiled straight down the camera.

“And last, but far from least… Eve.”

The studio lights dimmed for the VT.

⸻

Caption: Yesterday, Eve went to the studio to see who she’d been matched with…

Eve sat alone on a bench in a different rehearsal room, the more utilitarian kind with scuffed floors and mismatched chairs. She was in jeans and a t-shirt that said TRUST NO ONE. She seemed unaware it was ironic here.

She looked directly into the VT camera.

“If this is a tall handsome man who knows what he’s doing,” she said, “I will apologise for every bad thing I’ve ever said about entertainment TV.”

Off-camera, a producer laughed.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Yes. Whatever. Do it.”

The door opened.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

Eve turned.

Villanelle walked in, in rehearsal clothes now: black leggings, oversized white shirt tied at the waist, hair scraped up. She was holding a paper coffee cup and a small bunch of flowers from the Tesco Metro round the corner, still in plastic.

For a moment, the VT let the silence stretch.

Eve blinked.

“Oh,” she said.

Villanelle smirked slightly. “Disappointed?”

Eve stared. “You’re the new one.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “And you are the old one.”

“That’s rude,” Eve said automatically.

Villanelle shrugged, stepping closer. “You have… experience. It is good. We will use it.”

She held out the flowers.

“For you,” she said, like she’d just brought her a severed head.

Eve took them slowly. “You got your potential dance partner… carnations?”

“They were lonely,” Villanelle said. “I rescued them.”

The camera caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of Eve’s mouth.

“Right,” Eve said. “Well. Thank you. Very ethical of you.”

There was another beat where they just looked at each other.

The VT cut to a producer interview.

“So, Eve,” the off-screen voice said, “how do you feel about being paired with Villanelle?”

Eve sat in the confession chair, flowers in her lap, cheeks slightly pink.

“She’s… intense,” Eve said. “Terrifying, actually.”

A pause.

“And…”

Eve shifted. “She’s… very good. Obviously. I saw the group dance rehearsals. And she seems to care about it. Which is… weirdly reassuring. I’m still waiting for someone to tell me this is a mistake, though. I’ve never danced with a woman before. Not like this.”

She hesitated, glancing off-camera.

“I’m married,” she added unnecessarily. “Happily. To a man. Just… for the record.”

“Villanelle,” the interviewer asked in a separate segment, “what do you think of Eve?”

Villanelle reclined in her chair, one leg crossed over the other.

“She is funny,” she said. “She makes little jokes to hide that she is nervous. And she thinks too much.”

“Is that a problem?” the voice asked.

Villanelle smiled lazily.

“No,” she said. “It gives me something to do.”

“And dancing with a woman?”

Villanelle tilted her head, eyes glinting.

“I like women,” she said. “They are… interesting.” A beat. “And she is interesting.”

The VT ended on a shot of them in hold for the first time: awkward, close, both a little too aware.

Back in the live studio-

“Eve and Villanelle!” Tess cried.

The lights swung up to the top of the stairs.

There they were.

Villanelle in black trousers and a sharp black shirt with glittering detail at the collar; Eve in her black dress. They looked… good together. Too good.

They descended, in step, Villanelle’s hand light but sure at Eve’s back.

The crowd went wild.

They joined Tess and Claudia at the front.

“I mean…” Claudia said, eyes wide. “The only same-sex pairing of this series. No pressure.”

“None at all,” Eve said, smiling tightly. “I’m very relaxed. My heart is not trying to leave my body.”

Claudia turned to Villanelle. “Villanelle, welcome to Strictly. New pro, big season, big moment - how are you feeling?”

Villanelle’s voice was calm, low, the accent a strange, melodic mix.

“I feel… excited,” she said. “And hungry.”

The crowd laughed.

“Hungry for…?” Claudia prompted.

“Success,” Villanelle said smoothly. “Of course.”

Eve shot a sideways look at her. Villanelle’s mouth didn’t move, but her eyes flashed with something that felt like a private joke.

Tess cut in. “And what are you dancing for Week One?”

Villanelle straightened slightly, her hand sliding from Eve’s back to take her hand instead.

“We are doing Quickstep,” she said. “To…” she pointed dramatically to the live band in the corner.

The band hit a bar of the hit song Give it Up by KC & the Sunshine Band; the crowd clapped along.

“Oh, that is FUN,” Claudia said. “Can we see a little preview?”

Villanelle didn’t wait for an answer. She turned to Eve.

“Come,” she said softly. “Just this.”

Before Eve could protest, she was in hold - Villanelle’s right hand at her shoulder blade, left hand clasped with hers, bodies close. The muscle memory of Viennese from years of wedding receptions was exactly no help.

“One, two, three, four,” Villanelle whispered, and they were off - just a short run of chassés and a turn, but enough to feel her strength, her control. Eve’s dress swished, her ponytail whipped. For a second, the floor and the audience and the cameras vanished.

Then it was over. They stopped. The crowd cheered.

“IF THAT’S WEEK ONE,” shouted Bill from the line, “WE’RE SCREWED.”

Laughter.

Claudia grinned. “You two are trouble. I can tell already. Off you go to the balcony of impending doom.”

As they walked away, Villanelle leaned down, her voice barely audible over the music.

“Good,” she murmured. “You did not fall.”

Eve tried to sound flippant. “Set the bar low enough and everything’s a success.”

Villanelle’s lips quirked. “We will raise it,” she said. “I like a challenge.”

⸻

The rest of the show blurred.

Group dance with all couples, a chaotic mash of Charleston kicks and arm flailing. Judges trying not to give away their early favourites. Claudia forcing Bill and Tom into a pseudo-Samba battle. Imogen mentioning her “extensive ballet training” at least twice, to the collective muttered rage of everyone else.

Through it all, Eve felt a new awareness at her back, like a sun she didn’t want to turn towards for fear of going blind.

Every time she glanced sideways, Villanelle was there. Laughing at someone’s joke. Standing too still. Watching her.

⸻

The show wrapped. Applause, theme tune, glitter cannons.

“Thank you and goodnight!”

And then it was over.

Techs swarmed the floor. People peeled off microphones and shoes and sequins. The adrenaline drained out, leaving Eve buzzy and hollow.

She slipped into a quieter corridor, away from the main flow, just to breathe.

She pressed a hand to the wall, feeling the cool concrete against her fingers, and exhaled.

What are you doing? she asked herself. You’re married. You have a job. You’re on a dance show. You’re… paired with a woman who looks at you like you’re interesting. This is fine. This is fine.

“You run away,” a voice observed behind her.

Eve’s shoulders jumped.

She turned.

Villanelle leaned against the opposite wall, still in costume, shirt sleeves rolled to her forearms now, revealing strong wrists and forearms dusted with stray glitter. Someone had smudged some makeup on her jaw; it made her look even more illegally good.

“I’m not running,” Eve said. “I’m… walking briskly in the opposite direction of panic.”

Villanelle smiled slowly. “It is cute.”

“It’s pathetic,” Eve said.

“No,” Villanelle said. “You are… processing.”

She pushed off the wall, stepping closer. Not too close. Just enough that Eve had to tilt her chin up to meet her eyes.

“How do you feel?” Villanelle asked.

“Like a hamster on a motorway,” Eve said. “You?”

Villanelle considered.

“Hungry,” she said again. Then added, “And excited.”

Eve snorted. “You don’t look nervous at all.”

“I like people looking at me,” Villanelle said simply. “I like making them… react.”

“That’s ominous,” Eve said.

Villanelle’s gaze dropped briefly to Eve’s mouth, then back to her eyes.

“You react,” she said. “Even when you try not to.”

Eve’s heart stuttered. “I react to everything,” she said. “It’s a personality flaw.”

Villanelle’s smile edged toward sharp.

“It is a good flaw,” she said. “For me.”

There was a fraction too long where they just stood there, corridor humming with distant noise, the echo of the theme tune still in the air.

Villanelle broke it.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Rehearsal.”

“Yes,” Eve said. “I assumed.”

“I will send you the address,” Villanelle said. “We start at nine.”

“Nine?” Eve repeated, horrified. “In the morning?”

“Yes, Eve,” Villanelle said patiently. “In the morning. It is when day starts.”

“That’s a rumour,” Eve said.

Villanelle’s eyes softened with something like amusement.

“See you bright and early, partner,” she said, the word rolling polished off her tongue. She turned to go, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Oh,” she added. “Wear it down.”

Eve blinked. “What?”

Her hand twitched toward her ponytail reflexively.

“Your hair,” Villanelle said. Her voice went quieter; the corridor seemed to narrow around it. “Wear it down. Tomorrow.”

And then she walked away, unhurried, leaving Eve pinned to the spot by four stupid words and the feeling of being seen in a way she hadn’t expected.

Eve reached up, fingers brushing the hard shell of hairspray around her ponytail.

“Absolutely not,” she told the empty corridor.

Her pulse said otherwise.

Chapter Text

Eve woke up with glitter on her pillow, which she took as a personal threat from the universe.

She stared at the ceiling for several seconds, trying to understand how a single evening could have fundamentally rewired the electrical system of her body. She felt… wrong. too alert. Too aware of herself. Too aware of everything.

Then she rolled over and found Niko wide awake, sitting upright against the headboard with his laptop already open, headphones around his neck, grinning like a Labrador with a birthday cake.

“Morning!” he said brightly. “You’re famous again.”

Eve groaned into her hands. “Already? I’ve been conscious for ten seconds.”

“Oh you have no idea,” Niko said, spinning the laptop toward her. “Look.”

Dozens of paused YouTube thumbnails featuring her face and Villanelle’s filling the screen. Titles scrolled by:

‘Villanelle’s Entrance and Eve’s Face: A Study in Gay Panic’

‘New Pro Villanelle SERVES in Strictly Group Dance’

‘Are Eve Polastri & Villanelle the Dark Horses?’

‘Electric Chemistry Already?? Launch Night Breakdown’

Niko clicked on one enthusiastically. A YouTuber spoke over slowed-down footage of them in hold:

“Look at this moment, look at her EYES - Eve looks like she’s about to ascend to another dimension. And Villanelle? She’s staring into her soul like she’s reading her browser history.”

Eve clapped her hand over the speaker. “Please stop.”

Niko laughed. “Come on, babe, it’s great PR. Everyone loves you.”

He scrolled again.

#TeamEvill trending, hearts and flames emojis everywhere.

Eve coughed. “Evill? As in evil?”

“As in Eve + Villanelle,” Niko said, completely delighted. “Cute, right?”

Eve did not know what expression her face was making but judging by Niko’s look of concern it was not a normal human one.

“And hey,” he added casually. “I’m glad you got paired with a woman. No tabloids chasing the Strictly Curse. No awkward chemistry speculation. Just two women working hard. Safe.”

Eve froze.

Safe.

The word hit her like a punch to the sternum.

“Yeah,” she managed. “Safe.”

“And I love that Villanelle girl,” Niko went on. “Terrifying, yes, but brilliant. The internet is obsessed with her. One guy called her the ballroom assassin.”

Eve swallowed tightly. “Assassin. Funny word choice.”

“Anyway!” Niko said cheerfully. “Big first rehearsal today. Excited?”

Excited was not the word.
Excited was what you felt before a holiday.
This felt like a vehicle accelerating with no brakes.

But she smiled, because that was easier than explaining the static inside her head.

“Terrified,” she said.

“Same thing!” Niko grinned. “Go smash it.”

She kissed his cheek automatically and left for rehearsal feeling like her ribcage was too small.

⸻

The studio was bright and empty, polished wood floors shining like water. The smell of sweat and varnish hung in the air. The giant wall mirror reflected back a stranger wearing leggings and a t-shirt that said PLEASE DON’T SPEAK TO ME, hair down around her shoulders.

She had stood in the bathroom for ten minutes gripping a hairband and staring at herself in the mirror, trying to understand why she cared so much about a tiny comment from a woman she barely knew.

She didn’t have an answer.

She put her bag down, stretched stiffly, then bent toward her toes.

“Good,” came a voice behind her. “You listened.”

Eve’s stomach dropped. She straightened too quickly, nearly falling.

Villanelle stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame as though posing was her natural state of existence. Today she wore black leggings and a cropped sports bra under an unzipped hoodie, hair tied up high, exposing the elegant line of her neck.

And those eyes - pale green, unnervingly steady - scanned Eve from the floor upwards in a slow, unapologetic sweep.

“You wear it down,” she said, voice low and even. “Better.”

Eve pushed her hair behind one ear. “Well. Yes. It’s attached to my head. Hard to avoid.”

Villanelle blinked, and the faintest hint of amusement curled at her mouth.

“Do not pretend,” she said. “You did it for me.”

Eve choked on air. “I absolutely did not.”

“You are a bad liar, Eve,” Villanelle replied, stepping into the room like a knife sliding through silk. “But it is charming.”

Eve crossed her arms. “I didn’t realise emotional dismemberment was included in the training package.”

“It is a full-service experience,” Villanelle deadpanned.

Eve snorted despite herself.

Villanelle clapped once - loud and decisive. “We start.”

⸻

Hold.

Villanelle positioned herself directly in front of Eve.

“We learn basic Quickstep hold first,” she said. “Ready?”

“No,” Eve said.

“Good.” Villanelle stepped closer. “Do not move.”

Before Eve could process anything, Villanelle reached out and grabbed her hands, pulling her sharply into frame - body to body, chest to chest, Villanelle’s hand sliding smoothly to the center of Eve’s back.

It was unexpected. Firm. Commanding.

Electricity shot straight down Eve’s spine and exploded somewhere below rational thought.

Villanelle’s breath brushed her cheek. “Relax.”

“I AM relaxed,” Eve lied, stiff as rebar.

“You are wood,” Villanelle corrected. “Very tense wood.”

“Thank you,” Eve said weakly.

“Chest up. Shoulders down. Ribcage free. Look at me.”

Eve obeyed automatically, eyes locking with Villanelle’s.

Big mistake.

The warmth in those eyes could melt steel. Or set it alight.

“Good,” Villanelle murmured. “Now - do not think. Thinking will make you fall.”

“Thinking is my career,” Eve snapped.

“And now it is my job,” Villanelle said. “I will fix it.”

And then she moved.

A sudden, fast burst of steps - a run of chassés - pulling Eve with her effortlessly. Eve tripped forward, gasping, but Villanelle caught her weight cleanly, redirecting her like she weighed nothing.

“Did you just THROW me?” Eve demanded.

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “You like it.”

“I do NOT-”

“You blush,” Villanelle observed.

“I’m overheating,” Eve tried.

Villanelle smiled, sharp and amused. “Liar.”

⸻

They paused for breath, hands still resting on each other.

“So,” Eve said, trying to sound casual, “why this song - Give It Up?”

Villanelle tilted her head. “It is fast. Energetic. Good tempo for beginners.”

“Right,” Eve said. “Mechanical answer.”

Villanelle’s eyes softened a fraction. Something flickered behind them - small, almost vulnerable.

“And,” she added quietly, “I like it. It reminds me of when I was a child.”

Eve stared. “You weren’t even born when that song came out.”

Villanelle shrugged. “Can we not listen to music from before our birth, Eve? Should we also ban Beethoven?”

Eve blinked. “Did you just compare KC & The Sunshine Band to Beethoven?”

“Yes,” Villanelle said flatly. “Better beat.”

Eve laughed, unable to stop it.

Villanelle watched her closely, and something in her shoulders relaxed - like she’d passed a test she hadn’t known she was taking.

⸻

The door burst open.

“Nikita is trying to kill me!” Elena wailed as she staggered into the studio.

“I am BUILDING YOUR STAMINA,” Nikita said, entering behind her, radiant and unrepentant.

They stopped dead when they saw Eve and Villanelle in hold, standing far too close.

“My GOD,” Nikita whispered. “The sexual tension is palpable. I could bottle it and sell it.”

Elena clutched her chest. “I am sweating and I’m not even involved.”

Villanelle blinked. “We are standing. That is all.”

“Sure,” Nikita said knowingly. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

Six more dancers poked their heads in: Johannes, Carolyn, Bill, Jaden, Priya, and Imogen, who looked pretending-not-to-judge but definitely judging.

Johannes leaned to Carolyn, whispering. “I give them two weeks before someone bursts into flames.”

Carolyn didn’t flinch, didn’t stop observing, and replied. “One week.”

Villanelle did not react. Eve wanted the floor to swallow her.

⸻

After another two hours of rehearsal and seventeen near-collisions, Eve collapsed onto the bench, flushed and sweating.

Villanelle stood in front of her, arms folded.

“You improved,” she said.

“I nearly died,” Eve replied.

“Yes,” Villanelle said calmly. “Beautiful.”

Eve laughed wildly, out of breath. “That’s not encouraging.”

Villanelle stepped closer, blocking the exit, not touching her but close enough that Eve could feel heat.

“Tell me something,” Villanelle said softly. “Are you scared of the dance… or of me?”

Eve’s heart stuttered.

Both, her brain screamed.

“Obviously the dance,” she said. Too fast. Too defensive.

Villanelle’s smile edged sharp with certainty. “Mm. Of course.”

She reached out, slowly this time, and touched a strand of Eve’s hair, running her fingers down it with unbearable delicacy.

Eve forgot how to breathe.

Then Villanelle released it.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Nine. Do not be late.”

She walked to the door, paused, and looked back.

“This will be good, Eve,” she said, voice unexpectedly gentle. “For both of us.”

And then she was gone.

⸻

Eve sat in the back seat of the taxi on the way home, staring at her reflection in the window, fingers tangled in her hair as if trying to remember the place where Villanelle’s hand had been.

She felt unstable. Electrified. Like she might shake apart.

She whispered into the dark, voice breaking. “What the hell are you doing?”

Her phone buzzed with a flood of notifications - articles, edits, tweets, speculation, gossip.

She turned it over, screen down, unable to look.

She closed her eyes.

She didn’t know what terrified her more,
the possibility that this was all in her head, or the possibility that it wasn’t.

Chapter Text

By midweek, Eve had reached the stage of exhaustion where everything felt a little unreal. Her body hurt in places she hadn’t known could hurt. Muscles behind her knees, the sides of her ribs, even the backs of her shoulders.

On Wednesday morning, she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and briefly considered faking her own death.

Her phone buzzed.

Villanelle: 9.00. Do not be late.
Villanelle: Wear shoes you can run in.

Eve typed back:

I thought it was called Quickstep, not sprinting.

The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

Villanelle: Same thing.

Eve sighed, splashed water on her face, and went to be tortured.

⸻

“Again,” Villanelle said, for what had to be the hundredth time.

Eve clutched her chest. “You said that forty minutes ago.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “And thirty minutes. And ten. And now.”

They were halfway through the routine now. The opening pose, the first run, the little flirty side-by-side section - that part at least was almost fun when she wasn’t thinking about her feet.

The problem was her feet.

They did not cooperate.

On yet another attempt at the corner spin, Eve turned too late and nearly careened into the mirror. Villanelle yanked her back by the waist, laughing under her breath.

“On the night, Eve, that is our cameraman. You are trying to kill our cameraman,” Villanelle said. “We need him.”

“I’m trying to kill myself,” Eve wheezed. “Collateral damage is inevitable.”

Villanelle’s hand lingered a beat too long at her waist before she let go.

“You are nearly there,” she said. “But you rush the turns. The dance is fast. Not you.”

“The dance is fast, but not me,” Eve repeated. “That makes no sense.”

Villanelle shrugged. “You must be fast and calm. Like… shark.”

Eve blinked. “Sharks don’t Quickstep.”

“They would if they had legs,” Villanelle said.

Eve laughed so abruptly she snorted. “Oh God.”

Villanelle’s eyes warmed. “There. Better.”

The door opened and Jaden poked his head in, hair perfectly styled even at noon.

“Nancy says if she has to listen to Mas Que Nada one more time she might defect to another show,” he announced. “Oh, and Imogen is moaning about your song because it’s ‘too crowd-pleasing’ and she wanted a jazz waltz or whatever.”

Villanelle’s eyebrow lifted. “Good.”

“I kind of love you,” Jaden sighed. “Carry on with your heterosexual panic, Eve. You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

“I’m literally just walking,” Eve said.

“Exactly,” Jaden replied, and vanished.

Villanelle considered her. “Heterosexual panic?”

“Don’t start,” Eve muttered.

Villanelle’s smile was small but sharp. “Again,” she said. “From the top.”

⸻

On Thursday, Eve walked into the studio to find a foreign object in the corner.

Niko, in his old Parklife t-shirt and jeans, perched on a fold-out chair with a coffee, waving.

“Surprise!” he said.

Eve’s stomach flipped. “What are you doing here?”

“Day off,” he said. “Thought I’d pop in, be supportive. See you in your natural new habitat.”

My natural habitat is a desk and a murder board, Eve thought. Not… this.

Villanelle came out of the side room, towelling her hair. She’d obviously just finished warming up, hoodie hanging off one shoulder.

Her eyes flicked between them once. “Guest.”

Eve gestured vaguely. “This is my husband, Niko. Niko, this is my partner, Villanelle.”

Niko stood, crossing the room, hand outstretched. “Hi. Lovely to meet you. You’re brilliant, by the way.”

Villanelle looked at his hand like it was an object of mild interest, then shook it with two fingers, light and brief.

“You watch dancing,” she said.

“I watch YouTube,” Niko said. “I’m an expert now.”

Villanelle hummed. “Dangerous.”

She turned back to Eve. “We warm up.”

Niko sat back down. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just observe and judge with absolutely no credentials.”

Eve shot him a look, but Villanelle’s expression didn’t change.

If anything, she grew even more precise.

“From the beginning,” she said. “With music this time.”

The track started, the unmistakable brass riff of Give It Up. The studio instantly felt less like a rehearsal room and more like someone had piped a party directly into Eve’s nervous system.

They took their opening pose - Villanelle standing behind Eve, hands at her waist, Eve’s arms lifted slightly.

“Smile,” Villanelle murmured. “You are having fun.”

“I’m lying,” Eve whispered back.

“Good. Acting is important.”

On the first “Everybody wants you,” they took off, the Quickstep footwork kissing the floor.

For the first few bars, it was actually… not terrible. Fun, even. The music carried her; Villanelle’s grip on her back kept her where she needed to be.

But on the middle section, Eve’s brain skipped ahead, panicked about the spin, and everything tangled.

She stepped on Villanelle’s foot. Again.

Villanelle sucked in a breath and stopped them dead.

“Ouch,” she said mildly.

“Oh God, I’m so-”

“Sorry, yes,” Villanelle finished for her. “I know.”

Niko called out, “You’re dropping your shoulder, Evie!”

Villanelle’s head turned, slow and sharp. “No, she is not.”

“Well, I mean, it looked-” Niko began.

Villanelle cut him off, polite, icy. “You do not see what I see. Your angle is… wrong.”

“Okay,” Niko said, hands up. “Just trying to help.”

Eve felt the tension tighten like fishing wire.

“Niko, maybe don’t coach the professional dancer,” she said carefully.

He flushed. “Yeah, sorry. I just… want you to do well.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ll do badly in peace.”

Villanelle looked between them, expression unreadable. Then she clapped her hands once.

“Again,” she said. “We fix the panic. Not the shoulder.”

They ran the spin section in isolation. Over and over, count in, step, pivot, glide. Villanelle’s hand on her back, her voice in Eve’s ear, low and focused.

“Do not think of the second turn when you are in the first,” she murmured. “Feel the floor. Trust me. I am not letting you fall.”

Niko watched, silent.

On the sixth attempt, something clicked.

Eve didn’t rush it. She breathed, followed Villanelle’s body, let the spin carry them around the corner.

They stopped perfectly on the mark.

“There,” Villanelle said, approval softening her mouth. “See?”

Eve stared at her, panting. “I did it.”

“You did it,” Villanelle confirmed. “Again.”

They ran the whole thing. It wasn’t perfect, but the skeleton of a decent Quickstep was there.

When the music cut, Niko clapped. “That looked great, babe.”

Eve bent double, catching her breath. “Did I look like a hamster on a treadmill?”

“A very graceful hamster,” he said.

Villanelle wiped her neck with a towel, not looking at him. “It is better,” she said. “Still work to do.”

“Of course,” Niko said. “I mean, I did notice on the second chorus you kind of lost the-”

“Niko,” Eve warned.

He stopped, embarrassed. “Right. I’ll shut up.”

An awkward silence stretched.

Niko checked his phone. “I should probably get going. Staff meeting at the school. Kids are launching some kind of rebellion over the new uniform.”

He kissed Eve quickly on the temple. “Proud of you. Knock ’em dead.”

She smiled, genuinely. “Thanks.”

He waved at Villanelle. “Nice to meet you. Good luck with… her.”

Villanelle’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I do not need luck.”

The door closed behind him.

Silence.

Eve exhaled, long and slow. “Well. That was… something.”

Villanelle cocked her head. “He is very enthusiastic.”

“That’s one word,” Eve said. “Sorry about the… backseat driving. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“I know,” Villanelle said simply.

Eve frowned. “You’re not… bothered?”

“Oh, I am bothered,” Villanelle said. “He does not understand this. He should not pretend.”

There was a beat.

“Also,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “he looks like someone stuck a moustache on some fudge.”

Eve choked so hard she nearly fell over.

“Jesus Christ,” she coughed. “You can’t say that.”

“Why not?” Villanelle asked, genuinely puzzled. “He does.”

Eve buried her face in her hands, but she was laughing, helplessly, shoulders shaking.

When she finally surfaced, Villanelle was watching her with something almost gentle in her eyes.

“What?” Eve asked.

“Nothing,” Villanelle said. “You laugh. It is good.”

⸻

Friday afternoon, the wardrobe department was a battlefield of fabric and panic.

Eve stood on a small platform facing the mirror, watching someone pin the hem of her gold dress.

She couldn’t decide if she looked like a goddess or a chocolate wrapper.

The top half of the dress was tight, structured - gold bodice, sweetheart neckline, delicate straps, a hint of shimmer. The bottom flared into a floaty, layered skirt that would swish when she moved. The gold colour warmed her skin, made her look less corpse-like under the fluorescent lights.

The problem was less the dress and more… all of it.

“It’s very… a lot,” Eve said.

“It’s beautiful,” the wardrobe assistant replied, mouth full of pins. “You’ve got a great figure, let us show it.”

“That’s a hate crime,” Eve muttered.

Behind her, another fitting was happening.

Villanelle stepped out of a side cubicle and into view, and the air in the room changed.

She wore a black fitted suit with subtle gold detailing - gold piping along the lapels, gold embroidery at the cuffs, a black shirt unbuttoned just enough at the throat, tailored trousers that elongated her legs. The cut was undeniably feminine but powerful, and she moved in it like it was armour.

Eve stared at her in the mirror.

“That’s not fair,” she blurted. “You look like a hitman.”

Villanelle considered her reflection. “Good,” she decided. “I like to look like danger.”

“You look like you’ve come to kill the husband and seduce the wife,” Eve said.

Villanelle’s eyes slid to meet hers playfully in the mirror. “Maybe I have.”

Eve’s brain forgot how to function.

The wardrobe assistant, oblivious, pinned another section of hem. “Stop squirming, Eve.”

“I’m not squirming,” Eve squeaked.

Villanelle walked around her, slowly, appraising.

“You look…” She paused, searching for the word. “Sexy.”

Eve made a face. “No. I look like a Quality Street.”

“A very sexy Quality Street,” Villanelle insisted. “The one everyone wants, not the sad coconut eclair one.”

Eve’s mouth twitched. “You thought about that too much.”

Villanelle smiled. “I think about you too much.”

The pin in the assistant’s fingers dropped to the floor.

“I didn’t hear that,” she muttered.

“Good,” Eve said faintly.

⸻

Saturday afternoon, the studio buzzed like a disturbed beehive.

Dress rehearsal - camera blocking, full run-through, safety net that didn’t feel safe at all.

Eve stood in the wings, gold dress shimmering, shoes too tight, heart slamming.

Out on the floor, Zara and Vito were finishing their Cha Cha, all abs and legs and smugness.

“You’re okay,” Villanelle said quietly beside her.

“I’m not okay,” Eve said. “I’m about to run at high speed in heels in front of four cameras and a woman whose job is to destroy people’s self-esteem using only her eyebrows.”

Villanelle smiled. “Shirley is not so bad.”

“I was talking about Craig,” Eve said.

“Ah,” Villanelle conceded. “Yes. He is… sharp.”

The floor manager waved. “Villanelle and Eve, you’re up.”

They walked onto the floor. The judges sat at their table, half in shadow, half paying attention, half scribbling notes from previous dances.

Motsi noticed them first, smiled encouragingly. Eve latched onto that like a lifeline.

They took their starting position.

Music.

They danced.

Or something approximating dancing.

The first half went… okay. Not brilliant, not catastrophic. Her feet found the right places roughly in the right times. She smiled at the right camera twice. She didn’t die.

Then, in the second chorus, her brain jumped ahead again. She thought of the corner spin, panicked about missing it, and missed the step before it.

Her weight went wrong. Her timing stumbled.

Villanelle tried to adjust, but the damage was done. For two bars, the Quickstep turned into a sort of medium-step shuffle.

They recovered by the end, finishing in sync, but Eve could feel the mistake in her bones.

The music cut.

Silence.

Then Tess’s voice for the cameras: “And that was Villanelle and Eve!”

The crew gave polite rehearsal-level applause.

Eve’s chest heaved. “That was awful,” she whispered.

“It was not awful,” Villanelle said. “It was… 70% good. 30% chaos.”

“Great,” Eve said. “I’m thirty percent chaos.”

“More,” Villanelle said.

They were about to walk off when Motsi waved a hand.

“Eve!” she called. “Come here a second, darling.”

Panic fluttered in Eve’s throat. “Oh god.”

“Go,” Villanelle said quietly. “It is good. She is kind.”

Eve walked over, dress swishing, trying not to trip over cables.

Motsi leaned forward on the desk, eyes warm.

“Listen,” she said. “You have something very special already. Performance, personality. Don’t lose that in your head, okay?”

“I… panicked,” Eve admitted. “I keep thinking about the next bit. And then I mess up the bit I’m actually doing.”

Motsi nodded. “Very normal. The feet will come. The technique, the timing - that is what rehearsal is for. But what only you can give is the feeling. The joy. The cheeky face you gave over there-” she gestured vaguely to a moment Eve barely remembered “-that is gold. Don’t hide because you’re scared to be perfect. Be present instead.”

Eve swallowed. “Be present, not perfect.”

“Yes,” Motsi said firmly. “You are not a machine. Don’t dance like one.”

Craig snorted. “Some machines have more bounce than that heel lead,” he muttered, but even he didn’t sound vicious. Just Craig-ish.

Shirley added, “You’ve got potential, Eve. Lovely partnership, strong start. Trust your pro. She knows what she’s doing.”

Eve glanced back; Villanelle stood near the edge of the floor, hands in her pockets, watching her with that unnerving, focused attention.

“Okay,” Eve said. “Thank you.”

She walked back, oddly steadier.

Villanelle met her halfway.

“What did she say?” Villanelle asked.

“That I’m thirty percent chaos,” Eve said.

Villanelle huffed a small laugh. “I told you. She is accurate.”

“And… to stop trying to be perfect and just be there,” Eve added.

Villanelle’s expression softened.

“She is right,” she said. “You do not have to be perfect. That is my job.”

“That’s a terrifying sentence,” Eve said.

Villanelle reached out, fingers brushing her elbow, grounding.

“Listen to me,” she said, voice very quiet, so that only Eve could hear. “Tomorrow, you go out there in this little gold dress” -her eyes flicked over it, heat in them that had nothing to do with costumes -“and you have every right to be the most confident woman in the room.”

Eve’s throat tightened. “I don’t… feel that.”

“I know,” Villanelle said. “But it is true.”

She stepped closer, close enough that Eve could feel the warmth of her breath on her cheek.

“You are clever, and funny, and you work hard, and you look…” she paused, searching for the word, “…incredible. No one else in that room is you. That is your power. So you walk on, and you take the space, and you let them watch.”

Eve’s heart hammered.

“Villanelle,” she said. “You can’t just… say things like that.”

“Why?” Villanelle asked. “They are true.”

Eve looked down quickly, blinking hard.

“Hey,” Villanelle murmured. “Look at me.”

She did.

“I will be there,” Villanelle said simply. “From the first step to the last. I do not drop you. I do not let you fall. All you have to do is be brave for thirty seconds at a time.”

“Thirty seconds?” Eve croaked.

“Okay,” Villanelle conceded. “Forty-five.”

Despite herself, Eve laughed.

“There,” Villanelle said softly. “Better.”

For the first time since launch night, Eve felt the panic loosen its claw just a little.

Maybe she could do this.

Maybe she could run, in heels, in front of millions, with this terrifying woman at her side, and not die.

Maybe.

⸻

Back in the dressing room later, as the others chattered about fake tans and blisters and who’d nearly dropped who in the lifts, Eve caught sight of them in the mirror.

Her, in gold and nerves.

Villanelle, in black and gold and calm danger.

They looked like a match that someone had dropped into a box of fireworks.

Tomorrow, the fuse would be lit.

For the first time, Eve felt a flicker of something that wasn’t just fear.

Excitement.

And that might have scared her most of all.

Chapter Text

Eve could feel the sound before she heard it.

Standing backstage, just beyond the curtain where the heat of the studio lights bled into the shadows, she felt the vibration of thousands of clapping hands and stamping feet echo up through the soles of her gold heels. It thrummed in her bones like a living pulse. The studio was alive in a way that made her skin feel too tight.

The scent of hairspray, hot lights, powder, and fabric glue thickened the air. Sequins scattered across the black floor like glittering breadcrumbs. Someone reheated coffee somewhere nearby - burnt, metallic, faintly miserable.

Eve stared at her reflection in the tall mirror propped against the backstage wall.

She hardly recognised herself.

The gold dress hugged her torso tightly, the bodice structured and secure, catching the light in warm flashes. The skirt, layered and soft, fluttered like liquid light when she shifted. Her hair, long, dark, curled and swept to one shoulder, felt unfamiliar against her bare skin. The makeup artist’s work had left her eyes dark and sharp, framed by glitter she hadn’t asked for.

She looked, she thought, like someone braver than she felt.

Villanelle appeared behind her reflection without warning - silent, composed, precise. Black tailored suit with gold detailing, fitted like armor, shirt open just enough to reveal the strong line of her collarbones. She looked like the kind of woman who walked into a room and everyone instinctively held their breath.

Their eyes met in the mirror.

Eve’s breath snagged.

“You’re quiet,” Villanelle said, stepping closer. Her voice was low enough that Eve felt it more than heard it. “Are you afraid?”

Eve tried to smile and failed. “Terrified. But that’s fine. Terror is normal, right?”

Villanelle considered that, head tilting slightly. “Fear is good. It wakes the blood.”

“That sounds like something a serial killer says.”

Villanelle didn’t blink. “You say that like it’s bad.”

Eve let out a shaky laugh despite herself.

Villanelle stepped behind her, hands lifting but not touching, not yet. “Turn.”

Eve turned to face her fully. Villanelle reached up, slowly, and adjusted a strand of Eve’s hair that had fallen out of place, brushing her fingers lightly against Eve’s cheek. It was barely contact, but Eve felt the warmth of it travel down her spine.

“You look beautiful,” Villanelle said. The softness in her tone surprised her. Surprised them both.

Eve swallowed. “Thank you. You look like… someone in a spy movie.”

Villanelle’s lips curved. “Good.”

A stage manager’s voice boomed through the space:
“Couples to the stairs! We are LIVE in ninety seconds!”

The roar of the audience spiked again, the music cue vibrating through the walls.

Villanelle extended her hand. “Come.”

Eve didn’t move.

“What if I fall?” she whispered, voice cracking.

Villanelle leaned in, voice near her ear, “Then I will catch you.”

Eve let out a breath that trembled, then placed her hand in Villanelle’s.

It was warm. Steady. Certain.

⸻

The golden doors parted and light flooded in, blinding bright. The theme music blasted live from the band, sharp brass cutting the air like a blade. The audience erupted as Tess and Claudia stepped forward at the top of the stairs, glittering in full Saturday-night glory.

“LIVE from the Studio - it’s STRICTLY COME DANCING!”

The explosion of cheers shook the floor.

One by one, couples descended the glowing steps:

Zara & Vito
Bill & Katya
Carolyn & Johannes
Konstantin & Dianne
Priya & Carlos
Archie & Amy
Jaden & Nancy
Elena & Nikita
Imogen & Aljaž
Kenny & Jowita
Frank & Nadiya

The chant began before they were even announced - loud, rhythmic, hungry:

“EVILL! EVILL! EVILL!”

Eve blinked, startled. Villanelle smiled like she’d personally orchestrated it.

“And now - VILLANELLE and EVE!”

Eve’s heart punched hard against her ribs. Villanelle’s hand tightened around hers.

“Breathe,” Villanelle whispered.

“I don’t know how,” Eve whispered back.

“We learn,” Villanelle said again, and led her forward.

They descended, camera lights catching gold and black, crowd roaring like an unstoppable wave. Eve forced a smile, muscles trembling under adrenaline. Villanelle walked as though she owned gravity, steady and unbothered.

When they reached the floor, Eve felt like she had entered another universe, one where everything was too bright and every sound too sharp.

Villanelle leaned closer, barely moving her lips. “You belong here.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into water - heavy and rippling.

Eve pretended not to feel it.

⸻

The Clauditorium seethed with heat, sweat, nerves, hairspray and adrenaline. The dancers clustered shoulder to shoulder, sparkling bodies pressed into tight space. The crowd roared below them, waves of applause crashing with every name Tess announced.

Eve gripped the edge of the balcony rail, knuckles white, staring down at the polished floor where the first routine was about to begin. Her heart hammered so loud she thought someone might hear it.

Elena bounced beside her, practically glowing with excitement.

“OH MY GOD, THIS IS MADNESS!” Elena squealed. “I’m sweating already and I can’t feel my legs! Isn’t that great?”

“That sounds medically concerning,” Eve said, voice thin.

Villanelle stood silently at her shoulder - close enough that their arms brushed. Calm, still, unreadable.

“Sweat is good,” Villanelle said mildly. “It means you are not dead.”

Elena cackled. “I adore you.”

Bill and Katya popped up behind them like over-caffeinated meerkats.

“Pre-show vibes?” Bill asked, waving two trembling jazz hands.

“I’m going to faint,” Eve admitted.

Bill grinned. “I already did in the toilets. Came back stronger.”

Carolyn and Johannes arrived, immaculate and deadpan.

“How was the Tango?” Eve asked.

Carolyn blinked once, expression flat. “Well, I survived. Johannes nearly killed me. The audience seemed entertained by the near-death experience.”

Johannes gasped. “Carolyn! We were passionate!”

“We were violent,” Carolyn corrected, expression unchanged. “But the judges love violence. I expect sevens.”

Eve burst out laughing, tension loosening slightly.

⸻

Claudia slid in front of them, microphone in hand, eyes sparking with mischief.

“Eve! Villanelle! First live show! Nerves?”

“I’m vibrating,” Eve said. “Possibly dangerously.”

Claudia nodded gravely. “Totally normal. We encourage vibrating here.”

She turned to Villanelle. “How has training been?”

Villanelle paused. “Eve is chaos.”

Eve groaned. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

“But she works,” Villanelle said. “Hard. And she is surprising. Good surprising.”

Eve blinked, stunned into silence.

Claudia beamed. “Well, we can’t wait to see it! Go and get ready - knock them dead!”

Villanelle leaned in, whisper-soft, “We will.”

Eve felt her pulse spike.

The floor manager called, “Villanelle and Eve to the floor, please!”

This was it.

Eve felt Villanelle’s hand slip into hers again.

“Trust me,” Villanelle murmured.

And with the roar of the crowd swelling around them like a storm, they walked toward the lights.

⸻

Eve stood on the polished floor under a burning white spotlight, and all sound seemed to fall away into a strange, dense silence. She could hear only her heartbeat - too fast, too loud - and her breathing, tight and shallow. The rest of the studio blurred at the edges, glittering shapes instead of faces.

Villanelle stood behind her, one hand hovering just above Eve’s back, not touching but close enough to feel the heat of her palm. A breath. A presence.

“Look at me,” Villanelle murmured, voice steady in the low hush before the music.

Eve turned her head slightly. Their eyes met. Villanelle’s face was calm, confident, unshakeable. A steady point in the chaos.

“You know this dance,” Villanelle whispered. “Your body knows it. Trust it.”

Eve swallowed, throat tight. “What if I-”

“No what if,” Villanelle said, quiet but firm. “Just now.”

The first bright blast of trumpet cut the silence, sharp enough to make Eve flinch. The lights jumped to life in a blaze of gold. The band hit the opening line:

“Everybody wants you…”

Villanelle’s hand slid into place on Eve’s back, connecting them fully at last, anchoring her like a hand closing around a lifeline, and they moved.

The Quickstep exploded beneath their feet, sharp staccato beats driving them across the floor in fast, precise runs. Eve felt the panic surge - too fast, too bright, too much - but Villanelle’s guiding pressure at her back and steady, sure grip on her hand pulled her into rhythm.

Run, run, pivot.
Hop-lock.
Corner change.
Heel leads clean on the beat.

The audience screamed encouragement from all sides, a wall of sound pushing them forward. Eve felt weightless, each step catching just before falling, Villanelle always there, shaping the movement, controlling the trajectory without force.

During the playful hip-pop section in the center, Villanelle grinned, raising an eyebrow at Eve as if daring her to enjoy herself. Something loosened in Eve’s chest, and she let herself laugh - breathless, exhilarated.

Then came the corner spin, the part she feared most.

Villanelle didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her hand pressed into the small of Eve’s back, a signal wordless and unmistakable.

Now.

Eve stepped into the turn, trusting gravity, trusting the speed, trusting Villanelle.

The spin landed clean. The audience erupted.

The adrenaline hit like a wave. Eve felt her body moving without conscious thought, taken by the music, directed by Villanelle’s steady lead. She felt powerful. She felt alive.

And then the final drop - Villanelle dipped Eve backward, Eve’s hair spilling toward the floor under the hot lights, Villanelle’s arm strong beneath her shoulder blades. For one suspended moment, everything held still, breathless, electric.

The final beat cut.

Silence.

Then - detonation.

The room exploded into applause, screaming cheers, stamping feet, whistles piercing the air. Elena shrieked from the Clauditorium loud enough to cut over everything. Bill flung both arms in the air and nearly fell over the railing. Nikita jumped up and down like a child on a trampoline.

Eve burst into breathless laughter, tears springing unexpectedly to her eyes. Villanelle pulled her upright, both hands gripping Eve’s forearms to steady her.

“You flew,” Villanelle said softly, voice full for the first time, eyes bright. “You were magnificent.”

Eve stared back, stunned. “I… I actually felt like I was.”

Villanelle nodded once. “Good.”

⸻

Tess glided toward them in a shimmer of silver fabric, microphone in hand, smiling wide and warm.

“EVE AND VILLANELLE, everybody!” she cheered over the roaring crowd. “What an incredible Quickstep for Week One! Eve - how does that feel?!”

Eve gasped, still breathless. “I don’t even know! I think I blacked out halfway through!”

The audience laughed, cheering more loudly.

Tess turned to Villanelle. “Villanelle, your first live show as a Strictly professional, congratulations. That was dazzling.”

Villanelle dipped her head graciously. “Thank you.”

“Let’s see what the judges thought,” Tess said. “Craig, we’ll start with you.”

Craig leaned forward, one elbow hooked casually over his desk, tapping a finger against his microphone.

“Well,” he began, pausing to let the crowd boo in anticipation, “darling… I was expecting a total dance dis-ah-ster.”

The crowd immediately booed louder. Craig basked in it.

“But-” He held up a hand. “I was pleasantly surprised tonight. Clean footwork, strong timing, and very light on your feet. Yes, your shoulders were up around your ears like a frightened turtle, and your top line needs work, but honestly? Very, very respectable for Week One.”

The crowd whooped. Eve grinned helplessly.

Tess nodded. “Thank you, Craig! Motsi?”

Motsi leaned forward, eyes shining. “EVE! I felt JOY from you! The energy! The personality! You didn’t just dance - you performed. You let us in, and that is the hardest part. Keep pushing, keep trusting yourself, keep leaning into this partnership. We are only getting started!”

Eve laughed, covering her face. “Thank you!”

“Shirley?” Tess prompted.

Shirley pointed gently with her pen. “Eve, darling, what I loved most was the trust in the partnership. Quickstep is not easy - the tempo is unforgiving. But your timing was clean, your heel leads were correct, and you danced with real musicality. And Villanelle-“ she shifted focus, “exquisite leading. Beautiful frame. I sense something very promising in this partnership.”

Villanelle inclined her head, expression unreadable but eyes gleaming.

“And finally, Anton!” Tess said.

Anton beamed like a proud father. “That is exactly what Strictly is about - joy, entertainment, performance. You danced like you were having the time of your life, and we all felt it. Absolutely brilliant. Well done!”

The crowd roared.

Eve’s cheeks burned with emotion. She felt seen. Appreciated. Alive.

“Thank you, Judges,” Tess said warmly. “We’ll get your scores shortly - but first, let’s head upstairs. Eve and Villanelle - up to the Clauditorium!”

⸻

The Clauditorium erupted when they reached the top. Elena flung her arms around Eve, screaming directly into her ear.

“You were INSANE! OH MY GOD! STAR! STAR ENERGY!”

Bill patted her back so enthusiastically she nearly fell. “I saw God. Twice!”

Carolyn gave a single dry nod. “Acceptable.”

Johannes fanned himself theatrically. “I am overheated!”

Eve laughed helplessly, burying her face in her hands. Villanelle watched her quietly, something soft around the edges of her expression.

Claudia swooped in, microphone ready.

“Eve - YOU did that! How do you feel now you’re not vibrating with terror?”

“I still am,” Eve said. “But now it’s in a… good way?”

Claudia turned to Villanelle. “Villanelle, you must be thrilled?”

Villanelle shrugged, casual, almost bored. “It was acceptable.”

The room screamed with laughter.

“It was more than acceptable!” Claudia insisted. “And now - it’s time for the scores!”

⸻

Craig: 6
Motsi: 7
Shirley: 7
Anton: 7

Total: 27

The cast erupted. Elena screamed so loudly it startled Jaden into dropping his drink. Bill shouted, “RESPECTABLE!” like a war cry. Someone sprayed confetti from nowhere.

Villanelle leaned close, voice low enough that only Eve could hear, “This is only the beginning.”

Heat shot through Eve’s chest.

She believed it.

Chapter Text

By the time they were all herded back onto the floor for the results show, Eve’s adrenaline had crashed into a strange, twitchy calm. The room felt both too bright and slightly unreal, like a dream she wasn’t fully inside.

The Strictly theme played again, but quieter now, underscored with a low, theatrical drumroll. Couples stood in a curved formation on the dancefloor, Tess and Claudia in the middle like glittering executioners.

Villanelle stood at Eve’s side, one hand loosely at the small of her back. It looked casual. It didn’t feel casual. Every time a camera swung in their direction, Eve’s stomach clenched.

“Remember,” Villanelle murmured, voice barely audible under the murmur of the crowd, “whatever happens, we had a good first week.”

“We did,” Eve said. “We survived. My feet hate me, but we survived.”

Villanelle’s fingers pressed gently into her lower back. “Your feet are dramatic.”

“Everything about me is dramatic,” Eve muttered.

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “I like it.”

Before Eve could decide how to handle that, Tess turned to camera, face composed, voice solemn.

“Welcome back to our Week One results show. The judges’ scores have been combined with your votes at home, and now it’s time to find out which couples are safely through to next week… and which two couples will face the dreaded dance-off.”

A hush rolled across the studio.

Eve’s heart began pounding again.

“Remember,” Claudia added, “nobody wants to be the first out. This is serious, people.”

The red light on the main camera blinked on. Tess looked down the line of couples, card in hand.

“The first couple safely through to Week Two is… ZARA AND VITO!”

Screams. Zara clapped both hands over her mouth, Vito lifted her body off the floor in a hug.

“Also safely through are… CAROLYN AND JOHANNES!”

A cheer. Johannes spun Carolyn once; she rolled her eyes, but a tiny pleased smile snapped at the corner of her mouth.

Villanelle’s hand didn’t move from Eve’s back. Eve’s pulse thumped in her ears.

Names rolled out.

Priya and Carlos.
Archie and Amy.
Elena and Nikita.
Bill and Katya.
Imogen and Aljaž.
Kenny and Jowita.
Frank and Nadiya.
Jaden and Nancy.

The group of “not yet safe” shrank. Eve felt it with each name.

They were still standing there.

Tess glanced at her card again.

“The next couple safely through to Week Two is…”

Eve held her breath.

“…EVE AND VILLANELLE!”

The noise hit like a wall. The audience roared. Someone in the upper circle yelled, “ TEAM EVILL!” again. Eve’s knees wobbled. She grabbed Villanelle’s arm without thinking.

“We’re safe,” she hissed, half laugh, half sob. “We’re safe.”

Villanelle turned slightly toward her, eyes warm, the tiniest glimmer of satisfaction there. “Of course,” she said, like there was no other option.

Claudia beckoned them off the floor. They moved toward the Clauditorium stairs, still dazed.

⸻

Claudia intercepted them halfway up the steps, squeezing in between them and the railing with the mic.

“Eve and Villanelle!” she said, eyes wide, hair bouncing like a startled crow. “SAFE and not in the bottom two. How does that feel?”

Eve exhaled all at once. “Like someone took a piano off my chest.”

The crowd laughed.

“You were genuinely worried?” Claudia asked.

“I assume disaster at all times,” Eve said. “It’s less disappointing that way.”

“She is very dramatic,” Villanelle confirmed.

Claudia pivoted, delighted. “Villanelle, week one, first time as a Strictly pro, great score, safe - happy?”

Villanelle considered. “Satisfied,” she said. “For now.”

“Ooh,” Claudia said. “That sounded like a threat. I’m into it.”

Eve snorted.

“And can you give us any hint,” Claudia added, “about what torture you have planned for Eve next week?”

A murmur of anticipation rolled through the Clauditorium. Nikita actually leaned over the rail, cupping his hands around his mouth like a gremlin.

Villanelle straightened slightly, glancing toward the band. “It is a Latin,” she said, deliberately vague.

“Oh no,” Eve muttered. “That sounds bad.”

“SAMBA!” someone shouted from the crew.

“Is it Samba?” Claudia gasped, eyes huge.

Villanelle smiled - slow, wicked. “Yes,” she said. “Samba.”

“And the song?” Claudia urged. “Come on…”

Villanelle lifted her hand and started to drum theatrically against her thigh. The band, primed, crashed in on cue with the instantly recognisable guitar and drums of “Whenever, Wherever” by Shakira.

The audience screamed.

Villanelle didn’t waste a second - she launched into an exaggerated Samba up to the tiny bit of floor near Claudia, hips rolling, shoulders shimmying, hair flicking. Jaden lost his mind. Nikita threw himself into a rival Samba at the top of the stairs. The Clauditorium turned into a chaotic carnival.

Claudia shrieked. “I’M GOING TO JAIL!”

Eve watched Villanelle’s hips move, brain completely blank for a full three seconds.

“Oh God,” she said out loud. “I’m not built for this.”

Villanelle finished with a dramatic pose, one arm overhead, breathing just a little harder. She shot Eve a look that said you are absolutely built for this and you’re going to find out.

Claudia patted Eve’s arm. “Well, good luck staying alive through a Shakira Samba. I believe in you. Sort of.”

⸻

Back on the floor, the last three couples waited under the spotlights.

Tom & Lauren.
Mason & Karen.
Lila & Gorka.

Tess delivered the final blows calmly.

“The final couple safely through is…
TOM AND LAUREN.”

Tom looked like he’d nearly fainted with relief. Lauren hugged him so hard he squeaked.

That left Mason & Karen and Lila & Gorka.

After the dance-off - a replay of Mason’s messy Cha Cha - the judges conferred, gave sorrowful faces, and Shirley spoke for them all.

“The couple we are saving tonight is… Lila & Gorka. Which means we are saying goodbye to Mason and Karen.”

There were hugs. Tears. Glitter sticking to cheeks wet with mascara. Mason raised his hand in a little salute to the crowd.

“It’s been brilliant,” He said. “You are all mad. I love you.”

The lights lowered on them, then refocused on the surviving dancers.

Eve felt it land in her chest - the reality that every week from now on, someone would be leaving. That this wasn’t just make-believe in sparkly costumes. It was competition. Risk. Goodbye.

Villanelle’s hand found her elbow, squeezing once.

“Come,” she said softly. “We are done for tonight.”

⸻

The bar they’d hired for the afterparty was one of those dimly lit, slightly too-trendy places with exposed brick, industrial lamps, and eclectic art on the walls; the kind that tried very hard not to look like it was trying. Fairy lights strung along beams, and the speakers hummed with a mix of pop and old disco tracks.

The Strictly crowd poured into it like glittery refugees - dresses, suits, undone bow ties, trainers replacing heels. Someone started a conga line within about four minutes. At least three people immediately ordered tequila.

Eve hovered at the bar, fingers around the stem of a wine glass, the after-buzz of adrenaline fizzing in her veins. Her feet ached, but it was a good ache, like a bruise from something worth doing.

“Drink?” asked the bartender.

“Yes,” Eve said. “Wine. Red. The biggest one you have.”

A glass slid toward her.

She took a sip. It was mediocre. It tasted amazing.

A moment later, Villanelle appeared at her side, sliding onto the barstool next to her as though she’d been assigned that spot by fate. Still in her black and gold suit, jacket unbuttoned now, shirt slightly looser at the neck. She looked like a very expensive assassin who’d stopped by a party on the way to a job.

“What is that?” Villanelle asked, nodding at Eve’s drink.

“Merlot,” Eve said. “A safe and boring choice, like my personality and my tax history.”

Villanelle ordered a whiskey neat with a flick of her fingers, then gave Eve a look. “You are not boring.”

Eve raised an eyebrow. “My husband would disagree.”

Villanelle took a slow sip of whiskey. “Yes. He would.”

Eve snorted into her wine.

The dancefloor formed organically in the middle of the room - Nikita and Jaden were in the centre of it almost immediately, attempting to out-Samba each other to a Lizzo track. Elena cheered them on, shouting unhelpful commentary like “MORE HIP!” and “WHY ARE YOUR SHOULDERS DOING THAT?”

Bill and Katya were deep in conversation with Tess at a table, miming kicks enthusiastically. Johannes held court near the corner with a small cluster of pros, champagne glass in hand.

Carolyn sat on a high stool, posture flawless, sipping something clear and probably lethal from a cut-crystal glass, observing everything like she’d been put there as quality control.

“You two were very good,” she said calmly as Eve and Villanelle wandered closer, drinks in hand.

“You were terrifying,” Eve replied. “In the best way. That Tango… I thought Johannes was going to spin you into another dimension.”

“Yes,” Carolyn said. “He nearly did. But apparently ‘drama’ is what the public wants.” She took another sip. “Personally, I would have preferred a nap.”

Johannes appeared behind her with the silent stealth of a cat. “She LOVED it,” he told Eve. “She pretends she didn’t, but she did.”

Carolyn gave him a sideways look. “I liked being right,” she admitted.

Villanelle smiled over the rim of her glass. “You have very good lines.”

“Thank you,” Carolyn said. “I’ve spent most of my life standing very still in expensive clothing. It helps.”

Elena burst between them like a firecracker. “OKAY, I NEED TO BORROW THE STAR OF THE SHOW,” she announced, grabbing Eve’s wrist. “Come on.”

“I am not-” Eve began, but Elena was already dragging.

Villanelle watched them go with an expression that would have been perfectly neutral to anyone who didn’t already know what to look for. Eve, who was beginning to, caught the tiny tightening at the corner of her mouth.

⸻

They ended up in a cluster on some low sofas near the back wall - Elena, Bill, Jaden, Eve, and eventually Villanelle, who slid in at the edge, close enough that her knee brushed Eve’s when she crossed her legs.

Jaden was in the middle of explaining the exact moment he’d decided to adopt Nancy as his “favourite chaos auntie” when Eve’s phone buzzed on the table.

She glanced down.

Niko ❤️

The buzzing stopped. Then started again a few seconds later.

Missed call.

Eve felt a tiny sting of guilt prickle her neck.

“Answer it,” Elena said, seeing the screen. “It might be important.”

“It’ll be him saying, ‘Saw the show, proud of you, don’t forget the bins tomorrow,’” Eve said, but she picked it up anyway, stepping aside to the quieter corner by the toilets.

She answered. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Niko said. Noise in the background - pub sounds, maybe. “Just wanted to say I watched the show. You were great.”

“Thanks,” Eve said. “We didn’t die. That’s the main thing.”

He laughed softly. “You look happy. It’s good. I like seeing you like that.”

She swallowed. “Yeah. It’s… it’s strange, but it’s good.”

“Listen, I won’t keep you,” he said. “I know you’re out. Just… don’t let them work you too hard, okay? And send me a picture of the costume. Your mum wants to see.”

“I will,” she said. “Night.”

“Night, Evie. Love you.”

“Love you,” she replied, the words automatic, and hung up.

When she turned back, Villanelle was watching her from the sofa, whiskey glass balanced delicately in one hand. Her expression was carefully neutral.

“Your husband,” she said when Eve returned.

“Yes,” Eve said, sitting back down. “He’s very… attentive.”

“That is one word,” Villanelle murmured.

“What’s another one?” Eve asked, sipping her wine.

Villanelle considered. “Clingy. Mild. Slightly overcooked.”

Eve choked. “Overcooked?”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “Like pasta someone forgot about. Soft. No bite.”

Elena, overhearing, cackled. “She’s not wrong.”

“Traitors, all of you,” Eve said, but she was smiling.

Her phone buzzed again on the table. A text.

Niko: Send me a picture of you and your partner! x

Villanelle glanced down. “Again.”

“He’s excited,” Eve said quietly, thumb hovering over the screen.

Villanelle’s mouth tipped slightly. “You do not sound excited.”

“I’m… tired,” Eve said. “It’s been a long week.”

Villanelle studied her face for a moment, eyes resting on her like hands.

“You do not owe every part of yourself to him,” she said finally. “You can keep something.”

Eve felt the words land somewhere tender. “This is just dancing,” she said. “It’s not… anything else.”

“Mm,” Villanelle said, noncommittal. “If you say so.”

⸻

Later, when some of the crowd had filtered away and the music had shifted to something softer, Eve found herself back at the bar with Villanelle.

They stood side by side, shoulders almost touching, watching Jaden attempting to get Johannes to twerk while Carolyn pretended she’d gone blind.

“You did well with the judges,” Villanelle said. “You listened. You did not panic on the spin.”

“I panicked a little,” Eve said. “I just did it anyway.”

“That is courage,” Villanelle replied. “Panic but do it anyway.”

“Is that your life motto?” Eve asked.

“One of them,” Villanelle said. “The other is ‘kill them with charm, not knife.’”

Eve stared. “…do I want to know where that came from?”

“No,” Villanelle said cheerfully.

Eve laughed, shaking her head. “You’re very weird.”

“You like weird,” Villanelle said.

Eve opened her mouth to disagree. Closed it.

“Yes,” she admitted quietly. “I do.”

Villanelle’s eyes flickered, something warm sparking there.

“You are weird also,” Villanelle said. “You investigate murders for fun. You talk too much when you are nervous. You pretend not to care when you care very much.”

Eve felt exposed and oddly seen. “You got all that from one week?”

“I am very good at people,” Villanelle said simply. “You especially.”

“That sounds like a threat,” Eve said.

“It might be,” Villanelle said.

They stood in silence for a moment, the music filling the space between them. Someone put on “September,” and half the pros groaned and migrated back to the dancefloor out of muscle memory.

Eve realised their hands were resting on the bar very close to each other, pinkies almost brushing. She glanced down at the narrow space between their fingers.

Villanelle followed her gaze. Then, quite deliberately, she shifted her hand just enough that her smallest finger touched Eve’s.

It was nothing. Barely contact.

Eve felt it all the way to her throat.

She wanted to pull away. She wanted to press closer. She did neither. She just stood there, very, very aware of that single point of touch.

Villanelle tilted her head. “Next week will be harder,” she said lightly. “Samba is… exposing.”

“Excellent,” Eve said faintly. “Can’t wait to humiliate myself in a different tempo.”

Villanelle smiled. “You will be wonderful.”

“You’re very confident,” Eve said.

“I am right,” Villanelle replied.

“About everything?” Eve challenged.

Villanelle considered. “Yes. And about you.”

Eve looked at her, at the line of her jaw, the cut of the suit, the calm certainty in her eyes. Something dangerous and exhilarating turned over in her chest.

“I don’t know what that means,” she said.

“Yes, you do,” Villanelle replied, and for once, she didn’t say it like a tease. She said it like a fact.

Across the room, Elena shouted for them to join another impromptu group photo. Bill waved dramatically. Nikita yelled, “COUPLES! CUDDLE PICTURE!”

Villanelle stepped back, breaking the little electric contact between their hands.

“Come on,” she said. “Smile for the people.”

Eve rolled her eyes, but when Villanelle’s hand slid to the small of her back again as they walked toward the others, she didn’t move away.

For now, it could still be just dancing.

For now, no one had to name the way the air changed when they stood too close.

But something had started - on the floor, under hot lights, between a Quickstep and a Samba - and Eve knew, with a clarity that frightened her, that whatever this was, it wasn’t going away.

Chapter Text

By Monday morning, Eve’s body felt like it had been through low-level warfare.

Her thighs ached. Her feet hurt in oddly moral ways. Even her ribs felt bruised from laughing, panicking, and being held upright by someone who seemed immune to gravity.

She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, contemplating faking a minor injury. Nothing dramatic. Something vague and respectable. A sprain. A sudden medical condition called absolutely not, we tried our best.

Her phone buzzed on the bedside table.

She groaned, rolled over, and squinted at the screen.

Villanelle:
9.00. Studio.
Wear something you can sweat in.

Another message appeared before she could process the first.

And shoes you can move your hips in.

Eve dropped the phone onto the duvet and covered her face with her hands.

“Why do I make bad choices,” she muttered into her palms.

From the doorway, Niko’s voice floated in. “Because you’re secretly addicted to chaos.”

He walked in, mug of coffee in hand, hair still rumpled from sleep, wearing an old t-shirt with a faded print.

“You’re up,” he said.

“No,” Eve replied. “I’ve died. That’s why everything hurts.”

He put the mug down beside her and sat on the edge of the bed. “You were amazing on Saturday. They’re still talking about it at school. Apparently Mrs Polastri is now cooler than Mr Polastri. I’m deeply offended.”

Eve snorted. “Good. It’s my time.”

He smiled. “Your mum’s been sending your clip to every relative we’ve ever had. And some we haven’t.”

Eve groaned. “Of course she has.”

Niko squeezed her ankle through the duvet. “You looked happy, you know. On Saturday. Properly happy. Haven’t seen that in a while.”

Guilt slid in under her ribs like a thin blade.

“It’s the adrenaline,” she said quickly. “And the terror. Makes a fun cocktail.”

“New week,” he said. “New dance.”

“Samba,” she said darkly. “To Shakira. The worst combination of sounds I have ever spoken aloud.”

He winced. “Yeah. That’s… intense.”

“You’re meant to say something supportive,” Eve pointed out.

“I believe in you?” he tried. “And in your hips?”

“Too late,” she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “You blew it.”

He laughed, stood, and headed for the door. “Text me when you’re done. Don’t let them break you completely.”

She sipped coffee, thumbed her phone open again, and stared at Villanelle’s messages.

Shoes you can move your hips in.

She rolled her eyes at the screen, but a quiet, treacherous part of her was already curious.

⸻

The rehearsal studio was all high windows and blank light when she arrived. The speakers sat squat in the corner, glowering. The mirror wall stretched huge and unforgiving, waiting to reflect every mistake.

On one side wall, opposite the mirror, a whiteboard held scribbled notes from other rehearsals. Beneath it, someone from wardrobe had pinned a row of design sketches: pencil outlines of costumes, coloured in roughly with marker pens.

Eve dropped her bag, then wandered closer, narrowing her eyes.

Somebody had scrawled in block letters above one drawing:

SAMBA – VILLANELLE & EVE – COSTUME SKETCH

She studied the rough sketch: a short, asymmetric dress in deep red, swathes of black fringe, a bare back, long, clean legs. Next to it, another figure, long black trousers, a fitted top with slashes of red, sharp angles.

She stared at the one that was obviously meant to be her.

“Oh no,” she said quietly. “Absolutely not. No. I object.”

“You object to what?” a voice asked behind her.

She jumped, whipping around.

Villanelle had arrived silently. Black shorts, dark vest, hair braided back off her face. Even in rehearsal clothes she looked curated - sharp lines and easy confidence, like a portrait of controlled power hung in the wrong room.

Eve gestured at the sketches. “This. All of this. Red? On television? Have they met me?”

Villanelle moved to stand beside her, eyes skimming the page.

“Red is good,” she said. “Strong. Confident. Dangerous.”

“That’s the problem,” Eve said. “That’s three adjectives I’ve never been called in my life.”

Villanelle tilted her head. “You will be.”

She tapped the paper lightly where Eve’s drawn waist nipped in. “This will be beautiful on you.”

Eve made a strangled noise. “It’s… tiny.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “That is the point.”

“And you?” Eve gestured at the other sketch. “You’re all dramatic black with tasteful red lines like some kind of Bond villain.”

“Yes,” Villanelle repeated, perfectly serious. “I will look incredible.”

Eve gave her a look. “You’re very confident.”

“I am correct,” Villanelle said. “It is not confidence. It is fact.”

Eve turned back to the sketch of herself, red dress swimming in her vision.

“I’m going to look like a walking midlife crisis,” she muttered. “Like the Strictly version of ‘I bought a sports car and ran away’.”

Villanelle’s lips curved. “You will look like woman who knows what she wants.”

“That’s worse,” Eve said.

Villanelle watched her for a second longer, eyes running over Eve’s face as if she were cataloguing reactions.

Then she clapped her hands once, the sound cracking the air.

“Warm-up,” she said. “We will worry about red when you can move your hips without dying.”

⸻

Ten minutes later, they stood facing one another in the centre of the room, shoes off to feel the floor better, the studio humming with the low buzz of anticipation.

Villanelle picked up her phone, thumbed through a playlist, and then the speakers exploded into panpipes and drums.

“Whenever, Wherever” filled the space, the beat thick and hot.

Eve physically recoiled. “Absolutely not. I’m not ready yet. Turn it off.”

“No,” Villanelle said calmly. “You must know it. You must let it in.”

“That sounds like a threat,” Eve said.

“It is. The song It is perfect,” Villanelle said calmly. “Good rhythm, clear beats, very… sensual.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Eve said. “Do you know how many school discos this song traumatised?”

Villanelle ignored that, beginning to mark out the basic bounce of the Samba with her knees and ankles, hips rolling naturally into the rhythm.

“Watch,” she said.

Eve watched.

That was the problem.

She started to move without thinking about it - hips immediately catching the rhythm, knees soft, weight sitting low into the floor. Even in a simple mark-through, she looked like the music lived under her skin, like the drums were wired straight into her spine.

Eve tried not to stare. Failed.

Villanelle spun slowly, letting a little more power into it. Hips rolled. Ribs lifted. Her arms sliced the air just enough to frame the movement.

“You are staring,” Villanelle observed, not vain, just factual.

“You’re weaponising Shakira,” Eve said faintly. “What do you expect me to do?”

Villanelle smirked and turned the volume down a notch. “Come. We start with basic bounce.”

“That phrase should be illegal,” Eve replied.

Villanelle stepped close, laid both hands on Eve’s hips.

Eve made a small, startled noise. “Oh.”

“Your knees must be soft,” Villanelle said, gently rocking Eve’s hips side to side once. “The bounce begins here. Not in shoulders, not in neck. Here.”

Her thumbs pressed into the front of Eve’s hip bones; her fingers spread around to the small of her back.

Eve tried to focus on the mechanics. Knees bend. Weight rolls. Hips move. Instead, her brain fixated on the warmth of Villanelle’s grip and the fact that the wardrobe wall behind them promised she’d be wearing less fabric than this in front of millions of people.

“This is indecent,” she muttered.

“Yes,” Villanelle agreed. “Good.”

“I’m going to spontaneously combust,” Eve said.

“Then we roast marshmallows,” Villanelle replied.

“That’s not - that’s not how any of this works.”

“Shut up and move,” Villanelle said, without heat.

She guided Eve through a simple side-to-side, letting the bounce live in the knees and the hips, not the shoulders. The first attempts were stiff, jagged, like a nervous giraffe learning yoga.

“Less fear,” Villanelle murmured. “More… sin.”

“Sin?” Eve squeaked.

Villanelle’s smile flashed quick and wicked. “Samba is not for good girls.”

“I’m not a good girl,” Eve protested on reflex.

Villanelle’s eyes caught hers in the mirror, amused and sharp. “I know.”

Eve’s stomach did something unhelpful.

⸻

The door slammed open.

“WE BRING SNACKS AND CHAOS!” Nikita announced, flinging himself halfway into the room.

Elena followed, holding a plastic tub. “I brought grapes. It’s all I had. Sorry.”

“You two are Samba-ing?” Nikita bounced closer. “Oh my God, look at this. Look at these hips. Are you terrified, Eve? You should be.”

“I am,” Eve said. “Constantly.”

Elena sat cross-legged on the floor and pushed the tub toward Eve. “Eat something. Your blood sugar will thank you.”

Villanelle leaned against the barre, arms crossed, watching the interruption with a mixture of amusement and mild annoyance.

Nikita studied the notes scribbled on the whiteboard in Villanelle’s handwriting. “Basic Samba walks, whisk, voltas, botafogos,” he read aloud. “Wow. You’re not easing her in at all.”

“Why?” Villanelle said. “She survived Quickstep. She can handle this.”

“Oh, we’ve created a monster,” Elena whispered to Eve. “You’re doomed in the best way.”

“How was your rehearsal?” Eve asked.

“Messy,” Elena replied immediately. “We kept tripping over each other. Nikita’s legs are too long. It’s unfair.”

“I have been attacked,” Nikita said. “Emotionally.”

“Do you want help?” he added to Villanelle, gesturing at the floor. “We can do a little demo?”

Villanelle shrugged. “If you like.”

Within seconds, Nikita and Elena were showing them a small Samba phrase - Nikita full of bounce, Elena half-laughing through every step. When they finished, breathless, everyone clapped.

“See?” Nikita told Eve. “It’s all in the bounce and the hips. You have great hips.”

Eve flushed. “I - thank you?”

Villanelle’s gaze slid to Nikita, cool and flat. “We have it,” she said. “Thank you.”

There was nothing overt in the words. But Nikita, sensitive soul that he was, raised his hands in surrender.

“Understood,” he said. “We’ll leave you to it.”

Elena squeezed Eve’s shoulder. “Text me if she starts quoting Shakira lyrics at you in a threatening way.”

“She already has,” Eve said.

“Excellent,” Elena replied, and followed Nikita out, grape tub in hand.

The room felt oddly quieter once they’d gone.

Villanelle pushed off the barre. “Ready?” she asked.

“No,” Eve said. “Let’s do it.”

They moved on to basic steps. Front, back, side. Weight changes on the beat. Villanelle stayed close the entire time, correcting with brief, precise touches.

“Your chest is tight,” she said, laying one hand just below Eve’s sternum. “You must let it move.”

“That seems dangerous,” Eve said.

“Everything worth doing is dangerous,” Villanelle replied.

At one point, when Eve kept turning her shoulders too much, Villanelle stepped directly behind her, fitting her body around Eve’s, their backs almost touching.

“One,” she murmured. “Two. Three. Feel.”

She wrapped one arm around Eve’s waist, the other across her upper arms, pinning her gently and letting their hips do most of the work. Eve watched their reflection - how naturally Villanelle moved, how much safer it felt, in a strange way, to be held like that.

It did not feel like a dance lesson. It felt like being shown a secret she hadn’t known she wanted.

Her brain scrambled to categorise the sensation. Failed.

“Okay,” she said abruptly. “That’s enough groping for a Monday.”

Villanelle released her, not offended, only amused. “You did well,” she said. “You will look perfect in red.”

Eve reached for her water bottle, almost dropping it. “Stop saying things like that.”

“They are true,” Villanelle said. “You will see.”

⸻

By Wednesday, the world had shrunk to the studio, Shakira, and the sound of her own laboured breathing.

Eve stood in front of the mirror again, sweat already starting at her hairline, and decided that if she survived this week she was never moving her hips again as long as she lived.

The door opened. Villanelle walked in carrying a gym bag and, oddly, a banana.

“Good morning,” Villanelle said. “Are you ready to suffer?”

Eve sighed. “Do you ever lead with anything comforting?”

“I brought a banana,” Villanelle said, holding it up like a peace offering.

“That’s… surprisingly thoughtful?”

“I will eat it,” Villanelle added.

“Of course you will.”

Villanelle tossed the banana aside and clapped her hands once. “Warm-up. Ten minutes. Then torture.”

Eve huffed out something like a laugh, rolled her shoulders, and tried to shake off the sense of impending doom.

The music came on. The basic steps were no longer basic. They had built a skeleton of choreography now - an opening walk, some bounce, travelling Samba walks, a cheeky section where they broke apart and mirrored each other, then a more intimate closing sequence Villanelle kept saying “we will grow into.”

“What does that mean, ‘grow into’?” Eve asked as they slowly marked it.

“It means you are not yet ready for how good it will be,” Villanelle said.

“I hate how much that motivates me,” Eve replied.

Within twenty minutes, Eve was attempting to do samba rolls while Villanelle stalked slowly around her like a trainer circling prey.

“More hips,” Villanelle said. “This is stiff. You look like office chair.”

“I am an office chair,” Eve gasped. “I sit for a living.”

“No. Now you are jungle cat.”

“What jungle cat moves like this?”

Villanelle shrugged. “One with arthritis.”

Eve wheezed a laugh and nearly fell sideways. Villanelle appeared instantly, hands gripping Eve’s waist and steadying her before she toppled.

“Balance,” she said quietly, face close enough for Eve to see every fleck in her eyes. “You must trust your centre.”

“Hard to trust anything when everything feels like it’s on fire,” Eve muttered.

“Fire is good,” Villanelle said. “Fire means alive.”

“Fire also means stop, drop, and roll.”

Villanelle stepped closer, their bodies almost touching. “Roll,” she said. “Yes. That is exactly what we do now.”

“Oh God.”

⸻

They were working the midsection - a line of syncopated steps and quick rotation that made Eve feel like her legs were trying to escape her body - when she finally snapped.

Her foot skidded slightly, weight going wrong, and she flailed, throwing her arm out. Villanelle caught her, but the slip was enough to rattle Eve’s already shaky confidence.

“I can’t do it,” Eve said, backing away, chest heaving. “I’m just - I can’t. My brain knows what it’s supposed to do, my body refuses to cooperate, and at any point I’m going to face-plant in front of the entire country in a red napkin of a dress.”

Villanelle stopped the music with a sharp tap on the remote.

“You can do it,” she said calmly. “You are choosing not to.”

Eve stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “I am not choosing to fail.”

“You are choosing fear,” Villanelle replied, stepping closer. “You cling to it. You hold it like… blanket.”

“A comfort blanket made of humiliation,” Eve said. “Solid metaphor.”

Villanelle’s mouth twitched. “You know every beat. Your body knows what to do. But you are afraid to be seen doing it.”

Eve opened her mouth to argue. Closed it. “I…” Her shoulders sagged. “Maybe.”

“You live in your head,” Villanelle said. “Dancing is not in your head. It is here.”

She laid both hands gently against Eve’s ribs, thumbs resting beneath her breasts, fingers spread along her sides.

Eve froze.

“This is a very intense teaching method,” she managed.

“Breathe,” Villanelle said quietly. “Match me. In. Out.”

“I AM breathing,” Eve panted.

“Not like dying horse,” Villanelle said. “Normal.”

She inhaled slowly. Eve tried to follow. Villanelle’s hands rose and fell with her breath, steady and firm.

“In,” Villanelle murmured again. “Out.”

Gradually, Eve felt her heartbeat slow. The tight knot at the base of her throat loosened. Her shoulders dropped.

Villanelle’s eyes stayed trained on her face, unblinking. There was nothing mocking there. Just focus. And something like… belief.

“This,” Villanelle said softly, “is surrender. You think it is weakness. It is not. It is choosing to let go of noise so you can hear the music.”

Eve swallowed. “You sound like you swallowed a self-help book.”

“I do not read self-help,” Villanelle said. “I read manuals. And people.”

“You’re very good at people,” Eve said, before she could stop herself.

Villanelle’s smile was quick and small. “I know.”

She dropped her hands, stepped back half a pace. The air felt thinner without that contact.

“Again from the top,” Villanelle said, voice brisk again. “We try once without panic.”

⸻

They did.

And for a moment, just for the length of one phrase, it worked.

Eve moved without second-guessing. Hips rolled. Feet found the beat. Their bodies stayed in sync, breath and steps aligned. She saw their reflection and didn’t think that’s not me. She thought, That’s us.

When the music cut, she found herself smiling. Properly smiling. Mouth, eyes, everything.

Villanelle watched her, chest rising and falling a little harder now.

“See?” she said. “You are not office chair. You are… fire.”

Eve rolled her eyes to hide the flush in her cheeks. “If you start using fire metaphors I’m leaving.”

“Too late,” Villanelle said. “You are already here.”

⸻

They took a short break. Eve sat on the floor with her back against the mirror, legs stretched out, bottle of water pressed to her neck. Her whole body hummed.

Her phone buzzed on top of her bag.

Niko
incoming call…

She stared at the screen for a moment.

Villanelle, stretching by the barre, noticed. “Husband.”

“He probably wants to know if I’ve broken any bones,” Eve said.

“Have you?” Villanelle asked.

“Emotionally, yes. Physically, not yet.”

The phone kept vibrating.

She didn’t move.

“Aren’t you going to answer?” Villanelle asked.

“I’ll… call him later,” Eve said.

The phone stopped. Buzzed again almost immediately. A message.

Niko: How’s it going? All good? Call if you get a break. x

Eve flipped the phone face-down.

Villanelle’s eyes followed the movement.

“You ignore him,” she said lightly.

“I’m busy,” Eve replied. “If I switch my brain from Samba to real life I might never get it back.”

“Mm,” Villanelle said. “Maybe it is good. To have a place that is only for this.”

Eve looked up. “Only for…?”

“For you,” Villanelle said simply. “For your body, not your work. Not his needs. Not what everyone expects from you. Just this.”

The words hit something tender and unguarded inside her.

“That sounds selfish,” Eve said automatically.

Villanelle shrugged. “Good. Be selfish. You owe no one your whole life.”

“That’s easy to say when you’re not married,” Eve muttered.

Villanelle’s gaze sharpened. “Do you think marriage means you stop belonging to yourself?”

Eve didn’t answer.

She didn’t have one.

⸻

They ran the closing section of the routine in detail - the circling, the sharper accent steps, the final lift.

The lift wasn’t really a lift, not compared to some of the others in the competition. Villanelle wasn’t throwing her into the air. She was catching her weight, guiding her into a controlled, intimate lean.

But it still felt like handing over all her balance to someone else.

“Again,” Villanelle said.

Eve stepped forward on the cue. Villanelle’s hands found her waist. Eve let her weight tip backward into the shape, one leg between Villanelle’s, their torsos almost pressed together.

The first few attempts, Eve tensed, panicked, grabbed Villanelle’s shoulders too tightly. Villanelle adjusted. Stayed steady. Never let her fall.

On the fifth try, something shifted. Eve loosened her grip, let herself feel the line of it - the arch of her back, the solid press of Villanelle’s palms, the way the weight shared between them created something balanced and strong instead of precarious.

The music stopped.

This time, they didn’t move right away.

Villanelle’s face hovered inches above hers. Eve could see the tiny flecks of lighter green in her eyes, the way a strand of hair had escaped and was sticking damply to her temple. She could feel Villanelle’s breath on her mouth.

“Do not run from this,” Villanelle said quietly. “You are better than your fear.”

Eve’s heart slammed. “You’re very intense,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “It works.”

They stayed there a second longer than was strictly necessary.

Then Villanelle lifted her upright, stepping back to a more neutral distance.

“Again,” she said, like nothing had happened. “We make it feel easy.”

Eve nodded, legs unsteady for reasons that had nothing to do with muscle fatigue.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s go again.”

⸻

By Thursday afternoon, the routine was technically there.

The counts existed. The choreography had a beginning, a middle, and an end. On paper, they could dance the Samba without dying.

The problem was that Eve’s brain refused to let her feel like someone who could actually pull it off.

They’d just finished yet another run-through. Eve stood in front of the mirror, body humming with fatigue, cheeks flushed, hairline damp. Shakira’s voice still echoed in the air even though the speaker was now silent.

“I look ridiculous,” Eve blurted.

Villanelle, who had been drinking water by the barre, froze mid-sip.

“You look like someone dancing,” she said.

“Exactly,” Eve replied. “Like someone pretending to be sexy. The world’s saddest charade. I feel like a substitute teacher who got dragged into a nightclub.”

Villanelle put the bottle down and crossed the room.

“Show me,” she said.

Eve blinked. “Show you… what?”

“How you think you look,” Villanelle said. “Do it wrong on purpose. Show me the thing you are afraid of.”

“That’s… genuinely evil,” Eve said.

“Yes,” Villanelle agreed. “Do it.”

Eve rolled her eyes, swallowed, then half-heartedly walked through a section - exaggerating every move in the worst possible way. Overdoing the hips, pulling a grotesque pout, stiffening her shoulders. She looked like someone doing a terrible parody of a hen party routine.

Villanelle watched, arms folded.

“See?” Eve said when she finished. “That. That’s what I feel like.”

“That,” Villanelle said calmly, “is not what you look like.”

“Maybe not in my body but in my soul,” Eve said.

“Your soul is much better than that,” Villanelle replied.

Eve stared at her, thrown.

“You are not doing this dance like clown,” Villanelle went on. “You are… holding back. Afraid of being too much. You would rather be less than risk being ridiculous.”

“Is that a crime?” Eve asked sharply.

Villanelle’s gaze softened. “No. It is… sad.”

The word hit harder than anything else.

Eve dropped her eyes. “I don’t know how to be… big,” she admitted. “Or… bright. Not with my body. I’m not that person.”

“You are exactly that person,” Villanelle said. “You spend your days chasing dark things. You think that means you must also be dark. But there is so much light in you, Eve. It leaks out all the time. In your jokes. In your face when you laughed after Quickstep. Here, now, when you try and fail and try again.”

She stepped closer, voice softening further.
“Let them see it.”

Eve’s chest felt tight. Not like panic this time. Like something trying to expand.

“I can’t just… decide to be that woman,” she said.

Villanelle tilted her head. “Borrow her,” she said. “For ninety seconds. Borrow the woman in the red dress. The woman on the costume sketch. Put her on like… mask.”

“Like a character?” Eve asked.

“No,” Villanelle replied. “Like the version of you who is not afraid. She already lives inside you. She shows up when you forget to be careful.”

Eve let out a shaky breath. “You’re weirdly good at this.”

“Manipulation?” Villanelle said. “Yes. Very good.”

Eve barked a surprised laugh. “I walked straight into that.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “Again from the break. This time, you pretend to be her.”

⸻

They ran the middle chunk.

Something was different this time.

Eve didn’t suddenly transform into a professional Latin champion, but there was a new intention in her movements. She let the music sit deeper, allowed herself to lean into the sway, to flirt with the camera imaginary in the mirror, to let her eyes stay locked on Villanelle’s a moment longer than was safe.

At the end of the section, Villanelle smiled - slow, satisfied.

“There,” she said. “She is waking up.”

“Who?” Eve asked.

“The woman in red,” Villanelle said.

Eve exhaled. “I am never telling you when you sound like a villain. Because you’re worryingly good at it.”

“I know,” Villanelle replied.

⸻

The wardrobe department was chaos: rails of sequins, feathers, and rhinestones. Assistants darted between dressing rooms with armfuls of fabric. Someone was having a heated discussion about the amount of fringe on a trousers leg.

Eve stepped into the designated fitting area, clutching a coffee cup like a talisman.

“Eve!” the chief costume designer called. “Perfect timing. Your dress is ready.”

Eve’s stomach dropped. She glanced sideways automatically.

Villanelle was already there, leaning against a wall, chatting idly with one of the other pros. She looked comfortable in the chaos, like she’d been born in a dressing room.

“Ready?” Villanelle asked when their eyes met.

“No,” Eve said. “Let’s do it.”

The designer pulled a dress from the rack with a little flourish.

It was… a lot.

The base was a deep, rich red, almost blood-warm, covered in scattered crystals that caught every shard of light. The bodice was structured but minimal, with slim straps and a swooping neckline that suggested cleavage without tipping into obscene. Cut-outs at the sides were filled with sheer black mesh, teasing more than showing. The skirt was short, angled, heavy with black rhinestoned fringe that would fly when she moved.

Eve stared at it like it might bite.

“You’re kidding,” she said.

“It’s gorgeous,” the designer said. “And very forgiving. Trust me.”

“I can see my existential crisis from here,” Eve said.

Villanelle stepped closer, looking the dress over with a thoughtful eye.

“This is good,” she said. “Strong. Not cheap. Red for power. Black to ground it. You will look like danger.”

“Is that… desirable?” Eve asked faintly.

“In Samba, yes,” Villanelle said.

The designer thrust the hanger into Eve’s hands. “Go try. I’ll pin where we need to.”

Eve disappeared behind the curtain.

Changing into the dress was an exercise in negotiating with her own reflection. The bodice clung firmly once it was zipped up, holding her in, lifting, shaping. The skirt felt scandalously short when she first stepped into it, but the fringe created movement and coverage as she shifted.

She hesitated, then stepped out.

The room quietened a little.

Villanelle, halfway through a sentence with another dancer, simply stopped talking.

Her eyes moved slowly from Eve’s bare shoulders to the cut of the dress, the line of her legs, the way the red warmed her skin and the black fringe framed her hips.

For a fraction of a second, her composure cracked.

“You…” Villanelle started, then reset. “Turn.”

The designer spun Eve gently toward the mirror.

Eve braced herself.

The woman in the reflection was… not who she expected.

The red didn’t make her look foolish or desperate or trying too hard. It made her look - alive. Her body looked strong, not wrong. The cut-outs skimmed over her waist in a way that implied more than it revealed. The black fringe drew attention to the movement rather than to the flesh.

She looked like someone who could do this.

And, beneath the embarrassment, something else sparked - sharp, hot, and undeniable.

She looked a bit… hot.

Eve nearly died of second-hand embarrassment at herself.

“Say something horrible quickly,” she blurted. “Before I start liking this.”

“You look extraordinary,” Villanelle said at once.

“That’s not horrible,” Eve protested.

Villanelle’s gaze caught hers in the mirror. “I will never say horrible things about you in red,” she said simply. “It would be a crime.”

The designer hummed happily, pinning up the hem. “See? She gets it.”

Eve swallowed, cheeks burning. “I feel… exposed,” she admitted quietly.

“That is the point,” Villanelle replied. “But you are in control of the exposure. You decide what they see.”

“That feels like a lot of responsibility,” Eve murmured.

“Good,” Villanelle said. “You can handle it.”

⸻

When it was Villanelle’s turn, the change was almost comically unfair.

Her costume was mostly black - high-waisted black trousers that elongated her legs, hugging her hips and flaring subtly at the ankle; a fitted black top cut low in front, open at the back, the lines sharp and clean. Slashes of deep red shimmered along the sides and across one shoulder, like streaks of paint or ribbons of blood.

She stepped out of the changing area and the room seemed to tilt slightly.

“Of course,” Eve muttered under her breath. “Of course you look like that.”

Villanelle turned slowly toward the mirror, appraising herself.

“This is correct,” she said. “I told you I would look incredible.”

“You’re not supposed to say it,” Eve said. “Other people are supposed to say it and you pretend to be surprised.”

“I do not pretend,” Villanelle said. “It would be insulting to everyone’s eyes.”

The designer laughed. “She’s not wrong.”

Eve watched Villanelle’s reflection. The black and red combination intensified everything already sharp about her - her posture, the set of her jaw, the easy physical authority she carried. In that outfit, she looked less like a dance partner and more like a force of nature you had to survive.

Villanelle caught Eve’s eye in the mirror and held it, letting a slow, knowing smile curve her mouth.

“We match,” she said.

“Like playing cards,” Eve replied weakly. “I’m the one that gets people in trouble. You’re the one that kills them.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said, apparently delighted. “Exactly.”

⸻

Late Friday, back in their usual studio, they ran the full routine from top to bottom. No music first. Then with.

Eve’s body was tired but starting to understand the route through the dance - when to breathe, when to push, when to let Villanelle carry more of the weight.

Before they began the last run, Villanelle stood in front of her, studying her like a puzzle she almost had solved.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

“That sounds unsafe,” Eve replied.

“Do it anyway.”

Eve exhaled, closed her eyes.

“Now imagine tomorrow,” Villanelle said quietly. “The lights. The red dress. The music. The people watching. You are scared, yes. But under that, what else?”

Eve swallowed. “Excited.”

“Good. And under that?”

Eve hesitated. “Hungry. For it to go well.”

“And under that?”

Eve searched for the right word. “Free,” she said finally, surprising herself. “I feel… free. When it goes right. Like I stop… disappearing.”

Villanelle’s voice softened. “Yes. That. Keep that.”

Eve opened her eyes.

“Now,” Villanelle said, stepping into her, taking her in hold. “We dance. For freedom. Not for judges. Not for cameras. For you.”

“You’re going to make me cry,” Eve said.

“Do it after,” Villanelle replied. “It will ruin your balance now.”

⸻

They danced.

It wasn’t perfect. There were still tiny stumbles, little moments where Eve thought too much and had to pull herself back.

But something had settled inside her. The choreography lived in her legs now. The bounce had become less foreign, more an extension of her breath. The closeness in the final shape no longer felt purely terrifying - it felt charged, yes, but also like coming to rest in the only place the dance was meant to end.

When they finished, lungs burning, sweat cooling on their skin, Villanelle didn’t speak for a long beat.

Then she nodded once.

“You are ready,” she said.

“I don’t feel ready,” Eve replied.

“Good,” Villanelle said. “It would be arrogant to feel ready. You feel alive. That is enough.”

Eve laughed, tipping her head back. “You are absolutely impossible.”

Villanelle watched her, something complicated in her gaze - fondness, hunger, curiosity.

“You will set the floor on fire tomorrow,” she said.

“Let’s hope not literally,” Eve replied.

Villanelle’s smile flashed, quick and dangerous. “No promises.”

⸻

They left the studio together, the corridor quiet, lights low. Outside, the sky was darkening, city humming beyond the doors.

At the exit, they hesitated.

“Goodnight,” Eve said, hugging her bag close.

“Until tomorrow,” Villanelle said. “Sleep. Dream of red.”

“That’s horrifying,” Eve said. “Thank you.”

Villanelle stepped back, eyes trailing over Eve’s face like she was memorising it for later.

“It suits you,” she said. “The colour. The courage.”

Eve felt a warmth spread in her chest that had nothing to do with rehearsal.

“See you tomorrow,” she murmured.

As she walked away toward her taxi, phone buzzing softly in her pocket with messages she hadn’t read yet, Eve realised that for the first time since this started, she wasn’t just terrified of the live show.

She was looking forward to it.

Not for the cameras. Not for the judges. Not even for the scores.

For the feeling of stepping into that red dress, stepping onto that floor, and seeing what happened when she let the woman in the mirror - the one Villanelle seemed to see so clearly - take over.

Just for ninety seconds.

It didn’t feel like pretending anymore.

It felt like a beginning.

Chapter Text

The Strictly live studio on week two sounded different from last week.

Maybe it was the drums of the band warming up. Maybe it was the audience - louder than usual, a low rumble like an animal waiting to pounce. Maybe it was just Eve’s heart pounding in her ears, loud enough to drown out everything else.

The backstage corridors were chaos wrapped in tinsel. Crew ran with clipboards. Someone was arguing about fog machines. The smell of hairspray hung in the air like sweet chemical mist. Costumes glittered from every open door, sequins catching light like shards of broken glass.

Eve stood alone for a moment outside the dressing room, palms flat against the wall, trying to breathe.

Week one had been terrifying, yes, but it had been a fun kind of terrifying, full of adrenaline and relief. Week two felt different. Too real. Too exposed. Too much heat, too much spotlight, too much connection she didn’t yet understand.

And the red dress was waiting.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks. They were already hot.

“You are not allowed to die before the Samba,” she muttered to herself. “At least wait until after the judges’ scores. Die respectfully.”

A passing makeup artist patted her arm. “We need you alive until the dance-off at least.”

“Comforting,” Eve croaked.

Inside the dressing room, the costume hung beneath a pool of glowing vanity lights - deep red, alive with crystals, the black fringe shimmering with each shift of air. Eve stared at it like it was a loaded weapon.

When she finally changed and turned to the mirror, she didn’t recognise herself.

The dress hugged her like molten metal poured into shape around her body. The fringe skimmed high along her thighs, black glitter catching every breath of movement. The structured bodice carved a confident line through her frame, and her hair, curled into loose, powerful waves, fell around her shoulders like something out of a fantasy she had no right to inhabit.

She looked like a woman who could burn the world.

She looked like someone she had never let herself be.

She looked… dangerous.

“Oh fuck,” she whispered to the mirror. “No. Absolutely not. Someone call security.”

From the open doorway, a voice responded dryly, “If security needs to be called, it will not be for you.”

Eve turned.

Villanelle leaned against the frame, arms folded loosely, watching her like she was studying a piece of art - the intense quiet kind of watching, the kind that stripped away any sense of armour.

Her own costume - fitted black trousers that turned her legs into long lines of precision, and a deep red slashed top with an open back - made her look unreal. A villain disguised as a dancer. A dancer disguised as a villain. Something too composed to be safe.

Her hair was down now too, glossy waves falling past her shoulders, mirroring Eve’s.

The two of them looked like mirror opposites, red heat and black flame.

“You…” Eve attempted, words dissolving. “You look-”

Villanelle stepped closer, slow and deliberate, holding Eve’s gaze.

“Yes?” she murmured.

“Unfair,” Eve whispered.

Villanelle’s smile curled like smoke. “I know.”

Eve blinked fast. “You’re supposed to pretend you don’t know.”

“No,” Villanelle said. “I am honest. I look incredible.”

Eve gave a short, helpless laugh. “You do. It’s rude, actually. You should be ashamed.”

“I feel no shame,” Villanelle said simply. “Ever.”

“I had noticed,” Eve muttered.

Villanelle reached out and brushed one finger lightly beneath the edge of Eve’s neckline, barely touching fabric.

“This colour belongs to you,” she said quietly. “The red. It is not costume. It is truth.”

Eve’s breath stuttered. “Truth? I look like I’m about to crash a mafia wedding.”

“You look like woman who knows she is desired,” Villanelle corrected. “And that is terrifying to you.”

Eve stared at her, caught.

“…yes,” she admitted, voice barely above a breath. “It is.”

Villanelle’s expression softened - not gentler, but deeper.

“Good,” she said. “Use it.”

Before Eve could say anything else, or collapse, a stage manager stuck his head in the doorway.

“Positions for opening stairs, please! Couples to the wings!”

Villanelle nodded once. Then she leaned in so close that Eve felt her breath warm against her ear.

“Do not hide,” she whispered. “Not tonight.”

Eve’s heart tripped violently.

⸻

The wings behind the staircase were crowded - sequins, nerves, perfume and hairspray thick in the air. Couples clustered in small groups, adjusting costumes, trading last jokes, practising final steps on trembling legs before the show opened.

Elena spotted her first and let out a strangled shriek.

“Holy shit, Eve, you look like a Roman goddess who kills people on boats.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Eve said.

“Very important genre,” Elena said. “Ten out of ten.”

Nikita popped up behind her from nowhere, already vibrating with excitement. “HELLO RED GODDESS! IF I DIE TONIGHT BURY ME IN YOUR FRINGE.”

Bill wandered over, monocle and all. “I have only one question, Eve: who gave you permission to be this hot? Because it was not discussed in the group chat.”

“I’m actually having an out-of-body experience,” Eve admitted.

“Good,” Bill said. “Float into the Samba and haunt all of us.”

Carolyn stepped into view next, elegant in slate silver. She surveyed Eve with a slow, disdainfully impressed nod.

“Well,” she said. “At least if you fail technically, people will be too blinded by your thighs to care.”

“Thank you,” Eve said. “I think.”

“Confidence,” Carolyn replied. “Or fake it and drink afterwards.”

“I plan on both,” Eve muttered.

Villanelle joined them, sliding effortlessly into place beside Eve, hand hovering at the small of her back without touching. But Eve felt the heat of it, like a brand hovering just before contact.

“Ready?” Villanelle asked, voice low enough only she could hear.

“No,” Eve said honestly. “Let’s go anyway.”

The band struck up the opening theme. Tess and Claudia walked onstage in twin explosions of sparkle.

“HELLO AND WELCOME TO WEEK TWO!” Tess beamed. “Tonight our couples return to the floor with a mix of Ballroom and Latin - Waltzes, Sambas, Foxtrots, and more!”

Claudia leaned into the camera. “Tension is at an all-time high. I’ve had to use industrial-strength deodorant.”

Laughter rippled through the studio and audience.

“Let’s meet the couples!” Tess announced.

The spotlight tracked down the stairs as each pair descended,

Carolyn & Johannes - regal.
Elena & Nikita - full of fire.
Bill & Katya - playful drama.
Frank & Nadiya, Archie & Amy, Jaden & Nancy, Priya & Carlos, Imogen & Aljaž - wave after cheering wave.

Then-

“Kicking us off tonight with a Samba - it’s Eve and Villanelle!”

The roar hit like a physical force.

Eve stepped forward and felt Villanelle fall into place beside her, hand firm now against the small of her back, guiding her down the stairs. Cameras zoomed, lights hit full fire intensity, red spotlights swirling across them.

Villanelle leaned into her just enough for her words to brush Eve’s skin.

“Borrow the woman in red,” she murmured. “Let her breathe.”

Eve swallowed hard. “I’m afraid.”

Villanelle’s eyes flicked to hers, dark and unwavering, “Good. Fear makes truth.”

The room fell into a hush.
Lights narrowed.
Heat rose.

The band hit the opening panpipes of Whenever, Wherever.

Villanelle took her position in front of Eve - close, intimate, dangerous.

“Don’t run,” Villanelle murmured.

“I’m not,” Eve said, surprising herself.

⸻

The music hit like a fuse being lit - the panpipes slicing through the dark, drums building beneath them like a heartbeat. The lighting snapped to vivid scarlet, streaked with molten gold. Heat rolled across the floor as Eve stepped into position, the world narrowing to Villanelle’s eyes and the pulse in her own throat.

Villanelle prowled toward her with slow, deliberate steps, hips already rolling to the rhythm, every line sharp and hungry. Eve held her ground, breath trembling as Villanelle circled once, close enough that the fringe of Eve’s dress brushed Villanelle’s thigh.

Then the beat dropped hard - and the Samba began.

Villanelle seized her hands and pulled her into the opening promenade, guiding her forward in a smooth curve. Eve matched her steps, feeling the bounce spark through her legs and hips, every movement landing clean, electric. She caught her reflection in the mirror-like shine of the polished floor: she looked alive, fierce.

Villanelle released one hand, spinning Eve out and back again, catching her waist at the last second. Their bodies collided - chest to chest, heat searing through the thin layers of fabric. Eve felt Villanelle’s breath against her jaw, the faintest, maddest laugh escaping her lips.

“Good,” Villanelle murmured, soft and wicked, just loud enough for Eve’s bones to hear. “More.”

Eve rolled her hips into the next step, pressing closer than rehearsed, following instinct rather than choreography. Villanelle’s eyes flashed - surprise first, then satisfaction, then something darker.

The audience roared.

They broke apart suddenly, Mirrored Bota Fogos whipping side to side in perfect sync, the black fringe around Eve’s hips igniting under the lights like sparks flying. Camera lenses whipped around them, catching every sharp breath, every line of muscle.

Eve felt something inside her unlock - a wild, reckless version of herself she had only met in flashes. She didn’t fight it. She let it out, let it burn.

Villanelle saw it and smiled like she had been waiting for it all along.

They came back together for the travelling Samba walks, Villanelle’s hand sliding firmly along Eve’s lower back, guiding her into pivot turns that skimmed the edge of control. Their legs brushed with every step, heat building like friction trying to ignite.

As they approached the centre of the floor for the highlight section, Villanelle leaned in, lips almost touching Eve’s ear.

“Steal it,” she whispered. “The room. Me. Everything.”

Something detonated in Eve’s chest.

She hit the sharp hip rolls like she had been born with them, snapping her gaze up to the audience, then directly into Villanelle’s eyes. Villanelle staggered - half a beat, half a breath - thrown not by technique, but by the pure electricity Eve radiated.

Then they hit the final sequence.

It was intimate by design, far closer than any Samba should legally be allowed to be on early evening television. Villanelle slid one leg between Eve’s, hand firm at her waist, pulling her into the body roll sequence. Eve followed the movement, bodies aligned from hips to ribs, breath syncing without conscious thought.

Time slowed. The music thickened. The world dissolved.

Eve felt Villanelle’s body through every point of contact - the strength in her arms, the steady command in her frame, the heat rising off her skin. And suddenly, utterly without warning, desire cracked through her like lightning.

Not performance.
Not character.
Not pretend.

Want.
Sharp. Immediate. Physical.

She caught breath against breath, Villanelle’s lips hovering a breath from hers, eyes locked, pupils blown wide. Villanelle didn’t move - but her expression changed. A flash of recognition. Hunger. Challenge.

The final bar hit. Villanelle dipped her sharply into the finishing lean, Eve arched back over Villanelle’s arm, fringe flying, hair brushing the floor, their faces inches apart, lips nearly touching.

The music cut.

For a moment, silence.

Then the studio exploded.

The audience screamed like teenagers at a rock concert. People stood. Clapping, cheering, stamping. It felt like something seismic had just occurred, and maybe it had.

Villanelle hauled Eve upright slowly, eyes still locked on hers. She held her a beat too long. Didn’t step back until Eve forced air into her lungs again.

Her whole body shook with adrenaline.

“What-” Eve began, breathless.

Villanelle smiled, small and devastating. “Truth,” she said.

Eve couldn’t speak.

⸻

Tess swept in, sparkling like sentient glitter. “WOW! Eve and Villanelle! I don’t know about anyone else, but I need to sit down after that - and I wasn’t even dancing!”

The audience screamed again, someone yelled something utterly incomprehensible above the noise.

Tess beamed at Eve. “Eve, that was… sizzling. I think half of the room forgot how to breathe. How are you feeling after that?”

Eve tried to speak. Nothing came out. She tried again. “I- um. I think I blacked out. Emotionally. Possibly literally.”

Tess laughed warmly. “Well if that’s blacking out, then do it every week!”

She turned to Villanelle. “Villanelle, your first Latin with Eve - what a fiery routine!”

Villanelle leaned into the mic, voice purring with calm certainty. “She is very good when she stops thinking.”

Eve elbowed her lightly. “That sounds like an insult.”

“No,” Villanelle said. “It is compliment. Thinking ruins everything.”

The audience howled with laughter. Tess blinked at Villanelle like she wasn’t sure if she was safe.

“Well… let’s see what the judges thought,” Tess said, retreating slightly.

Craig cleared his throat dramatically. “Well, darling… that was HOT. SO much sizzle, SO much chemistry. I felt like I needed to avert my eyes at points! Technically - the bounce action could still be stronger and there were a couple of untidy transitions…”

The audience booed in tandem.

“…BUT the performance quality was through the roof. You commanded the floor. Well done.”

Eve’s knees nearly gave way. Villanelle steadied her with a hand at the small of her back.

Motsi leaned forward, eyes shining. “EVE! You did NOT come to play tonight! You came here and you said, ‘Watch me.’ That was POWER. That was JOY. You opened up I saw a different woman from last week. You lived in that music. You lived in your body. I loved it!”

Shirley clasped her hands under her chin. “Growth, confidence, chemistry and beautiful shaping through the upper body. Your partnership is developing wonderfully. Just keep working on those feet underneath - but overall, very impressive work.”

Anton shook his head in delighted disbelief. “WHAT A PERFORMANCE! Pure entertainment! Fantastic character, brilliant energy - I had the BEST time watching that. If this is Week Two, I can’t wait to see Week Ten!”

The audience roared again, still on their feet.

⸻

Tess stepped back into view. “Eve, Villanelle, amazing comments! Now, it’s time for you to head off and join Claudia and the rest of the couples up in the Clauditorium while we wait for the scores. Off you go!”

Villanelle placed a hand lightly against Eve’s back and guided her toward the stairs. Eve’s legs felt like hot jelly, and not entirely from physical exertion.

As they climbed toward the Clauditorium, the cheering still ringing in Eve’s ears, Villanelle leaned just close enough that only she could hear.

“You did not run,” she murmured. “You chose fire.”

Eve swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to.”

Villanelle looked at her like she was lying.
“Of course you did.”

The world tilted.

And they stepped into the glow of the Clauditorium lights.

⸻

The Clauditorium swallowed them in a blaze of applause and glitter. Dancers and celebrities crowded around, clapping them on the back, shaking them by the arms, hugging with breathless excitement. The energy felt like standing in the centre of a thunderstorm.

Claudia practically sprinted across the space, grabbing Eve and Villanelle by the hands.

“OH MY WORD. OKAY. I am going to need medical support - I have never needed a fan more. I’m considering removing layers. That was volcanic.”

The crowd erupted again, Villanelle bowed slightly as though she had planned the eruption.

Claudia turned to Eve, clutching her arms. “Eve, I need the truth. What was going through your mind during that dance? Because whatever it was, it ignited several sections of the audience and at least two cameramen.”

Eve let out a desperate laugh. “I- genuinely? I don’t know. I think my brain left my skull. I might still be legally unconscious.”

Claudia nodded solemnly. “Yes. I felt that. I feel like we all astral projected together.”

Elena yelled from behind, “WE LEVITATED!”

Nikita screamed, “I SAW GOD!”

Claudia waved one arm dramatically. “And Villanelle! That was… intense.”

Villanelle tilted her head, eyes bright. “Thank you. I like intensity.”

“Yes, we gathered that,” Claudia said, face blank. “I think the whole country did.”

Eve covered her face with both hands. “Oh no.”

“Oh YES,” Claudia corrected. “Right - shall we find out what the judges thought? It’s time for scores!”

The room tightened; Eve felt her pulse hammer against her ribs like a fist.

Claudia held the mic, eyes wide with theatrical tension. “Judges - paddles please.”

The camera swooped dramatically. Eve gripped Villanelle’s arm. Villanelle leaned in and murmured, “Do not faint. We just did cardio.”

Eve whispered back, “You’re not helping.”

⸻

Claudia turned to the screen.
“Craig…”

Craig lifted his paddle.

7

The audience cheered; Eve’s chest loosened slightly.

“Motsi…”

Motsi raised hers without hesitation.

8

A wave of whooping rolled through the Clauditorium; Nikita shook Eve’s shoulders violently.

“Shirley…”

Another paddle lifted smoothly.

8

Eve gasped, choked on air. Elena slapped her thigh like she was watching a horse race.

“AND FINALLY - Anton!”

Anton grinned like a child at a fireworks display and lifted his paddle high.

8

The crowd exploded again - stamping feet, screaming, waving hands.

Eve staggered backward, dizzy with adrenaline. Villanelle caught her by the waist, steadying her effortlessly.

Claudia flung her arms up. “That’s a HUGE 31 for week two! Incredible start to the show - WELL DONE!”

Nikita roared, “TOP OF THE LEADERBOARD ENERGY!!!!”

Elena shrieked directly into Eve’s ear, “YOU ARE THE PINNACLE OF HUMAN SEXUAL ACHIEVEMENT!”

“I am begging you to stop talking,” Eve wheezed.

Claudia leaned in again, lowering her voice to an exaggerated whisper. “Eve… is there anything you want to say after those amazing scores?”

Eve stared at the floor, then looked up with a stunned laugh. “I think I’m going to be violently sick.”

The room erupted again.

“And Villanelle?” Claudia asked.

Villanelle looked straight into the camera with unnerving stillness. “We will be better next week.”

A chill went through the crowd - delighted, terrified laughter.

Claudia blinked, frozen for a beat. “…Okay. Excellent. Do we have a tease into what you’ll be dancing next week?”

Villanelle paused for dramatic effect.

“No,” she purred. “You will have to vote for us to find out.”
She let the words linger.
“It will be fast and we will be gorgeous. Surprise.”

Eve’s heart dropped into her stomach.

Claudia squeaked. “I fear for my life. Okay! Congratulations - go celebrate and try to recover your souls!”

The cameras cut away to the dance floor.

Instantly, the cheers softened into chatter. Eve sank onto one of the benches, burying her face in her hands. Her skin buzzed like electricity. Her heart felt wrong - too alive, too exposed, too loud.

Elena appeared and flopped beside her, fanning her with a program like she was resuscitating a Victorian woman.

“Oh my GOD, your face when she grabbed your hips? I briefly left my body and hovered over the audience like a ghost.”

“Stop,” Eve begged, voice cracking. “Please. Stop talking.”

Elena leaned closer. “Okay. Real question. Did you feel something?”

Eve swallowed. Hard. “Yes,” she whispered. “And I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Makes sense,” Elena said. “That dance was basically tax evasion but for pelvises.”

“This wasn’t just dance chemistry,” Eve whispered, voice trembling. “I wanted to-”

“To kiss her?” Elena supplied casually.

Eve stared at her. “YES! GOD. YES.”

Elena shrugged. “Honestly babe, it happens. Nearly having sex on national television will do that. Don’t panic.”

“I’m married,” Eve said, voice breaking on the word.

Elena softened. “Yeah. And you’re also human. And currently vibrating at the frequency of a trapped bee.”

Eve pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to stop the itching behind them.

Across the Clauditorium, Villanelle stood motionless, apart from the others, watching Eve with razor-sharp focus.

Not smiling.
Not soft.
Not confused.

Knowing.

Eve’s breath caught.

Villanelle lifted one eyebrow, a fraction, and held it, a silent message.

I felt it too.

Eve tore her gaze away, heart thundering.

Something had changed.

Something dangerous.

And Eve didn’t know how to survive it.

Chapter Text

All the couples stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the gleaming black floor, forming the familiar semicircle under bright, trembling light. Sequins and nerves. False calm. Hands linked or fists clenched discreetly at sides.

Eve was trying not to throw up.

Villanelle stood beside her, silent, posture regal and relaxed, as though none of them were about to be sentenced to death or freedom. The contrast amplified Eve’s anxiety and fascination in equal measure.

Villanelle leaned in fractionally, her voice quiet but laced with sharp humour:

“You are breathing like a fish on carpet.”

Eve blinked. “That’s helpful. Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Villanelle said. “It is important feedback. For survival.”

Eve let out a hysterical laugh she immediately regretted.

“Do not be afraid,” Villanelle murmured. “We are safe.”

“You don’t know that.”

Villanelle looked directly into her eyes - steady, unblinking, terrifyingly certain.
“Yes. I do.”

“How?” Eve whispered.

Villanelle’s lips curled. “I would kill anyone who didn’t vote.”

Eve choked on air. “You’re joking, right?”

Villanelle shrugged with the subtlety of a guillotine falling. “Who can say.”

Before Eve could respond, Tess’s polished, dramatic voice boomed through the studio.

“Welcome back to our WEEK TWO RESULTS SHOW!”

The audience cheered; the lights flared gold and white.

Claudia leaned toward the camera as if sharing a secret. “Tensions are VERY high tonight. I’ve bitten off all of my nails and possibly some of my fingers.”

Couples shifted. Whispers rippled.

Eve’s pulse thundered. Villanelle did not move.

“And now,” Tess said, pausing with cruel timing, “the first couple safely through to next week is…”

The drumroll rattled the floor.

Eve closed her eyes for one suspended moment.

“EVE AND VILLANELLE!”

The crowd erupted, a tidal wave of cheers and screams crashing over them. Elena screamed like she was at a boy-band concert. Nikita jumped so hard he nearly fell.

Eve sagged forward, knees giving. Villanelle caught her elbow effortlessly and lifted her upright.

“See,” Villanelle said softly. “I told you.”

“You don’t get to predict reality,” Eve whispered, breathless.

“I do,” Villanelle said. “It is my hobby.”

⸻

Claudia swept forward, eyes manic with joy.

“SAFE! Safe! Eve, darling, I thought I was going to perish permanently. How do you feel?”

Eve stared at her. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus made of glitter.”

Claudia nodded. “That’s exactly the intended effect. Villanelle, thrilled?”

Villanelle leaned into the microphone with unsettling calm. “Yes. I enjoy victory. And survival.”

The Clauditorium wheezed laughing. Claudia blinked.

“Terrifying. Wonderful,” she said. “Now, the nation wants to know - what are you dancing next week?”

Eve turned automatically to Villanelle.
Villanelle was already smiling.

“It is Movie Week,” she announced. “We will dance the Charleston.”

The crowd roared. Elena shrieked into the rafters.

“And the movie?” Claudia pressed.

Villanelle paused for dramatic timing, eyes glinting. “Kill Bill.”

The room detonated.

“EVEEE IN THE YELLOW SUIT!” Nikita screamed like a teenager at a concert.

“Villanelle with a sword!” Bill yelled, brandishing a plastic champagne flute like a weapon.

“Is anyone else aroused?” Katya asked loudly.

Claudia gasped. “I. AM. SO. HAPPY.”

Villanelle held up an imaginary sword hilt like a solemn oath. “There will be… blood.”

Claudia blinked. “Fake blood?”

Villanelle simply smiled.

Eve’s eyebrow lifted. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” Villanelle replied. “I do not kid.”

Elena snorted. “Her entire personality is kidding.”

Villanelle turned her head slowly toward Elena, eyes narrowing without blinking.
Elena lifted both hands. “Okay. Scary Barbie. I surrender.”

Everyone died laughing.

Claudia wiped her eyes. “Right! We MUST move on. Good luck with… whatever that is. Go take a breath and enjoy being SAFE.”

⸻

The tension returned swiftly.

Down on the floor, Tess continued calling names. Cheers rose and fell.

Carolyn & Johannes - SAFE. Carolyn barely blinked; Johannes celebrated enough for both of them.

One by one, couples were saved until only three remained under the harsh spotlight.

Priya & Carlos.
Lila & Gorka.
Jaden & Nancy.

Eve felt sick all over again, even from safety.

“The final couple safely through to week three is…” Tess paused, milking it.

“Priya and Carlos!”

Priya screamed so loudly half the audience jumped.

Which meant…

Lila & Gorka vs Jaden & Nancy in the dance-off.

The studio quietened. Lila’s hands trembled. Gorka squeezed her shoulders; his own face was tight.

The dance-off played out painfully - and when the judges voted unanimously to save Jaden & Nancy, Lila crumpled briefly against Gorka’s chest.

“Give it up one final time for Lila and Gorka!” Tess announced.

The applause rolled out, softer this time. Eve clapped hard, throat tight.

Villanelle watched the farewell moment, head tilted slightly, expression unreadable.

Eve whispered, “It must be awful. Working so hard and then just… gone.”

Villanelle’s voice was quiet, firm.
“That is why we do not fall. We sharpen.”

Eve looked at her.

Villanelle didn’t look back.
She didn’t need to.

⸻

The afterparty bar was dimly lit, low red lights glowing against dark wood and glass. Music thumped heavy through the floor, muddy bass making drinks tremble in their glasses. Sequins flashed under LED beams, glitter catching at the corners of eyes. The room smelled of perfume and spilled Prosecco and the adrenaline of people who had just survived live television.

Eve pushed through the crowd behind Villanelle, still only half convinced her legs were attached to her body. Every time someone congratulated her she smiled automatically, but she could barely hear the words over the constant replay of the dance in her head, the closeness, the breath, the wanting.

Elena barrelled into her like a missile.

“SAFE! SAFE! SAFE!” she screamed, crushing Eve in a hug. “I told you! You’re a sexy immortal legend!”

“I’m none of those words,” Eve said weakly, drinking half a glass of Prosecco like water.

“Yes you are,” Nikita shouted, already drunk and holding a margarita that looked like a weapon. “I SAW PEOPLE CRYING IN THE AUDIENCE. CRYING BECAUSE OF YOUR HIPS.”

“Oh my god,” Eve muttered, face in her hands.

Bill appeared, leaning dramatically on Katya’s shoulder. “My favourite part was when Villanelle stared into your soul like she was going to eat you.”

Katya nodded vigorously. “It was erotic. Very erotic. I was inspired.”

“STOP TALKING,” Eve begged.

Villanelle slipped into the group silently, drink in hand, eyes glinting. She looked annoyingly composed - hair perfect, gaze sharp, posture relaxed like the room was built for her.

Bill saluted her with his glass. “There she is! The nation’s new emotional terrorist!”

Villanelle smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

Katya laughed so hard she snorted.

⸻

Eve leaned against the bar, trying to steady her breathing. Villanelle came to stand beside her, close enough that Eve could feel the heat radiating off her arm.

“You are overwhelmed,” Villanelle observed, voice low.

“Yes,” Eve said, staring at the bottles behind the bar like they were safe ground. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“You are waking up,” Villanelle said simply.

Eve stiffened. “From what?”

Villanelle shrugged. “Life. Marriage. Habit. Silence. Pick any poison.”

“That’s not-” Eve stopped, unable to form the right argument.

Villanelle watched her, unreadable.
“Do not be afraid of wanting, Eve. Wanting is human.”

Eve turned away, pulse roaring. “It’s complicated.”

“No,” Villanelle said. “You are complicated. Wanting is simple.”

Before Eve could reply, her phone buzzed violently in her hand - vibrating once, then again. Then again.

Niko.
Calling.

Her stomach dropped.

Villanelle glanced at the screen, face cooling like steel left in snow.

“You should answer,” she said. “He will worry.”

“I know,” Eve said, thumb hovering. “I just… don’t want to.”

Villanelle sipped her drink. “Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is exactly that simple.”

Eve stepped away, answering with a forced breath. “Hey.”

Niko sounded tight, strained, falsely upbeat.
“I watched the show. You were… intense. The dance was… something.”

Eve closed her eyes. “Yeah. It was stressful.”

“I want to see you,” he said. “I’m coming to meet you. Where are you guys?”

Panic stabbed through her. “Um - we’re at Bar Echo. In Soho.”

“Great,” he said. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Niko-” Eve tried, but he had already hung up.

She lowered the phone slowly. Her hand shook.

Villanelle watched her return, expression still and sharp.

“He is coming,” Villanelle said. Not a question. A statement.

“Yes,” Eve whispered.

“And you did not want that.”

“No,” Eve admitted before she could stop herself.

Villanelle studied her like a puzzle she already knew the answer to.
“Phone call made your eyes go grey. Like storm before lightning.”

Eve swallowed. “I don’t want drama.”

“Then stop creating it,” Villanelle said, deadly calm.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Eve demanded, heat rising.

Villanelle stepped closer, voice quiet, dangerous. “You pretend you do not know what you feel. But your body does not lie. On the floor. In the dance. Just now when you looked at your phone. You want many things. But you refuse to choose.”

“That’s not fair,” Eve said, wounded.

Villanelle’s smile was small and ruthless. “Fair is boring.”

⸻

The music changed - something loud, fast, dirtier than before. The cast screamed approval and flooded the dance floor like a glittered stampede.

Villanelle lifted her chin toward the crowd.
“Come,” she said simply.

“No,” Eve said. “I’m not-”

Villanelle held out her hand.

And God help her, Eve took it.

They moved into the crush of dancers. The music pounded through them, bodies pressed too close, lights washing red. Villanelle spun her sharply, catching her waist with both hands, drawing her in so close Eve could feel the living heat of her breath.

Their faces inches apart.

Villanelle’s voice brushed her ear like a blade. “You are shaking.”

“Because you’re-” Eve’s voice broke. “Because you’re right.”

Villanelle tilted her head, eyes almost black in the dark. “Then stop pretending.”

She moved - hips rolling with dangerous precision, guiding Eve’s body with hers, leading without permission. The room vanished. The music pulsed like heartbeat against skin. Every brush of contact felt like striking flint.

Eve’s breath hitched, her body arching instinctively closer. Their noses brushed. Villanelle’s mouth hovered a breath away - not touching, but close enough Eve could feel the shape of it.

The moment stretched, humming electricity, the edge of something enormous-

Then the music cut.

Lights shifted.

The spell snapped.

Villanelle stepped back but didn’t break eye contact.

She looked at Eve like she could see every secret she had ever buried.

“You are afraid,” Villanelle said softly.

“Yes,” Eve breathed.

Villanelle exhaled once, slow. “Good.”

Eve blinked. “Good?”

Villanelle nodded. “Fear means it matters.”

Before Eve could respond, her phone buzzed again.

Niko: Outside. Come meet me? x

Villanelle’s eyes flicked to the screen.

Her voice cooled to lethal softness. “Go. Your husband is waiting.”

Eve’s heart cracked somewhere deep. “I don’t know what to do.”

Villanelle shrugged, stepping back into shadow. “You already do. You just don’t like the answer.”

And then she disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by glitter and darkness and music, leaving Eve standing frozen, breath broken, pulse wrecked.

⸻

The night air slapped cool against Eve’s flushed skin as she stepped out onto the pavement. Her head was buzzing with leftover adrenaline from the performance, the results, the cheers, the claustrophobic heat of bodies and glitter and loud music. She just needed… air. Space. A second to exist quietly.

She wrapped her arms around herself and exhaled into the dark.

Then she saw him.

“Niko,” she said softly.

He was leaning against the wall a few metres down, hands jammed into his coat pockets, trying too hard to look casual. He pushed off the wall when he saw her, smiling wide enough to look painful.

“Hi,” he said, coming toward her. “There she is. My celebrity wife.”

Eve gave a small, tight laugh. “Celebrity is definitely a reach.”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “You just danced on national television and nearly set the studio on fire. Literally everyone is talking about you.”

He hugged her, and she hugged back, but something about the fit of it felt wrong. Like putting on a jacket that used to be comfortable but didn’t quite sit right anymore. Still familiar. Still safe. Just… stiff.

“You were incredible,” he said when he pulled back. “Really. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. And she meant it.

He nodded toward the bar door. “So? Are we going inside? I thought I could meet everyone. Have a drink. Celebrate. Maybe you can show me a few of those Samba moves on the dance floor?”

Eve’s stomach cramped with immediate discomfort. “Uh… it’s kind of a cast thing, actually. Pros, celebs, crew - no partners tonight. It’s like a decompression space.”

Niko blinked, smile slipping just slightly. “Right. Okay. Didn’t realise there were rules.”

“They’re not rules,” Eve said quickly. “It’s just… easier this way. If everyone brought partners it’d be chaos.”

“Sure,” he said. “Makes sense.”

He paused. His gaze flicked over her face, assessing something.

“That dance tonight…” he began lightly, too lightly, “was… intense.”

Eve’s pulse jumped. “It’s a Samba, Niko. They’re meant to look like that. It’s the style.”

He nodded, but his jaw flexed. “Yeah. I know. It just surprised me, I guess. You two looked very… close.”

“We had to sell it,” Eve said. “The judges were expecting performance.”

“Right,” he said again, but something tight pulled between his eyebrows. “I’m not judging. I’m just saying it felt a bit weird seeing how you were… looking at her.”

Eve looked away, embarrassed and defensive without knowing why. “I was acting. It’s a TV show. Not real.”

“If you say so,” he said, hands going back into his pockets.

Before she could respond, the bar door opened sharply behind them.

Villanelle stepped out, framed in the doorway, backlit by red light and music. She leaned one shoulder lazily against the brick wall, swirling the drink in her hand with slow boredom. Her eyes found Eve first, then slid to Niko, unimpressed.

Niko stiffened. “Were you standing there listening?”

“Yes,” Villanelle said simply. “You were loud.”

Eve closed her eyes briefly. “Oh God.”

Niko frowned. “Do you need something?”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “Eve. I came to get her. It’s boring inside without her.”

Niko stared at her like she’d spoken another language. “Right. Of course.”

Villanelle tilted her head, studying him with polite disinterest. “You look upset.”

“I’m fine,” Niko said sharply.

“You do not look fine,” Villanelle replied, perfectly calm. “You look like a man holding a wine glass too tightly.”

Eve pinched the bridge of her nose. “Villanelle - not helping.”

“I am helping,” Villanelle said, almost offended. “I am naming the feeling. He is jealous.”

Niko laughed, brittle. “I’m not jealous.”

“It is okay to be jealous,” Villanelle said. “Emotions are healthy. Even inconvenient ones.”

Niko stepped forward half a pace. “She’s my wife.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said, voice softening to something almost gentle. “But she is also herself.”

Niko looked at Eve then - really looked, searching her face.

Eve swallowed. “Niko, can we please… not do this right now? I don’t want to have a big conversation on the pavement. Can we talk properly when I get home?”

He exhaled hard. Shoulders loosening just a fraction. “Yeah. Okay. Sure. We’ll talk at home.”

He leaned in and kissed her. But it wasn’t tender - it landed firm, possessive, too long, like a statement rather than affection. Eve tolerated it, but her body didn’t move toward him. When he let go, she caught Villanelle watching carefully, expression unreadable but sharp.

“I’ll see you later,” Niko said, turning to leave. “Don’t stay too long.”

“I won’t,” Eve said quietly.

He hesitated, looking back once, searching for something in her face he didn’t find, then walked away down the street.

The moment he rounded the corner, Villanelle stepped closer, taking his vacated space like it was a magnet.

“That kiss looked like CPR,” she said dryly.

Eve barked out a startled laugh - half-hysterical, half-grateful. “Villanelle.”

“What?” Villanelle asked. “It did. I thought he was trying to resuscitate you.”

Eve pressed her palms to her forehead, groaning. “Everything is a disaster.”

“No,” Villanelle said. “Everything is beginning.”

Eve looked up at her, startled by the softness in her voice.

Villanelle held her gaze, unwavering.

“Come back inside,” she said quietly. “Before you think too much.”

For a long moment, Eve didn’t move.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

Villanelle stepped aside, holding the door.
Warm light and laughter spilled into the street.

Eve walked past her, heartbeat loud, unsure where she stood, who she was, or what world she had just stepped into-

But she knew she wasn’t going home.

And Villanelle followed close behind.

Chapter Text

Eve woke to the unpleasant crackle of her spine complaining about spending the night curled sideways on the sofa. The room smelled faintly of stale perfume and last night’s gin. A blanket was draped over her, she didn’t remember pulling it on.

The living room was still dim, the early light pushing through the edges of the curtains in thin grey lines.

She sat up slowly, wincing, pushing her fingers into her temples. Her yellow wristband from the bar still clung to her arm.

She heard footsteps.

Niko appeared in the doorway, already showered and dressed, holding two cups of coffee. He hesitated, reassessing the scene - Eve in yesterday’s clothes, hair a mess, blanket slipping off her shoulders.

“You’re awake,” he said quietly.

Eve pulled the blanket tighter. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t want to wake you when I got in.”

“You didn’t,” he replied, voice gentle but tired. “I woke up around three and you weren’t home.”

Eve looked down at her hands. “We stayed later than planned. I needed… time. After everything.”

A pause.
Niko set one mug on the table near her, then sat down carefully on the opposite end of the couch - leaving a small, deliberate gap between them.

“Last night outside the bar,” he began, “I wasn’t at my best. I shouldn’t have said what I said. I was embarrassed.”

Eve nodded slightly.

“And I suppose… jealous.” He exhaled through his nose. “It’s strange, seeing you like that on stage. Confident. Lit up.” He shook his head. “I didn’t expect it. I think it scared me.”

Eve swallowed. “I’m not trying to make you feel shut out.”

“I know,” he said. “And I’m trying to support this. Really. It’s just… I felt like the only one who didn’t belong last night. And that’s not a great feeling.”

Eve felt something twist in her chest.

“I shouldn’t have dumped you outside like that,” she said quietly. “I just needed to breathe.”

“I understand.” Niko nodded, though his eyes flickered. “Just… be careful, okay? About losing perspective. It’s just a dancing show. It’s not real life. It’ll be over soon, and we’ll go back to normal.”

The word normal hit her like cold water.

Eve nodded mechanically. “Yeah. Right. Of course. Just a show.”

A silence settled, heavy but polite.

Niko stood, smoothing the front of his shirt. “You should rest today. You’ll burn out if you don’t.”

“Maybe,” Eve murmured. “I might take a walk.”

“Good idea,” he said, but it sounded like a placeholder for everything he wasn’t saying.

He left the room. The sound of the door to their bedroom closing was quiet, but final.

Eve sat alone for a long moment, staring at the untouched coffee growing cold in front of her.

Just a dancing show. Not real life.

So why did last night feel more real than anything had in years?

⸻

The rehearsal studio smelled like coffee, fresh polish, and anxiety. Light bounced ruthlessly off every mirrored surface, making Eve feel exposed before she even moved a muscle. She clutched her water bottle and tried not to look like she’d spent most of the night awake, replaying conversations and wondering when her life had stopped fitting comfortably.

Villanelle stood in the centre of the floor, arms folded, weight balanced like a predator conserving energy. All black training gear - leggings, crop top, hair scraped into a severe knot. Calm. Quiet. Dangerous.

“You are late,” she said without turning, watching Eve’s reflection approach in the mirror.

“It’s literally three minutes,” Eve muttered. “I had trains. And… existence.”

“There should not be trains or existence,” Villanelle replied, still staring forward. “Only dance.”

Eve blinked. “Is that something embroidered on a pillow somewhere?”

“Not yet,” Villanelle said. “But someday.”

Eve dropped her bag, rolled her shoulders, and inhaled deeply. “Okay. Teach me Charleston. Whatever nightmare this week is going to be.”

Villanelle finally turned, eyes bright and predatory.

“The Charleston,” she said, stepping closer, “is speed. It is chaos. It is violence disguised as joy.”

Eve stared. “…I thought it was silly legs.”

Villanelle’s expression went blank with pure disappointment.

“That is basic Charleston. Tourist Charleston. Wedding-uncle Charleston. We are not doing that.”

“Oh,” Eve whispered. “Right.”

Villanelle clapped her hands sharply. “Warm-up.”

Eve braced for stretching or some torturous running drill.

Villanelle walked to the speaker and pressed play.

Stevie Nicks’ “Edge of Seventeen” exploded through the room.

Eve frowned. “This is definitely not Charleston.”

“No,” Villanelle said. “This is therapy.”

“Oh God.”

“For the next five minutes,” Villanelle continued, “we do not think. We do not talk. We only move. However we want.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes. Your brain is loud. We will shut it up.”

Eve snorted. “That is maybe the most accurate thing anyone has ever said about me.”

Villanelle pointed at the empty floor like she was commanding troops. “Dance.”

And she did - wild and ridiculous, limbs flying, leaping, sliding across the floor on her socks like a manic figure skater. It was so unexpected that Eve burst into helpless laughter.

Then she joined.

She flailed. She spun. She did interpretive dance versions of panic and existential crisis. Villanelle mimed dramatic death scenes. Eve moonwalked into a wall. Villanelle crab-walked. They collided mid-air and screamed laughing.

By the final chorus, they collapsed to the floor in a gasping heap, flat on their backs, staring at the ceiling.

Eve covered her face, breathless. “That was incredibly stupid.”

“That was freedom,” Villanelle corrected. “You needed it.”

Eve let out a long breath. “Yeah. I probably did.”

Villanelle turned her head, studying her closely. “How was home.”

Eve’s chest tightened. “Awkward. Quiet. We didn’t argue. We didn’t… talk much either. Everything feels like it’s shifting and I don’t know where I’m supposed to stand.”

Villanelle nodded like she already knew the answer. “Good.”

Eve huffed out an incredulous laugh. “Why is that good?”

“Because it means something is happening,” Villanelle said. “Change is uncomfortable. If it does not hurt, it is not real.”

“That’s a horrifying philosophy.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “Now stand up. Warm-up is over. Suffering begins.”

Eve groaned. “Wonderful.”

⸻

By Wednesday afternoon, Eve’s body felt like it had been disassembled and rebuilt incorrectly. The Charleston turned out to be less of a dance and more of a controlled nervous breakdown set to music. Her calves screamed. Her ankles hated her. Her brain kept threatening to abandon her entirely.

“You look like you are bracing for surgery,” Villanelle said flatly.

“That’s because I am,” Eve replied. “Emotional surgery. Without anaesthetic.”

“Drama,” Villanelle murmured. “Good. You will need that.”

Before Eve could respond, Villanelle pressed play.

“From the top,” Villanelle said.

“You said that ten times ago,” Eve groaned.

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “And we are still not at the top.”

Woo Hoo blared through the speakers, brash and relentless. Villanelle launched into the Charleston footwork - kicks sharp and precise, knees twisting, feet tapping like rapid gunfire. She moved with surgical clarity, each beat punctured cleanly.

Eve followed and immediately resembled exactly what she feared - a baby deer wearing roller skates.

“Feet under you,” Villanelle instructed. “Not trying to escape your legs.”

“I am trying,” Eve wheezed.

“Try less. Do more.”

“Oh, thank you, Yoda.”

Villanelle ignored the sarcasm, circling her like a lion evaluating weak points. “Swivels again. With intent. Not like… bread dough.”

Eve laughed despite herself. “Bread dough?”

“Soft. Collapsing. Confused.”

They drilled patterns until sweat dripped down Eve’s spine and her calves felt like they were dissolving. The rhythm eventually clicked, the steps knitting themselves together, her feet beginning to move with instinct rather than negotiation.

Villanelle finally nodded once - the closest thing she gave to praise.

“Almost not terrible.”

Eve leaned forward, hands on knees. “I will take that as a compliment.”

“You should not,” Villanelle replied. “But you will anyway.”

Eve laughed, breathless.

Then Villanelle straightened, voice shifting tone.

“Now comes the structure.”

“Oh God,” Eve murmured. “The structure of what? Stress? Humiliation?”

“No,” Villanelle said. She crossed to a large black equipment bag and unzipped it with deliberate calm. “The scene.”

Eve tensed. “What scene?”

Villanelle lifted a long object wrapped in fabric. Slowly, she unwrapped it and revealed a foam katana.

Eve stared, horrified. “Absolutely not.”

Villanelle didn’t blink. “Yes.”

“You’re giving me a weapon?”

“A toy weapon,” Villanelle corrected. “But yes.”

“You realise I can’t be trusted with sharp objects.”

“It is foam, Eve. The worst you could do is annoy someone.”

“That feels optimistic.”

Villanelle reached into the bag again and pulled out a second sword, handing it to Eve without fanfare.
Eve didn’t take it.

Villanelle held the sword out further, eyebrows lifting by a millimetre. “This is Movie Week. Film theme. You know the film.”

“Of course I know the film,” Eve muttered. “Kill Bill. Tarantino. Iconic. Blood bath.”

“Good,” Villanelle said. “Then you understand why we need them.”

“No, actually, I don’t,” Eve said. “Charleston is goofy. Bouncy. Jazz hands. Not… murder choreography.”

Villanelle’s gaze sharpened into something like amusement with teeth.

“You think this dance is goofy?”

“It is literally the silliest thing my body has ever been asked to do.”

Villanelle stepped closer, voice dropping to a quiet blade-edge.

“Then you are doing it wrong.”

Eve swallowed.

Villanelle pressed the sword into her hands. “Take it.”

Eve accepted the weapon reluctantly, holding it like a hot pan.

“We are recreating the nightclub scene?” Eve asked.

“Yes,” Villanelle said simply. “The House of Blue Leaves. It is messy. Violent. Beautiful. Also, lighting will be excellent.”

“That’s your priority?”

“It is one of them.”

Eve forced her feet into stance, trying to look like she wasn’t seconds from disaster. “This is either brilliant or catastrophic.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “Probably both.”

“Reassuring.”

Villanelle lifted her sword with a precise upward snap. “Again. From the top. With intention.”

Eve exhaled hard, gripping the foam blade.

“Fine. Let’s die publicly.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said, pressing play. “Make it entertaining.”

Music detonated.

They lunged into chaos.

⸻

The studio lights were so bright on Thursday that they felt accusatory, bouncing off every mirror with the enthusiasm of an interrogation lamp. Eve tied her hair back and tried not to look like someone surviving only on caffeine and adrenaline.

Villanelle observed her like a scientist observing a lab rat debating escape.

“You look unstable,” Villanelle said casually.

Eve blinked. “That’s… charming.”

“It is a statement of fact, not criticism.”

“Thank you?”

“For what?”

Eve stared. Villanelle stared back, deadpan. They were off to a good start.

Villanelle pressed play.

The track launched. Villanelle moved like a weapon - sharp feet, clean lines, sword slicing the air in perfect arcs. Eve tried to follow, and lasted precisely six counts before her leg tangled, her sword arm flailed, and she nearly beheaded Villanelle with foam.

“STOP,” Villanelle snapped, killing the music.

Eve froze mid-stumble. “Sorry! I’m sorry, I just-”

“Why did you stop?” Villanelle demanded.

“Because I was about to decapitate you!”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “That would be tragic. For you. I would be fine.”

Eve flung her sword onto the floor. It bounced uselessly.

“This is stupid.”

Silence chilled the room.

Villanelle’s eyes narrowed. “What is stupid?”

“The dance!” Eve burst out. “This whole Kill Bill fight scene concept! It’s ridiculous! I look ridiculous! It’s too fast, and it feels like some weird comedy sketch gone wrong. I don’t get it.”

Villanelle blinked once. Slowly.

“So,” she said quietly, “because you do not understand something immediately, it is stupid.”

Eve winced. “That’s not what I meant-”

“It is what you said,” Villanelle replied. “Good. We are being honest now.”

She bent, picked up the sword with two fingers like a disappointed sword-snob, and held it out.

“Take it.”

“I’m exhausted,” Eve muttered. “My brain is mush.”

“No,” Villanelle said, stepping closer. “Your brain is afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Being seen,” Villanelle said simply. “Changing in public.”

Eve opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “That’s… dramatic.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said, voice sharpening. “That is why it is true.”

She paced, intensity rising.

“You think this dance is silly because you do not understand it. You think it is pretend violence. But Charleston was not born out of politeness. It is rebellion. It is chaos. It is joy that refuses to be quiet.”

Her voice built like a sermon.

“And Kill Bill is not a stupid sword movie. It is a story about a woman who was broken, erased, left to die - and she claws herself back. Not into someone new. Into herself.”

Eve forgot to breathe.

“We are telling a story of transformation,” Villanelle said. “Of survival. Of becoming. A woman taking her life back through rage and joy at the same time. YOU,” she said, pointing the sword at Eve’s chest, “are not doing silly kicks. You are waking up.”

The room hummed with the weight of it.

Eve swallowed. “I can’t comprehend your mind.”

“Good,” Villanelle said. “It keeps you coming back.”

Something sparked between them - sharp, electric, not safe.

Villanelle extended the sword again. “Now pick it up.”

Eve took it.

The speaker beeped. Villanelle hit play.

“Again,” she ordered. “No whining.”

“It wasn’t whining.”

“It was emotional diarrhoea,” Villanelle said. “Very messy.”

The music slammed back in.

This time, Eve didn’t think. She fought.

Kicks landed harder. Arms sliced like blades. The foam sword clashed against Villanelle’s with a satisfying crack. The choreography became combat. At the lift sequence, Eve jumped instead of apologising. Villanelle caught her with shocking strength, spinning her like she weighed nothing.

They hit the final pose - swords crossed at each other’s throats, bodies almost touching, breath ragged. The music stopped. Silence pressed in.

Neither moved.

Villanelle’s breath warmed Eve’s cheek; their noses were inches apart.

A slow smile broke over Villanelle’s face.

“There,” she murmured. “Not stupid.”

Eve turned her head, met her eyes, and for a second the world blurred.

⸻

The costume room buzzed like a beehive. Fabrics everywhere. Sequins raining from the sky. The chaos of Movie Week.

“Eve! Villanelle!” the designer called. “Welcome to transformation!”

A garment bag unzipped with ceremony, revealing the finished yellow jumpsuit - more stunning than Eve remembered, structured shoulders, sleek lines, blood-splatter detailing, black racing stripes.

Eve stepped into the dressing nook, zipped up, looked in the mirror and froze.

She looked powerful. Dangerous. Alive.

She stepped out.

Conversation stopped.
Elena gasped.
Nikita whispered, “Oh holy mother of-”
Katya fanned herself with a clipboard.

Villanelle didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just looked at her, gaze slow and consuming.

“Well?” Eve said, trying to keep her voice normal.

Villanelle’s voice dropped lower than Eve had ever heard it. “It suits you.”

Before Eve could melt or self-destruct, the designer shoved Villanelle behind the opposite curtain.

Moments later, Villanelle emerged in the black leather suit - tailored like a weapon, mask over her eyes, sword belt slung low.

Silence swallowed the room again.

Bill whispered, “I’m frightened and aroused.”

Claudia burst in with a mic and a pastry. “GOOD GOD. LOOK AT YOU TWO. I AM LOSING CONTROL OF MY BODY.”

Villanelle stepped closer to Eve, shoulder brushing hers.

“You look like you could kill me,” Eve said.

Villanelle tilted her head. “Maybe I will let you kill me.”

Eve forgot how to breathe.

Claudia shrieked, “PLOT TWIST! I NEED A DEFIBRILLATOR!”

Everyone screamed laughing.

And Eve, looking at their reflection - the Bride and the Assassin - felt something click inside her chest.

Not fear.

Not confusion.

Becoming.

Chapter Text

By Saturday night, the studio felt less like a TV set and more like a pressure cooker dressed in glitter.

Movie Week was always louder, brighter, bigger. The corridors were a maze of people in wigs and prosthetics, skirts and capes, tuxedos and pirate hats. Everywhere Eve turned there were fragments of other stories: a glimpse of Carolyn’s sharply tailored spy dress, Bill’s pirate coat, Elena’s sequinned red dress and feathers, Archie in a boxing robe with his gloves hooked around his neck.

Costumes rustled. Microphone packs buzzed. Techs hurried by with armfuls of cables and a look that suggested they hadn’t slept in three days.

Eve stood in front of the dressing-room mirror, staring at herself.

The yellow jumpsuit stared back.

It still startled her. Somehow it made her look both younger and more dangerous. The black stripes down the side sharpened her outline. The collar framed her throat, her jaw. The makeup team had smoked out her eyes, darkened her lashes, added a faint shadow under her cheekbones. Her hair was down in loose curls from a high half-ponytail, wild but controlled. She looked like an action figure someone had made of her - an alt-universe version.

She didn’t look like a teacher’s wife from the suburbs.

She looked like someone it would be a mistake to underestimate.

There was a knock on the doorframe.

“You are staring at yourself like you are not real,” Villanelle said.

Eve’s gaze met hers in the reflection.

Villanelle stepped into the room like she owned it. The black leather suit fit her so well it might as well have grown there. The mask sat in her hand for now, her eyes clear and bright. The sword belt completed it - understated, but lethal.

“You look very pleased with yourself,” Eve said.

“I am always pleased with myself,” Villanelle replied. “Tonight, I am especially correct.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“Yes.”

Villanelle came to stand behind her, just off to the side, their reflections aligned next to each other - bright yellow and deep black, Bride and Assassin.

“For what it’s worth,” Eve said, trying for casual, “you look… very Kill Bill.”

Villanelle’s mouth curved. “And you look like a woman about to destroy many men and maybe a few structural walls.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“It is Movie Week,” Villanelle said. “We must be specific.”

Eve’s laugh came out thinner than she intended.

“Do you feel ready?” Villanelle asked.

“No,” Eve said. “I feel like a fraud in a costume who is going to trip over a sword and trend on Twitter for the wrong reasons.”

Villanelle watched her in the mirror for a long, unreadable moment.

“Look at your face,” she said softly. “You are alive.”

Eve swallowed.

“And it is called X now, Eve. You need to get with the times.”

A runner poked their head in. “Five minutes to group intro, guys. To the stairs, please.”

Villanelle picked up her mask and, for the first time that evening, slid it into place. It transformed her - turned her from a very beautiful woman in a suit into something heightened, heightened again, almost inhuman. Eve felt a shiver trail down her spine that had nothing to do with nerves.

“Come,” Villanelle said. “Time to pretend we are calm.”

⸻

Movie Week’s opening titles played out on the big screen; the band crashed through a medley of film themes. Tess and Claudia stood together at the bottom of the famous staircase, glittering and composed.

“Welcome to Movie Week!” Tess declared. The audience roared.

Couples stood positioned along the stairs, a riot of different worlds. Bill in pirate gear, Elena and Nikita in Moulin Rouge red and feathers, Carolyn and Johannes in black and white sleek Bond styling, Zara and Vito in silver like they’d fallen out of Tron.

Eve and Villanelle took their place halfway down the staircase. Eve’s heart hammered loud enough that she was half-convinced the microphones would pick it up.

“Remember to smile,” Villanelle murmured without moving her lips. “And do not vomit.”

“Stop saying vomit before we go on live television,” Eve hissed.

Villanelle’s shoulder brushed hers, just for a second. “Fine,” she said. “Do not combust.”

“Better,” Eve lied.

The couples stood arranged along the staircase in full costume, waiting to be introduced one by one.

“And dancing a Charleston to ‘Woo Hoo’ from Kill Bill” Tess called, voice warm and precise, “it’s Eve Polastri and Villanelle!”

A swell of noise, screams from the crowd, homemade signs waving. Eve’s heart slammed painfully against her ribs.

She forced a smile, lifted her chin, and stepped down with Villanelle at her shoulder, stopping at the bottom for their wave before the camera swept away to the next couple.

It was only then Eve searched the audience - and found him.

Niko sat on the third tier, front row of his section, wearing his good shirt. He clapped politely, his expression neutral but tight, eyes locked onto her like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t want to solve.

Eve looked away first, jaw tightening.

⸻

“And opening Movie Week tonight,” Tess continued, “dancing a Paso Doble to the movie Gladiator, please welcome Zara and Vito!”

The Paso couple left the stairs and headed to the floor. The remaining dancers were ushered off the staircase and up the side steps into the Clauditorium, where Claudia stood waiting with dangerous energy and a clipboard she was almost certainly not using.

“COME IN, COME IN, CHILDREN OF CHAOS!” Claudia shouted, waving her arms dramatically. “Gather to witness violence, sequins and potential emotional breakdowns!”

Laughter rippled through the contestants as they squeezed together between silver streamers and LED lighting. Villanelle leaned casually against the railing; Eve stood beside Elena, trying to slow her pulse.

Claudia whirled to face Eve and Villanelle, eyes huge. “MY BRIDE AND MY ASSASSIN! LOOK. AT. YOU. I HAVE NEVER FELT SAFER AND MORE TERRIFIED AT THE SAME TIME.”

Eve laughed breathlessly. “Good! That’s the goal, apparently.”

Villanelle nodded solemnly. “Fear is healthy.”

“Yes,” Claudia agreed with absolute conviction. “It keeps the cardio up.”

Zara and Vito’s Paso intro rolled on the monitors below, drums thunderous, audience chanting. Eve leaned over the balcony rail, watching.

“How are you feeling?” Elena whispered.

“Like I might explode and take the building with me,” Eve muttered.

Villanelle, without looking away from the screen, murmured, “Good. Then we are ready.”

Eve felt something electric run down her spine.

“That’s the Strictly brand,” Claudia said. “Villanelle, how has she been this week in rehearsals?”

“Loud,” Villanelle replied. “Sometimes useless. But acceptable.”

Eve spluttered. “Excuse me?!”

Claudia nearly dropped her cue cards laughing. “I love you. I’m putting that on merch.”

Villanelle tilted her head. “She improves under bullying.”

“I really do,” Eve said. “It’s terrible.”

Claudia waved her hand. “Okay. We have swords. We have yellow. We have leather. We have tension. We have a dance that, frankly, I am not emotionally ready for.”

She leaned closer to Eve. “You know people have been talking about the… chemistry.”

Eve went hot. “Oh God.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “They are correct.”

Claudia screeched, delighted. “Right! Enough. Go out there, break the floor, and please do not slice any cameras in half, our budget will not stretch to that.”

The floor manager signalled.

“You’re on soon,” Claudia said, squeezing Eve’s hand, quick and warm. “Go be iconic.”

⸻

The studio transformed as they stepped out onto the floor for their dance.

The House of Blue Leaves.

It wasn’t an exact replica, but the essence was there. A raised walkway resembling the restaurant’s upper balcony, red lanterns hanging above, stylised Japanese screens at the back. Light pooled icy blue across the floor with slices of red, like someone had painted violence into the lighting design. The swords waited in their stand at the edge of the floor. For now, untouched.

Eve took her starting position centre stage, feet together, head bowed, arms loose, every nerve flaring. Villanelle stood a few feet behind and to the side, body angled, arms folded behind her back, mask gleaming faintly.

They were close enough that Eve could feel her there without looking. She could tell, from the quality of the silence between them, that Villanelle’s focus had narrowed to a point.

The studio lights dimmed until it was just them and the expectation pressing in from all sides.

The first guitar strum hit.

⸻

The beat dropped, a fast, pounding drum that seemed to climb up Eve’s legs. She snapped her head up on the first count, eyes locked straight into the camera. The crowd whooped, instantly.

She launched into the basic Charleston pattern - swivel, kick, cross, back. The hours of drilling carried her. Her feet weren’t hers - they were instruments. The swivel of her knees hit the beat, not a fraction early or late. Her arms cut clean shapes, sharp rather than flappy.

Villanelle moved with her, just off her shoulder like a shadow - same steps, inverted direction. They circled each other once, close enough that their arms brushed as they passed, then broke away to opposite corners.

Eve let the character pour in. The Bride. Wronged, furious, unstoppable. The yellow jumpsuit stopped feeling like costume and started feeling like skin. She gave a sharp little head tilt as she swivelled that was pure challenge.

They hit a section of side-by-side Charleston, travelling across the floor, feet kicking forward and back in synchrony, heels scuffing the floor on each accent. The band punched the riff out harder; the audience clapped on the off-beats. Eve felt the rhythm turn into something like laughter in her chest, wild and breathless.

Villanelle glanced sideways at her mid-travel. Her eyes behind the mask were bright with something that wasn’t just performance.

The first chorus surged; they launched into a circular sequence. Villanelle grabbed Eve’s wrist, spun her under her arm and released her into a perfect exaggerated swivel step. Eve grinned, not at the audience, not for the cameras, but because for a moment her body was doing exactly what it was supposed to, and it felt incredible.

Charleston, she realised, wasn’t goofy when you committed to it. It was manic joy with teeth.

They hit their first lift - Eve ran toward Villanelle, jumped, and Villanelle caught her around the ribs and tilted her sideways in the air, her legs still doing tiny kicks in time with the drum. For a moment Eve was horizontal, the room a blur, one hand gripping Villanelle’s shoulder, the other reaching out theatrically as if clawing at invisible enemies.

Villanelle set her down with smooth control. Their eyes caught for a heartbeat. There was a flash of something private there that had nothing to do with Kill Bill.

Then the choreography drove them apart again. They spiralled back to positions at the front, facing the audience, breathing hard.

Halfway mark.

The music hit a staccato break.

They froze, chests heaving.

On eight counts of silence, they walked - slowly - toward the sword stand at the side of the set.

The audience noise rose, anticipating.

Villanelle picked up both katanas.

She held one for herself.

And, without breaking eye contact with Eve, she tossed the other through the air.

⸻

The foam handle spun once, twice. For a split second Eve’s stomach dropped, if she dropped it, if she missed-

Her hand shot up.

Her fingers closed clumsily around the hilt.

The blade slapped against her wrist; she almost lost it. A collective gasp rippled through the room.

Then she clamped down, flipped it upright, and snapped into a ready stance.

The audience exploded, screaming.

Villanelle’s mouth twitched behind the mask. Approval. Maybe a hint of something like pride.

The track slammed back to full volume.

This half of the choreography felt like a fight dreamed up by someone on too much sugar and not enough fear. They swung the swords in big, dramatic arcs that sliced close to each other’s bodies without ever landing. Their feet never stopped: kicks, flicks, kicks again, Charleston embedded into the base of every step.

At one point they moved back-to-back, swords out, turning on the spot in a tight circle like they were surrounded. Eve felt Villanelle’s spine align with hers for exactly one rotation - solid, grounding - before they peeled away in opposite directions again.

The “duel” section came in hard. Four bars of precise, rhythmic sword clacks in time with the melody. Foam hit foam with a surprisingly satisfying crack. Every time their blades crossed, they were close enough to see the tiny details of each other’s faces: sweat at the temples, parted lips, the pure concentration etched there.

The lift with swords was the riskiest part. Eve hurtled toward Villanelle, sword raised as if to attack. Villanelle dropped her own blade on cue, grabbed Eve’s waist, and hoisted her into the air, spinning. Eve extended the foam katana one-handed, shouting silently at the crowd, hair flying.

For a second, with the lights slicing across them and the roar of the audience in her ears, she felt almost high.

Villanelle brought her down, into a sharp sliding step that took them both toward centre again.

The last phrase of the music surged.

Time thinned.

They threw the swords - not into the crowd, but off to the edge of the floor where they skidded to rest.

Now just their bodies again.

They hammered through the final Charleston run - swivel, kick, jump, spin. Eve could feel the fatigue burning through her muscles but there was no room left for doubt. Only the beat, only Villanelle’s presence, only the rush.

On the last beat, they crashed into their finishing pose.

Eve front and centre, legs wide, one fist low, the other hand curled around an invisible hilt at her hip, shoulders forward as if ready to launch again.

Villanelle directly behind her, one arm wrapped around Eve’s waist, pulling her back against her, the other bent, fingers braced under Eve’s chin as if she were about to snap her head back in some brutal finishing move.

Their faces were close.

Too close.

Villanelle’s lips hovered a breath from Eve’s cheek, then turned toward her mouth at the last second. Their noses nearly brushed. Eve could feel the heat of her, the tiny rush of air with every breath.

Lights FLASH.
Music cut.

For one heartbeat, they stayed there - almost kissing, not kissing at all, both absolutely still.

The audience detonated.

⸻

They broke apart a fraction too quickly, both of them laughing - the half-hysterical kind of laugh that comes from surviving something they weren’t sure they would.

Tess glided toward them. “Oh my goodness! Eve and Villanelle, everybody!”

The cheering didn’t really die down, it just dropped from scream to roar.

Tess beamed. “That was… WILD. I don’t know if I should be calling the police or giving you a standing ovation.”

“You can do both,” Villanelle suggested.

Laughter.

Tess turned to the panel. “Craig, what did you make of that Kill Bill Charleston?”

Craig pursed his lips, the pantomime villain of quality control.

“Well,” he began, drawling, “I’m going to be very honest. For me, that didn’t really feel like a traditional Charleston. There was a lot of faffing about with swords, there was a lot of performance - fabulous performance darling, I might add - but the pure Charleston content was sometimes lost in the… homicidal mayhem.” He paused, then added, “However, I have to say this, it was thoroughly entertaining. You committed one hundred percent, you told a story, and you had fabulous energy throughout.”

The cheer that followed was more relief than joy.

Before Tess could speak, Villanelle tilted her head toward Craig.

“So,” she said, voice silky, “you are saying you were entertained and a little afraid?”

Craig blinked, thrown. “Er… yes?”

“Then we have done our jobs,” Villanelle replied. “You are welcome.”

The entire room erupted. Even Craig broke into a laugh, covering his mouth.

Motsi leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “EVE, VILLANELLE. My goodness. First of all, the ENERGY - you came out like you had something to prove! There was storytelling, there was drama, and yes okay, there were swords flying through the air-”

“I almost had a heart attack,” Tess admitted.

“Same,” Motsi said. “But I LIVED. And also…” She grinned, putting her hand over her heart. “When you went into that last pose and your faces were RIGHT THERE-” She mimed two dots almost touching. “In my head I was screaming, ‘KISS! KISS! KISS!’”

The crowd howled with laughter. Eve felt heat rocket up her neck and into her face.

Villanelle turned her head toward Motsi with exaggerated caution. “She is clever,” she said, nodding toward Eve. “She tempts me, so my guard goes down. But I think the Bride is more likely to cut my head off than kiss me.”

The audience screamed. Even Motsi slapped the desk, laughing. Tess nearly folded in half.

Eve didn’t know whether to laugh or hide under the floor.

Shirley, when she finally spoke, had that look of proud headmistress. “Well,” she said, “for me, that was absolutely brave. You took on a very fast, demanding dance with a very specific theme, and you went all in. I loved the swivel action, I thought your timing with the band was mostly excellent, and the characterisation was fabulous. Just be careful with your core in places; sometimes the upper body bobbles when you’re tired. But overall? Your best yet.”

Anton shook his head in delight. “I mean, what’s not to love? Foam swords, drama, movie magic, and very good dancing. I thought it was smashing. I was thoroughly entertained and slightly nervous, which is my favourite combination.”

Tess smiled. “There you go. Judges seem pretty… alive after that. Eve, Villanelle, if you’d like to head up to the Clauditorium, we’ll see what those scores look like.”

⸻

They climbed the stairs into the Clauditorium, still breathing hard. The other couples grabbed them as they arrived.

Elena wrapped both arms around Eve. “You were INSANE. I was watching on the monitor like ‘is this allowed??’”

Nikita fanned himself with his own hand. “I need a cigarette and I don’t even smoke.”

Bill waved his pirate sword. “That last bit - I was convinced you were actually going to snog or decapitate each other. Ten out of ten suspense.”

Claudia squeezed between them, her fringe a force of nature. “EVE. VILLANELLE. I feel like I just watched a foreign film I didn’t understand but loved deeply.”

Everyone laughed. Eve tried to keep her knees from visibly shaking.

“How do you feel?” Claudia asked, shoving the mic toward Eve.

“Like I’ve done three marathons and a fight club,” Eve said.

“Perfect,” Claudia said. “Exactly what we aim for. Villanelle, any thoughts?”

“We should get swords every week,” Villanelle replied.

The room groaned.

“No!” came at least three voices.

Katya shouted, “Don’t give the producers ideas!”

Claudia cackled. “Let’s find out what the judges thought numerically before we give anyone weapons again. It’s time for the scores!”

The lights shifted; the little score monitor appeared.

“Craig Revel Horwood…” Claudia intoned.

Craig lifted his paddle with a flourish.

“Seven.”

Boos and cheers mixed. Craig smirked.

“Motsi Mabuse…”

“Eight!”

Eve’s stomach swooped.

“Shirley Ballas…”

Shirley smiled.

“Nine.”

Elena screamed. Someone hit a high note. Eve clapped a hand over her mouth, stunned.

“And Anton Du Beke…”

Anton winked.

“Eight!”

“That gives you a grand total of 32!” Claudia shouted. “Your highest score so far!”

The room erupted - cast clapping, stomping, whistling. Elena practically tackled Eve. Villanelle’s hand found the small of Eve’s back, firm and grounding.

“How does that feel?” Claudia asked into the mic again.

“Like I might cry,” Eve said honestly, then laughed at herself.

“Do it!” Claudia said. “We love tears.”

Villanelle leaned in, speaking into the mic without taking her eyes off Eve. “She did well,” she said simply. “She is braver than she thinks.”

For a moment, everything else, the cameras, the noise, the heat, fell away.

Eve looked back at her.

There was something in Villanelle’s face that was not entirely acting and not entirely safe.

Claudia broke the moment with a clap. “Right! Let’s move on, people! We have plenty more movie drama on the cards for this evening.”

Laughter rolled through the studio.

The floor manager called for reset. The show went on.

But somewhere between the roar of the audience and the crack of foam swords, Eve realised something quietly horrifying.

At some point, somewhere between the yellow jumpsuit and the last beat of Woo Hoo, this had stopped feeling like “just a dancing show.”

And she could no longer pretend otherwise.

Chapter Text

The Movie Week results studio had an entirely different electricity than the live show. The air felt thicker, heavier, as if the glitter was suspended instead of falling. Every light glared a little brighter, every laugh a little too loud, every heartbeat sharper under skin. The adrenaline high of performance had faded, leaving behind something raw and volatile.

Everyone was still in costume.

Pirates and spies, queens and assassins, boxers and ballroom royalty - standing shoulder to shoulder on the glossy staircase like the most chaotic theatre company ever assembled. Sequins reflected onto swords, feathers brushed leather, glitter dusted the black stage floor like confetti shrapnel.

Eve stood halfway up the staircase beside Villanelle, still pressed into the yellow jumpsuit, hair wild from sweat and spinning. Every muscle in her body still vibrated from the adrenaline crash; her legs shook with the same frequency as the LED lights running along the steps.

Villanelle, mask removed now but still in that sharp black suit, stood so close their arms brushed when either of them breathed too deeply. She was unnervingly still, like a loaded gun resting on silk.

Tess and Claudia stood at the bottom of the staircase, perfectly poised, glittering and calm, like swans with knives hidden under their feathers.

“Welcome back to Movie Week Results,” Tess announced, voice smooth and reassuring. “Tonight, one couple will be leaving the competition - but first, let’s relive some of the incredible performances from last night!”

The giant screens lit up, playing flashes of each dance - Zara launching into her Gladiator Paso with Vito, Carolyn executing a hypnotic Bond Argentine Tango with Johannes, Bill’s Pirate Samba sending a coconut flying into the orchestra pit, and then-

Eve and Villanelle.

The sharp swivel steps, the sword throw, the near-kiss ending.

The audience screamed again just watching the recap. Eve went hot with embarrassment, and okay, maybe something else.

From the corner of her eye, she caught Elena watching her. Elena raised an eyebrow, pointed two fingers at her own eyes and then at Eve, mouthing: THAT was insane.

Eve mouthed back: Shut up and nearly laughed.

Villanelle didn’t move. She watched the screen with the focused calm of someone revisiting a memory they knew they’d nailed. Her tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek - the faintest, smug little gesture.

Eve’s pulse jumped.

⸻

“And now,” Claudia announced gleefully, “it’s time for our professional dancers to show us how Movie Week is really done!”

The staircase erupted into cheers. The pros peeled away, moving like silk and weaponry down the stairs into position. Villanelle squeezed Eve’s arm briefly before releasing her - wordless but grounding.

Then she was gone, swept into the centre of the floor as the opening notes of a sweeping orchestral medley filled the studio.

Eve watched from the staircase railing.

The pro dance was cinematic. Dramatic lighting, slow motion spins, costume changes as they moved from scene to scene - Titanic, Moulin Rouge, La La Land. But everything inside Eve snapped taut when the music shifted into a romantic instrumental swell and Villanelle stepped into frame again in a flowy, white dress.

Vito appeared opposite her in a sharp white tux jacket. Villanelle tilted her head, offering him her hand - slow, dangerous, deliberate. The choreography instantly dropped into something sensual - smooth body lines, floating lifts, hands sliding along backs, chests brushing.

Eve’s stomach twisted.

She told herself it was just the performance. Just acting. Just dance.

But when Villanelle slid her hand up Vito’s jaw and leaned into the crook of his neck, Eve felt her own jaw tighten involuntarily.

Beside her, Elena leaned in without looking away from the floor. “You’re gripping that railing so hard it’s going to snap.”

Eve unclenched her fingers. “I’m just… impressed. That’s all.”

“Sure,” Elena muttered, eyes glinting. “Jealousy looks great with yellow.”

Eve choked. “I’m not jealous. That’s ridiculous.”

Elena snorted. “Sweetheart, I could fry an egg on the heat coming off your face.”

Down below, Villanelle was lifted into the air by Vito in a slow, sensual arch - body stretched, neck bared - and Eve’s heart punched the inside of her ribs like it wanted out.

Elena nudged her. “It’s okay to hate it. I hate it too and I’m not even in love with her.”

Eve didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

The music crashed into the finale and Villanelle landed, flawless, breathing hard and glowing like molten metal. She looked up toward the staircase, directly at Eve - saw her - and smiled.

Not a polite performer smile. Something private. Something that said: Saw that. Felt it. Mine.

Eve forgot how lungs worked.

The applause thundered.

⸻

The pros filed back up the stairs. Villanelle - back in costume - slipped into place beside Eve again, still breathing warmly from the dance, the heat radiating off her body enough to fog Eve’s brain.

“Did you like the show?” Villanelle murmured, voice low and amused.

Eve focused on the stage. Anywhere but Villanelle. “It was… fine.”

Villanelle smirked. “Fine is jealous word.”

Eve elbowed her - not hard, but enough to land a message. Villanelle only looked more delighted.

“Okay, the moment has arrived,” Tess said from below. “The first couple who are SAFE and returning next week are-”

The studio froze.

Lights swept across the contestants’ faces - fear, hope, dread layered into glitter.

“ZARA and VITO!”

Cheers. They hugged, screaming, disappearing up the steps into Claudia’s arms.

“The next couple safe…”

Bill squeezed Katya’s shoulder for luck. Elena clutched Nikita’s hand like a lifeline. Villanelle stood perfectly still, watching Tess without blinking.

“BILL and KATYA!”

Another explosion of noise.

“And the next couple dancing again next week are…”

Eve felt Villanelle’s fingers brush hers - barely a touch, but everything in her body jolted as if she’d been wired into the stage power grid.

“EVE and VILLANELLE!”

Eve exhaled hard as the audience roared, and without thinking she reached out - her hand closing around Villanelle’s forearm. Villanelle’s eyes flicked down to the contact, then up to Eve’s face, something fierce shifting behind them.

They climbed to the Clauditorium, pulled immediately into hugs.

Katya wrapped Eve and Villanelle at once. “You two are RIDICULOUS, I hope you know that.”

“Thank you,” Villanelle said. “We try.”

Claudia launched toward them with the microphone. “SAFE! How does it feel?”

“Amazing,” Eve said, breath still uneven. “Terrifying. I think my soul left my body three separate times tonight. But… I’m falling in love with dance.”

Unintentionally, Eve glanced at Villanelle when she said it.

Villanelle didn’t look away.

Claudia saw. Of course she did. Her eyebrows hit the ceiling.

“Well I, for one, cannot WAIT to see what insanity you two bring next week,” Claudia laughed. “Villanelle, what are we getting?”

Villanelle leaned into the mic with dramatic slowness.

“Next week,” she said smoothly, “we will be dancing the Rumba…”

An excited ripple ran through the studio.

“…to Hurt.” A tiny smirk. “The Christina Aguilera hit.”

Audience: oohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Couples: chaotic screaming.

Claudia clutched her heart. “Oh GOOD LORD. I’m not emotionally stable enough for that.”

“I’m happy for a slower dance,” Eve joked. “My legs are waving a white flag.”

Villanelle looked her dead in the eyes. “Your legs will be taking no breaks.”

Every person in earshot screamed laughing.

Claudia fanned herself. “Okay, moving on before I combust-”

⸻

The atmosphere shifted the moment Tess’s voice dropped into seriousness.

“And now… it’s time for the dreaded dance-off.”

The lights tightened, narrowing into hunting beams. Conversations died instantly. Every couple huddled closer together as if physical proximity could change fate.

Tess continued, voice neutral but solemn. “The first couple who will be dancing again tonight are… PRIYA and CARLOS.”

A collective gasp rolled through the audience. Priya covered her face, shoulders shaking, Carlos wrapped his arm tight around her. She had scored well - she was not expected to be here.

“And the second couple in the bottom two… ELENA and NIKITA.”

Eve’s stomach dropped. Elena froze like a statue, then inhaled shakily. Nikita pressed his forehead to hers for a moment, whispering something Eve couldn’t hear, but whatever it was made Elena nod once, hard.

The audience screamed support as the two couples moved back onto the floor.

⸻

Eve and Villanelle stood at the rail of the Clauditorium, Eve’s hands gripping the edge so tightly her knuckles bleached white. Villanelle stood beside her, arms folded, calm but alert - like she was watching prey around a corner.

Priya and Carlos went first - beautiful, technical, clean, but the nerves were obvious. Priya’s foot slipped once; Carlos tightened his hold to keep her balanced.

Then Elena and Nikita stepped forward. The music began: Moulin Rouge intensity, chemistry hot enough to burn. Elena danced like her life depended on it - sharp, fearless, devastating. When they hit the final pose, Elena’s chest heaved like she’d run a marathon, eyes shining with the kind of vulnerability only terror produces.

The audience stood.

Eve held her breath.

Villanelle’s arm brushed hers, accidental and steadying, but Eve subconsciously reached out, fingers curling instinctively around Villanelle’s sleeve.

Villanelle didn’t look down. She didn’t pull away either.

⸻

The couples lined up side-by-side.

Craig spoke first. “For me, the couple I’m choosing to save is… Elena and Nikita.”

Motsi pointed dramatically. “The couple I’m saving… Elena and Nikita.”

Shirley leaned toward her mic. “It’s never easy, but the couple I am saving is… Elena and Nikita.”

Anton nodded, solemn. “Elena and Nikita.”

The audience screamed, relief shredding the tension apart.

Carlos hugged Priya, whispering something emotional that made her nod fiercely through tears.

Priya exhaled, stepped forward gracefully, and waved to the cheering room. “Thank you,” she said into Tess’s mic. “This has been the best time of my life.”

Eve felt something sharp twist inside her chest. Watching Priya walk away, still smiling, still gracious, was sobering. Someone’s dream ended every week. And she realised - hers might end soon, too.

Villanelle leaned in quietly. “Do not worry. We are not finished.”

Eve swallowed. “You sound confident.”

“I am always confident,” Villanelle said. “Especially when it is true.”

⸻

The studio cleared slowly. People hugged, wiped mascara, laughed too loud from relief. Eve slipped outside for air, pushing open the heavy side door into the dim smoking courtyard lit by a flickering overhead light.

Cold air slapped her, vivid and grounding. She leaned back against the brick wall, pulling in a long breath.

A moment later, the door creaked open again. Villanelle stepped out, hands in pockets, expression unreadable.

“Are you pretending to smoke to look cool?” she asked casually. “Or do you actually smoke, and that is why you cannot breathe during rehearsals?”

Eve barked out a laugh. “I don’t smoke. I just needed… space.”

Villanelle nodded, stepping beside her but not touching - close enough that Eve could feel her warmth in the night air. “You were very quiet after the results.”

“I’m processing,” Eve said. “Tonight was a lot.”

“Hm.” Villanelle studied her profile. “Because of the dance? Or because of the audience?”

Eve froze, then exhaled. “Because of… everything. Niko was here.”

Villanelle’s eyebrows twitched up, almost sympathetic but not quite. “He looked like someone forced to watch their ex marry a billionaire.”

Eve snorted, startled. “He’s not my ex.”

“No,” Villanelle agreed lightly. “Not yet.”

Eve turned sharply. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Villanelle shrugged, maddeningly calm. “You are different now. And he can see it. That is scary. For him.”

Eve swallowed. “Motsi’s comment didn’t help.”

Villanelle glanced sideways. “You mean when she screamed for us to kiss?”

Eve closed her eyes, mortified. “Yes. That.”

“Yes,” Villanelle repeated, tone unreadable. “That.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and humming like static.

Eve finally said, voice low, “Everyone thinks it looked real.”

Villanelle let the words hang, then stepped closer - close enough that Eve could see the flecks of green in her eyes.

“And was it?” Villanelle asked softly.

The world stalled.

Eve felt heat flash through her stomach, up through her chest, into her throat. She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Villanelle’s lips curved just slightly. “Thought so.”

Eve’s breath shook.

Villanelle took one step back, breaking the tension with surgical precision. “Everyone is going to Nikita’s apartment. Game night. Drinking. Chaos. Are you coming?”

Eve hesitated.

“Niko is at home,” she said quietly. “And he’s upset. I probably should-”

“Yes,” Villanelle cut in, “you probably should.”

Eve blinked.

Villanelle tilted her head. “But you won’t.”

Eve hated how seen she felt.

She nodded slowly. “I’ll text him.”

“Good,” Villanelle murmured. “Let’s go.”

She pushed open the door, letting the warm studio light spill into the night.

Eve followed, pulse out of control.

Just before stepping through, Villanelle added without turning.

“Next week, Eve… acting will not be enough.”

And Eve absolutely forgot how to breathe..

⸻

Nikita’s flat was on the third floor of a building that tried very hard to be modern and mostly succeeded if you squinted. The hallway smelled faintly of takeaway and fabric softener. Someone’s distant TV bled canned laughter through a wall.

Eve hesitated outside the door, knuckles hovering.

From inside, music, half-muffled laughter, something that sounded like Nikita shouting, “NO, YOU ARE WRONG ABOUT CHEESE.”

She knocked.

The door swung open so fast she nearly punched Nikita in the chest.

“EVE!” he yelled, as if he hadn’t seen her half an hour ago. His hair was damp from a rushed shower, his T-shirt inside out. “WELCOME TO MY TEMPLE OF BAD DECISIONS!”

“I’m not sure I’m dressed for a temple,” Eve said, glancing down at her jeans and jumper.

“Perfect,” Nikita grinned. “The dress code is ‘emotionally fragile and lightly drunk.’ Come in.”

He stepped aside with a theatrical flourish. Eve walked in.

The flat was small but warm. Fairy lights zigzagged across the ceiling. A coffee table was already colonised by crisps, dips and several open bottles of wine. Someone had lit a candle that smelled aggressively of vanilla. The sofa and two mismatched armchairs had been dragged into a loose circle, with cushions on the floor forming an overflow ring.

Elena sat cross-legged on the floor with a blanket over her lap, nursing a glass of red wine and looking like a glamorous, exhausted raccoon. Bill sprawled across an armchair, still in a black tank top and pirate trousers, socks mismatched. Katya perched on the arm, braiding her hair with ruthless concentration. Zara curled at one end of the sofa, phone in hand, pretending not to care who’d just walked in.

Johannes leaned casually in the kitchen doorway, wearing joggers and a crisp shirt, as if he’d been born in a perfume advert. Carolyn wasn’t there - presumably already in bed with a book and a whisky, being more dignified than the rest of them.

Villanelle was by the tiny open-plan kitchen, back against the counter, beer bottle in hand. She had changed - black jeans, white fitted T-shirt. Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders, less like a character and more like a person. It was disorienting.

Her eyes found Eve almost immediately. A flicker, approval, recognition, something sharper, passed through them.

“You came,” she said.

“You invited me,” Eve replied, trying for lightness.

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “Sometimes you do what you are told.”

“That’s debatable,” Elena cut in, waving from the floor. “Come here before Nikita tries to emotionally coach you via tequila.”

Nikita had already appeared at Eve’s elbow with a glass. “Wine? Beer? Cocktail? Something that tastes like juice and then ruins your life?”

“Wine is fine,” Eve said.

“Red or white?”

“Surprise me.”

Nikita grinned like a man given licence to commit crimes. “Dangerous. I like it.”

He disappeared. Elena patted the space next to her. Eve sank down onto the cushion with a groan, her muscles screaming a little at the change in level.

“How are you feeling?” Elena asked. “On a scale of one to ‘please hit me with a bus so I don’t have to do Rumba Week.’”

“Somewhere around ‘run me over twice for good measure,’” Eve said.

Elena figuratively clinked her glass against Eve’s empty hand. “To survival.”

Nikita reappeared with a glass of wine that was… generously full. Eve took it, grateful for the weight in her hand.

“Okay,” Nikita said, clapping once. “We are nearly all here. Where is-”

The door opened again. Vito slipped in, hair still damp, hoodie thrown over sweats. He gave everyone a sheepish little wave.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said. “I was on FaceTime with my mother. She has notes.”

“On your Paso?” Bill asked.

“On my posture in the Clauditorium,” Vito replied, deadpan. “Apparently I slouch like a sad flamingo.”

Laughter rippled.

Nikita shut the door dramatically. “NOW we are complete. Game night may commence.”

“Can we ease into it?” Eve asked. “Like with small talk and crisps?”

“No,” Nikita said. “Small talk is for weak people and daytime television. We are going straight to Truth or Dare.”

Groans. A cheer from Katya. Zara rolled her eyes but didn’t object.

“I am not playing,” Carolyn’s voice came suddenly from Nikita’s phone, which lay face-down on the coffee table. He tapped it. Carolyn’s face appeared, low-angle, clearly from her bed, wearing a silk robe and an expression of distant amusement.

“You’re on video?” Eve said, half-laughing.

“Of course,” Carolyn said. “Nikita insisted. He said, and I quote, ‘Your energy is necessary.’ I am supervising from afar with a drink and my own dignity. Do carry on.”

“Right,” Nikita said. “House rules: no nudity, no actual crimes, and no asking anyone which judge they hate the most. I am not losing my job for you people.”

“Again,” Bill added cheerfully.

⸻

They started light.

The first spin of an empty wine bottle landed on Bill.

“Truth,” he said, with the confidence of someone who had never hidden anything in his life.

“Who is the worst person to share a dressing room with?” Katya asked, eyes gleaming.

Bill thought for a grand total of two seconds. “Myself. I shed like a golden retriever.”

Fair.

Next, it landed on Zara. She chose truth too.

“Why do you always talk about your followers like they’re a small nation state?” Johannes asked.

“Because they are,” Zara said simply. “They could storm the BBC if I asked them to.”

“Please don’t,” Nikita said. “Security is already on edge after the swords.”

Laughter. The atmosphere loosened.

Eve felt the knot in her chest ease a fraction. The room hummed warm around her, the wine softening the sharp corners of her thoughts. This bubble - ridiculous, glitter-stained, sleep-deprived - felt oddly like safety.

Then the bottle spun again.

It landed on Eve.

Six pairs of eyes turned to her. She felt herself straighten instinctively.

“Truth or dare?” Nikita asked, delighted.

Eve hesitated. “Truth.”

“Coward,” Villanelle murmured.

Eve glared at her. “I did a sword-throwing Charleston. I’ve met my dare quota for the week.”

“Okay,” Nikita said, thinking. “Truth - what is the scariest part of all this? The show. Not just the dances. The whole thing.”

The question was gentler than she expected. Less gossip column, more… real.

She stared into her wine for a moment, watching the surface move.

“Being seen,” she said finally. “Not as… celebrity Eve, or podcast Eve, or ‘oh look, that woman with the swords’. Just me. The part I don’t get to hide behind emails or jokes or… other people’s problems.” She shrugged, a little self-consciously. “It’s easier to investigate other people’s mess than look at your own.”

Silence, then a soft chorus of “oof”s.

“That was a good answer,” Johannes said approvingly. “Therapy for all, on the house.”

“Okay, too real,” Nikita said, fluttering his hands. “We must balance with stupidity. Next.”

The bottle spun again.

It landed with the neck pointing directly at Villanelle.

There was a ripple of anticipation that had nothing to do with the wine.

Villanelle regarded the bottle as if it had personally offended her. “Dare,” she said.

“Of course,” Elena muttered.

Nikita tapped his chin, considerations flying across his face. “We could make you do a shot for every time Craig said ‘darling’ this series,” he mused. “But then you’d die. Hm.”

“I would survive,” Villanelle said. “You would die.”

Eve believed it.

Then Nikita’s gaze lit up. “No. I have it. We all want it. Villanelle… I dare you to give us a preview of your Rumba for next week.”

Eve nearly aspirated her entire glass of wine. “No absolutely not, take it back, we have literally not learned a single step yet-”

Villanelle didn’t look at her. “Accepted.”

“You can’t accept—” Eve started.

Villanelle finally turned her head toward her, expression calm but eyes dark as stormwater. “I never say no to a dare,” she said. “Come.”

Eve froze. “We don’t know the choreography.”

“Perfect,” Villanelle replied. “Then you will not overthink.”

Nikita already had his phone in hand, thumbs flying. “SAY NO MORE.”
Music began to hum from the speaker - Hurt by Christina Aguilera, the orchestral swell slow and heavy.

Elena clutched the blanket to her chest. “Oh my God I’m emotionally fragile, don’t do this to me.”

Villanelle offered her hand. Eve stared at it like it was a detonator.

“You can say no,” Villanelle said quietly, just for Eve. “If you want to.”

Something dared her back. Eve set her wine down and placed her hand in Villanelle’s.

Villanelle stepped closer, arranging their bodies gently but with absolute certainty - Eve’s right hand placed on Villanelle’s upper arm, their other hands joined, Villanelle’s palm resting at the base of Eve’s spine.

“Where do I look?” Eve whispered.

“At me,” Villanelle said. “Always at me.”

The room vanished.

The music pulsed low beneath them.

“Step back,” Villanelle murmured. Eve stepped. “Good. Now forward. No rush. Let it melt.”

She guided Eve through the slow hip roll of a basic Rumba walk, adjusting her hips with the lightest pressure of fingertips. Not choreography - contact. Breath. Shape. Her instruction barely above a whisper.

“Breathe with the music.”
“Don’t hold yourself tight.”
“Let it feel like something you can’t say.”

The lyrics swelled - I would hold you in my arms, I would take the pain away…

Villanelle lifted Eve’s joined hand and turned her, palm sliding along Eve’s arm to her shoulder, her back, guiding her into a slow turn that left Eve facing away, Villanelle’s hand warm at her waist.

“Lean,” Villanelle said softly.

Eve did, letting her head fall back against Villanelle’s shoulder, trusting the support that caught her instantly.

Six counts passed - the room holding its breath.

Villanelle lifted her back upright again, the motion so controlled it felt like floating. Eve turned to face her and suddenly they were standing chest to chest, close enough she could feel the brush of Villanelle’s breath.

Villanelle raised her hand, fingertips brushing lightly along the side of Eve’s jaw, settling just behind her ear - a frame, not a caress.

Their foreheads almost touched.

The room had gone completely silent.

Villanelle held Eve there for the final eight counts, unmoving, the last note hanging in the air like smoke.

Then she stepped away, letting her hand fall.

“Preview,” she said simply.

Eve realised only then that her legs were shaking.

“Okay,” Nikita said weakly, somewhere in the background. “I am going to need… several years to recover from whatever that was.”

Laughter rippled, breaking the spell.

Villanelle let her hand fall, stepping back just enough that they weren’t sharing the same breath anymore.

“See?” she said softly, eyes on Eve. “Not so terrifying.”

Eve’s legs felt like water.

“That was-” She broke off, unsure what word to choose. “Reckless.”

“A little,” Villanelle said. “Reckless is good for you.”

⸻

The night blurred after that, not from alcohol - Eve paced herself - but from overstimulation. Conversations overlapped. Nikita told a long, wandering story about accidentally using fake tan as moisturiser. Bill and Katya argued in mock-Latin accents. Johannes made a withering comment about Craig’s scarf collection that had everyone crying.

Eve found herself on the balcony at one point, a narrow sliver of concrete with a view over twinkling windows and blurred streetlights, with Elena and Bill.

“You okay?” Elena asked quietly, once Bill had gone back inside to refresh his drink. “You look like you’re at a party and also at your own funeral.”

“That’s an image,” Eve said.

“Accurate though,” Elena replied.

Eve shrugged, hugging her arms around herself. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she murmured.

“Which that?” Elena asked. “The dance? The coming here? The… general existence?”

“The… Rumba preview,” Eve said. “It felt… I don’t know. Too honest.”

Elena tilted her head. “You mean it felt like you weren’t pretending.”

Eve stared out at the city. “Yeah.”

Elena hummed. “You can’t un-feel something just because it’s inconvenient,” she said quietly. “You can only decide what you do with it.”

“You sound like a therapist,” Eve said.

“I am very expensive,” Elena said. “Now go home before Nikita starts another game where he makes you rank everyone’s hips from best to worst.”

“That’s… a thing?”

“It will be,” Elena said darkly.

⸻

Eve said her goodbyes - hugs, half-promises to have coffee, more rehearsals, more chaos. Villanelle walked her to the door without comment, hand brushing Eve’s elbow as if to steer her or stop her walking straight into the frame.

“At rehearsal Monday,” Villanelle said quietly, just for her. “I will not be gentle.”

“You’re never gentle,” Eve said. It came out softer than she’d intended.

Villanelle’s mouth curved. “I can be,” she said. “But not with this dance.”

Eve’s heartbeat stuttered. “Goodnight, then.”

Villanelle looked at her for one long, unreadable second.

“Goodnight, Eve,” she said.

The taxi ride home was a blur of streetlights, reflections and tired music on the driver’s radio. Eve watched the city slide by, forehead against the cool window, replaying the feeling of Villanelle’s hand in her hair like a song she couldn’t switch off.

Her phone buzzed once in her pocket. Niko.

You on your way?

She stared at the message. Typed: Yeah, just leaving now. See you soon x
Deleted the x. Sent it anyway.

⸻

The house was dim when she pushed the front door open. A lamp glowed in the living room. The TV screen reflected the BBC iPlayer menu back at the room like an accusation.

Niko sat on the sofa, one ankle resting on his knee, arms folded. He was in jeans and a T-shirt; his glasses had slid a fraction down his nose. He looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

“You’re back,” he said.

“Hi,” Eve replied, toeing off her shoes. “You waited up.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Thought we should… talk. While I’m still relatively calm.”

That sounded ominous.

She stepped into the living room, hovering near the armchair rather than sitting next to him. “How was it? Watching?”

He nodded once at the TV. “There’s a replay function,” he said. “I used it. A lot.”

Her stomach dipped. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he said. “I wanted to understand what everyone was… reacting to.”

“What does that mean?” Eve asked, throat tight.

Niko picked up the remote, hit a button. The Charleston flickered onto the screen, mid-routine. There they were: her in yellow, Villanelle in black, swords flashing, bodies spinning, the manic joy and danger of it all.

He let it play silently.

Then the ending. The final pose, Villanelle wrapped around her, mouths a breath apart, faces locked.

He paused it there.

Eve stared at the frozen image of herself.

“That,” Niko said quietly. “Looks like more than just a dance.”

Her pulse hammered. “It’s performance,” she said, automatically. “It’s supposed to look intense, that’s the point.”

“I’ve seen you act,” Niko said. “At parties. At work things. At dinner with my parents. I know what it looks like when you’re pretending.” He glanced at the screen, then at her. “This isn’t pretending.”

A flush crawled up her neck. “That’s unfair.”

“Is it?” he asked, still maddeningly calm. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re standing on a line and trying very hard to convince yourself you haven’t already crossed it.”

She sank slowly into the armchair, the weight of the day finally dragging her down. “It’s not that simple.”

“Then explain it to me,” Niko said. “Help me understand why watching you dance with someone else feels like… watching you leave the room even when you’re still in it.”

The words cut, clean and precise.

Eve sucked in a breath. “This,” she said, gesturing vaguely, “Strictly, the dancing, it’s… the first time in a long time I’ve felt… awake. Like I’m not just going through the motions. That has nothing to do with you.”

“And everything to do with her,” Niko said.

Eve didn’t answer.

“I’m not stupid, Eve,” he went on, voice low. “I see how you look at her. I see how she looks at you.”

“She looks at everyone like that,” Eve said weakly.

“No,” Niko said. “She doesn’t.”

Silence settled in, thick and heavy.

He swallowed. “So I’m going to ask you a question. And I want you to actually think before you answer.”

Eve’s hands tightened around each other. “Okay.”

“Do you find her attractive?” he asked.

“Of course I do,” Eve said. It came out too fast. “She’s gorgeous. Anyone would.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Niko said.

He met her eyes straight on. “Are you attracted to her?”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

There it was. The question she’d been avoiding with jokes, with choreography, with late-night walks around her own kitchen. The one she’d been dancing around in more ways than one.

She thought of the studio. Of Villanelle’s hand at her neck. Of the almost-kisses. Of the feeling in her chest when she watched her dance with Vito. Of the way time seemed to fold when they were in hold and the music wrapped around them.

She thought of Niko, tired and open and scared in front of her.

Her mouth was dry.

“I don’t-” she started.

Niko’s jaw clenched. “Don’t say you don’t know just to soften it.”

“I’m not trying to soften it,” Eve said. The frustration cracked through, finally. “I actually don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what I feel when I’m with her and when I’m here and why those things don’t match and-”

“Eve,” Niko said, and there was something almost broken in the way he said her name. “That is the answer.”

She stared at him.

“You don’t know,” he said quietly. “Which means… it’s not no.”

The truth of that sat between them like a third person.

Eve’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. It felt inadequate; it was all she had.

Niko nodded slowly, as if he’d expected nothing else.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

He stood, suddenly looking older than he had that morning.

“I’m going to bed,” he said. “You should too. Big week. Rumba and all that.”

“Niko-”

“We’ll… figure something out,” he said vaguely. “Just… not tonight.”

He walked past her, footsteps soft on the carpet. The bedroom door closed with a muffled click.

Eve stayed where she was, staring at the frozen image on the TV - her own face caught in a moment of almost, eyes locked with Villanelle’s.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

A message.

Villanelle:
Your walks will be terrible on Monday if you don’t rest.
Go to bed.

Eve huffed a short, helpless laugh. It sounded halfway to a sob.

She typed, fingers shaking.

I just made everything worse.

Dots appeared. Disappeared. Then:

Good.
Now there is something to dance.

Eve closed her eyes.

The storm she’d been pretending was a distant threat was no longer on the horizon.

It was here.

And she was standing in the middle of it.

Chapter Text

Eve woke to the sound of nothing.

No kettle. No shower. No morning radio droning softly from the kitchen. Just the distant hum of the boiler and the dull ache in her shoulders from falling asleep crooked on the couch.

She blinked at the ceiling for a few slow seconds, brain booting up like an old computer. The blanket scratched against her neck. Her mouth tasted stale. The faint smell of yesterday’s coffee hung in the air.

She pushed herself upright, the blanket sliding into her lap. Her phone lay on the coffee table, plugged in but abandoned. Two messages from Niko sat unread below the clock.

She ignored them.

Her body moved through the living room on autopilot, feet cold on the wooden floor. The kitchen light was on. A rectangle of harsh brightness spilled down the hall.

On the kitchen counter, propped against the fruit bowl, was a note.

She knew it was from him before she saw the handwriting. That neat, slightly slanted script she knew as well as her own.

She stepped closer.

Morning. Went for a run with Gemma from work - we’re getting lunch after. Not sure when I’ll be back. Don’t forget to eat. N

Eve read it twice.

Gemma from work.

Perfect Gemma from work. PE teacher Gemma, who ran half-marathons for charity and posted pictures of herself crossing finish lines looking like an advert for electrolytes. Gemma, who once stopped by their table at a staff do and said, all bright-eyed and earnest, “I don’t know how you do podcasts, I’d hate to be heard by that many people if I messed up. I like my stress to be real.”

Eve had smiled and said something polite. Then gone home and spent twenty minutes fantasising about deleting Gemma’s emails from the school server.

“Run and lunch,” Eve muttered to herself now, folding the note in half and then in half again until it was a small square between her fingers. “So wholesome it hurts.”

She dropped the square onto the counter and stared at it like it might unfold itself and change the words.

It didn’t.

⸻

The day yawned ahead of her. A Sunday with no call time, no false eyelashes, no cameras, no Tess, no Claudia, no swords. Theoretically restful. Practically unbearable.

She tried to fill it.

She stripped the bed and changed the sheets. She put on a load of washing and forgot about it until the machine beeped at her like an outraged robot. She scrubbed the bathroom sink until it squeaked. She organised the spices alphabetically and then hated herself for caring that the paprika was in front of the parsley.

She watched an entire episode of a property show where a couple argued about kitchen islands. When the credits rolled, she realised she hadn’t taken in a single frame.

The house, without Niko in it, sounded wrong. Every creak of the floorboards, every tick of the cheap wall clock was too loud. She felt like she’d been left behind by her own life.

Her phone sat on the arm of the sofa. She picked it up without thinking, thumb sliding over the screen.

No new messages.

She opened Niko’s chat. The last thing from him was from last night, just before she’d come home. We’ll talk when you’re back. They had. Sort of.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.

She didn’t want to talk to him.

Her fingers backed out and, almost of their own accord, tapped into another chat entirely.

Villanelle

The last message was from last night.

Now there is something to dance.

Eve stared at it for a long beat.

Then she typed.

My husband is probably cheating on me with perfect Gemma from school.

She watched the little grey bubble like she could pull it back into her thumbs if she concentrated hard enough. Too late – the message popped up in the thread, smug and real.

“Oh, brilliant,” she muttered. “Text your dance partner about your failing marriage, that’s very normal behaviour.”

Her phone buzzed almost immediately.

Villanelle:

Is she very pretty?

Eve rolled her eyes and smiled at the same time.

Eve:

Yes.
Annoyingly.
She runs for fun.
Smiles a lot.
Probably recycles properly.

A pause. Then.

Villanelle:

Disgusting.

A short huff of laughter burst out of Eve. She sank further into the sofa, curling one foot under her.

Eve:

You don’t even know her.

Villanelle:

I know enough.
She runs on Sunday morning for fun.
I hate her.

That shouldn’t have felt as good as it did.

Eve:

He left me a note. Like a teenager telling his mum where he is. Maybe I’m the mum.

She hit send before she could overthink it.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Villanelle:

Do you want to sit and be sad all day
or do you want to come to the studio and be sad while hitting me with things?

Eve snorted. Then considered it.

Eve:

It’s Sunday.
We don’t rehearse on Sundays.
Isn’t that a rule?

Villanelle:

Rules are to keep stupid people from dying.
You are not stupid.
I am unkillable.
So we are fine.

Eve typed back.

Eve:

I look like a mess.

She glanced at her reflection in the dark TV screen - hair in a half-hearted bun, yesterday’s mascara smudged, oversized sweatshirt, baggy joggers.

Villanelle:

Good.
Bring the mess.
We don’t have to practise Rumba if you don’t want.
We can just dance it out.

Eve stared at that last line. At the easy way Villanelle wrote we like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Eve:

You’re insane.

Villanelle:

Yes.
I am at Studio 3 in an hour.
Come.
Or stay home and imagine Gemma stretching.

Eve made an outraged noise that was half laugh, half groan.

Eve:

You’re evil.

Villanelle:

And yet
you are putting on your shoes.

Eve looked down.

She was, annoyingly, already putting on her shoes.

⸻

The cab ride to the studio felt like slipping between worlds. Outside, people walked dogs and pushed prams and queued for coffee - sensible Sunday things. Inside the car, Eve sat with her knees bouncing, heart too high in her chest, stomach tying itself into complicated knots.

She knew this was ridiculous. Going in on a day off. Texting the woman you were at least a little obsessed with - no, attracted to, she corrected herself, panicking at her own thought - because your husband was off running with someone whose core strength you resented.

But the alternative was sitting on the sofa until the light faded and the walls started closing in.

She got out in front of the studio building, concrete dulled by drizzle. The security guard at reception waved her through with a bored, “Alright, love,” as she flashed her pass.

The corridors were almost empty. No cameras, no make-up artists, no runners carrying clipboards. Just the hum of ventilation and the faint echo of music from a far-off room.

She found Studio 3 with the door half-closed.

She pushed it open quietly.

⸻

The room felt bigger when it was empty.

No crew, no cameras, no extra bodies in the corners. Just wooden floor, mirrored walls, a stack of chairs against one side, a jumble of props in the other - fake lamppost, glittering stool, a pile of feathers that had escaped a costume.

The air smelled faintly of polish, old sweat and that weird citrus cleaning spray they used on everything.

One wall was almost entirely mirror. It threw her own reflection back at her - small, dressed in grey, hair scraped up, expression uncertain. The studio lights made her look even paler than usual.

Villanelle sat in the middle of the floor, legs extended, ankles crossed, leaning back on her hands. She wore black leggings, an oversized black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled, and no shoes. Her hair was down, loose waves falling over her shoulders and down her back.

She looked like she lived here. Like the room existed for her, not the other way around.

She didn’t get up when Eve entered. Just tipped her head to the side and watched her in the mirror.

“You came,” she said.

“You told me to,” Eve said, shutting the door behind her.

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “You do not always listen.”

“You’re very bossy.”

“And you like it.”

Eve felt herself flush. “Questionable.”

Villanelle pushed to her feet with that impossible grace that made Eve’s own joints feel obsolete. She padded toward her, bare soles silent on the polished wood.

“You look terrible,” Villanelle said, when she was close enough for Eve to see the tiny flecks of green in her eyes.

“Thank you,” Eve replied flatly.

“It is good,” Villanelle clarified. “Honest.”

“I’m thrilled my suffering reads as aesthetic,” Eve said.

Villanelle’s mouth twitched. “Would you like to talk about him,” she asked, “or would you like to avoid your feelings and move your body until you forget you have them?”

“Option B,” Eve said immediately. “Strong B.”

“Good,” Villanelle said. “Talking is boring. Dancing is dangerous.”

“You’re not supposed to sound so pleased about that.”

“Yes, I am.”

Villanelle walked over to the speaker on the floor, plugged in her phone, and tapped a screen.

The first notes slid out softly - piano and strings, slow and aching.

Seems like it was yesterday when I saw your face…

Eve’s breath stuttered. “I thought you said no Rumba today.”

“This is not Rumba,” Villanelle said, coming back to her. “This is bleeding with rhythm.”

“You keep saying things that sound like red flags and then making them weirdly appealing.”

“That is my gift.”

She stopped in front of Eve, close enough that Eve could see the faint shadow of tiredness under her eyes. They were both human-tired, rehearsal-tired, life-tired. It made everything feel more raw.

“Come here,” Villanelle said.

Eve swallowed. “We haven’t learned any of it yet. I’m going to step on you.”

“I am fast,” Villanelle said. “I will move.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Yes.”

Villanelle took her right hand and placed it on her own upper arm, just below the shoulder. The muscle there was solid under Eve’s fingers. Then she laced their other hands together, palm to palm, fingers interlocking. Her free hand slid to the middle of Eve’s back, warm even through the thin cotton of her sweatshirt.

Eve hated how instantly her body recognised that touch. Or loved it. Hard to tell.

Her voice came out smaller than she meant. “What are we doing?”

“Not hiding,” Villanelle said. “For three minutes and fifty seconds.”

Eve tried to laugh, but it came out more like an exhale. “I don’t know how to not hide.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “You do. You just pretend you don’t.”

The music crept forward, Christina’s voice dropping in, rich and heavy.

Villanelle began to move.

“Back,” she murmured. She stepped away from Eve, taking Eve with her, guiding the movement with the lightest pressure. Eve’s left leg slid behind her, toe brushing the floor, hip rolling slowly. “Now forward. Melt into it, not stomp.”

“You’ve seen me walk in real life, right?” Eve said. “I stomp by default.”

“Not with me,” Villanelle said.

And somehow, she didn’t.

Her muscles, still confused from Charleston madness, protested at the slower, controlled movement, but her body adapted. Weight through the floor, core gently engaged, hips switching soft figure-eights as she walked into Villanelle’s space and back out again.

They weren’t doing steps so much as pulses - back-and-forth, in-and-out. Every small adjustment in Villanelle’s hands translated into a change in direction, a tiny recalibration. It reminded Eve uncomfortably of how quickly this woman could manipulate her outside the studio as well.

“Stop thinking,” Villanelle said quietly. “Let the music think.”

“That’s a terrible slogan,” Eve muttered.

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “But it works.”

They moved in slow circles. Villanelle turned her under their joined hands once, twice, letting Eve feel the direction change in her grip - and each time Eve came back round, they ended up a fraction closer.

Christina’s voice climbed.

If I had just one more day…

Villanelle let go of Eve’s hand and shifted her own to Eve’s waist, both palms spanning her sides now. Eve’s hands, suddenly without instruction, hovered uselessly between them.

“What do I do with my hands?” she asked, a little too fast.

“Anything,” Villanelle said. “Everything. Nothing. Put them where you want.”

“That’s loaded.”

“Yes.”

Eve let her hands slide up, fingers finding Villanelle’s shoulders, the curve of muscle there. It felt indecent and absolutely professional at the same time. That was the problem with this whole thing - everything felt like two things at once.

“Lean,” Villanelle murmured.

“What if I fall?”

“I will catch you,” Villanelle said simply.

“That’s… presumptuous.”

“Yes,” Villanelle agreed.

She stepped back a fraction and then tipped Eve backward, supporting her weight with one arm behind her shoulders and one at her lower back. It wasn’t a full ballroom dip - more like a controlled fall. Eve’s head tipped back, hair slipping loose from its clip, fingers tightening reflexively in the fabric of Villanelle’s T-shirt.

For a second the world went soft-focus. Ceiling lights blurred into hazy halos.

She felt held.

Too held.

Villanelle brought her back up, slow and deliberate, as if rewinding time. When Eve’s feet were fully under her again, they were almost nose-to-nose.

Her heart banged against her ribs.

“This is… wild,” Eve said, breath catching.

“Good,” Villanelle said. “You were getting boring.”

“I hate you,” Eve said weakly.

Villanelle’s lips curved. “No.”

The song swelled into the chorus.

Villanelle’s hand slid from Eve’s back to the nape of her neck, her fingers threading into the hair at the base of her skull. It wasn’t as firm as a grip, not quite as gentle as a caress. Somewhere between control and comfort.

“Look at me,” she said.

Eve did.

There was no camera now. No panel. No audience. No husband. Just this woman, unbearably close, eyes fixed on her like she was a problem and an answer at the same time.

Eve’s body swayed with the music, but her thoughts weren’t on timing anymore. They were a mess of images. Niko’s face in the crowd. His note by the fruit bowl. Gemma’s hypothetical ponytail. Villanelle’s hand on her back, on her neck, in her hair, the curve of her mouth, the way she had said not nothing like she was predicting the weather.

She felt the moment coming before it happened, like feeling a step down in the dark.

Villanelle’s thumb stroked once, absently, just under Eve’s ear. Eve’s gaze dipped, briefly, to her mouth. Back up.

“Is this still dancing it out?” Eve whispered.

Villanelle’s other hand slid up, fingers curling around Eve’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

“I don’t know,” Villanelle said, voice like smoke. “You tell me.”

Her brain screamed: Do not move.

Her body did it anyway.

She closed the last inch.

Their lips brushed. Light, barely a contact. Soft. A question mark.

Both of them froze.

The music kept going - a long, aching note - but everything inside Eve went silent. No heartbeat, no breath, nothing. Just that point of warmth where their mouths touched.

She had time to register three things. One, Villanelle’s lips were softer than she’d expected; two, she tasted faintly of toothpaste and coffee; three, this was the exact wrong thing to do and it felt exactly right.

Then the second ended.

Eve jerked back, eyes wide. “I- sorry, I didn’t-”

Villanelle’s hand tightened reflexively at her neck. Not enough to hurt, just enough to hold.

“Don’t apologise,” she said. Her voice was low, rougher than before.

“I didn’t mean-”

“Yes,” Villanelle cut in quietly. “You did.”

Something flared across her face then - some flash of hunger or decision - and before Eve could move, before she could back away or make a joke or set the whole building on fire to distract herself, Villanelle leaned in and kissed her back.

Properly.

The hand at the back of Eve’s neck pulled her in, their mouths meeting with a sudden, feverish pressure that knocked the air clean out of her lungs. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was controlled and hungry and somehow still precise - like everything else about her.

Eve made a noise in the back of her throat she’d be mortified to hear on video. Her hands clutched at Villanelle’s T-shirt, dragging her closer without meaning to. For a heartbeat she stopped thinking entirely.

There was no show. No husband. No past. No future. Just warmth and want and the sensation of being kissed like she was something someone had been waiting for.

Villanelle tilted her head, deepening the kiss fractionally, giving Eve time to pull away if she wanted.

She didn’t. Not immediately.

She kissed her back.

For one insane, perfect, terrible second, Eve kissed her back and the rest of her life blurred at the edges.

Then the rest of her life snapped back into focus.

Niko’s face. The note. Eleven years. The vows. The fact that she was not, by any reasonable definition, allowed to be doing this.

Eve broke away like she’d been shocked. She took two stumbling steps backwards, chest heaving.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God. I- no. No. I can’t-”

Villanelle stood very still, breaths sharp through her nose, lips slightly parted, a flush high on her cheekbones.

“I’m sorry,” Eve blurted. “I’m sorry, that was… I don’t know what that was, I shouldn’t have- it’s wrong, it’s completely wrong, I’m married, you’re my partner, this is insane, I can’t-”

“Eve,” Villanelle said.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t move toward her. But something in the way she said her name cut through the panic babble.

Eve shut her mouth.

Villanelle’s eyes didn’t leave hers.

“Don’t lie to yourself,” she said quietly. “Not about this.”

The words landed like being pushed, gently but unmistakably, toward a cliff edge.

Eve’s fingers fumbled around the strap of her bag, finding it without looking. “I have to go,” she managed, throat tight.

“Okay,” Villanelle said.

She didn’t try to stop her. Didn’t reach out again. She just watched, gaze steady, as Eve backed toward the door.

Eve’s hand fumbled behind her for the handle. She pushed it open, light from the corridor briefly slicing the studio in half.

“Eve,” Villanelle added, just as she crossed the threshold.

Eve paused, knuckles white around the metal.

“Whatever you tell him,” Villanelle said, “whatever you tell yourself… it happened.”

Eve couldn’t look at her. If she did, she knew she’d break in a way she couldn’t tape back together.

She stepped into the corridor and let the door shut behind her with a soft click.

The sound echoed down the empty hall.

She walked blindly to the toilets and splashed water on her face until her skin tingled. In the mirror, she looked like a stranger - pupils too wide, lips flushed, neck marked faintly where Villanelle’s fingers had been.

She pressed her palms flat to the sink, trying to steady her breathing.

It happened.

No amount of denial, of carefully constructed stories, could un-make those seconds.

She had kissed Villanelle. Villanelle had kissed her back. And whatever fault line had been creeping under her life for weeks had just cracked open.

When she finally left the building, the sky had started spitting rain. She let it hit her face without putting her hood up, like maybe it could wash the whole thing off her.

It didn’t.

Chapter Text

Eve woke before the alarm.

For a few blurry seconds, she didn’t know where she was, only that her chest hurt and her mouth felt strange, like her body was storing a memory it hadn’t filed properly yet.

Then the bedroom came into focus: the wardrobe, the pile of laundry in the chair, Niko’s side of the bed mostly untouched. The slice of pale light under the door.

Her stomach dropped.

Yesterday came back in pieces.

The text. The note. The empty house. The studio. The music.

The kiss.

She stared at the ceiling, heat creeping up her neck as if someone had said it out loud.

You kissed her.
She kissed you back.

Her heart tried to punch its way through her ribs.

The other half of the bed was empty. She reached over automatically, fingers pressing to cool sheets.

The alarm clicked on, radio murmuring quietly - presenter voices too bright for the hour, a pop song she couldn’t process. She rolled onto her side and slapped it off.

The faint smell of toast and coffee drifted under the door.

She pulled on a hoodie and shuffled to the kitchen.

Niko was at the counter, cutting a banana into slices with unnecessary precision. He wore his work trousers, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, hair still damp. He looked… normal. Every detail exactly where it should be, like someone had drawn him from memory.

“Morning,” he said, without turning.

“Morning,” Eve echoed.

He finished the banana, slid the slices into a bowl of cereal. “Coffee’s there,” he added, nodding at the French press. The mugs were already out. Muscle memory.

She poured herself a cup, wrapped both hands around it more for something to hold than for warmth. They stood facing roughly parallel walls.

She thought about telling him.

About saying, I did something I can’t take back, and watching his face change. About blowing her life up at 8:17 a.m. on a Monday.

The words sat in her throat, heavy and immovable.

“How was your day yesterday?” Niko asked.

She blinked. “Quiet,” she lied. “Domestic. Laundry. You know.”

He nodded. “Good.”

“And yours?” she managed.

He shrugged, dropping the spoon into the sink with a clink. “Long. Ran too far. Knees hate me. Pub after. Tom was there. We talked about football and government funding and how teenagers are frightening.”

Gemma was conspicuously absent from the list. He didn’t meet her eyes.

“That sounds… productive,” Eve said.

He looked at her then. Really looked. As if he was picking up pieces of her and laying them against some picture in his head.

“Rehearsals today?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “Proper start on the Rumba.”

“That’s the… emotional one,” he said. “The slow… sexy one.”

She almost choked on her coffee. “Please never say it like that again.”

He huffed out a humourless half-laugh. “Sorry.”

He picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

“I’ll be late,” he said. “Parents’ evening planning.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll… see you tonight.”

He hesitated at the door, hand on the frame. “Eve?”

“Yeah?”

He didn’t turn around. “Just try not to get… lost in it. Okay?”

She swallowed. “I’ll try.”

“Good,” he said, and left.

The door clicked behind him.

She leaned her forehead against the cupboard for a moment, eyes closed.

“Right,” she told the kitchen. “Let’s go dance about regret.”

⸻

The studio corridors felt different on a Monday. Busier. Brighter. The relief of Sunday was gone; the week ahead stretched like a track, everyone lining up at the starting blocks.

She passed Vito and Zara practising a lift in the hallway, his hands on her waist, her legs in the air like a startled flamingo. Zara waved weakly as she was lowered. “We’re all going to die,” she mouthed.

In the communal kitchen, Bill was holding a bag of crisps and delivering a dramatic monologue about sodium intake to a bored-looking Katya. Elena sat on the counter, listening to music on one earbud, scrolling her phone on silent.

“EVE,” she said, spotting her. “Trending queen.”

Eve winced. “No.”

“Yes,” Elena insisted, flashing her screen. “People are still screaming about Kill Bill Charleston and your almost-kiss. There is a thread entirely dedicated to your eyebrows.”

“Oh God.”

“It’s mostly respectful,” Elena added. “Mostly. Also, someone did a compilation of your glances at Villanelle set to dramatic violins.”

“That should be illegal.”

“It should be art,” Elena said. “But don’t worry, they’re all rooting for your marriage… to drama.”

“Great,” Eve muttered. “I’m going to my doom.”

“Studio 3,” Elena said, hopping down from the counter. “She’s already in there. Looked like she was planning a heist.”

“Comforting.”

“Text me if you spontaneously combust,” Elena called after her. “I want to live-blog it.”

⸻

Studio 3.

The door was ajar. The room hummed with low music and the soft slap of bare feet on wood.

Villanelle was already warming up when Eve walked in. She wore black practise trousers, a fitted black vest, hair scraped up into a high knot. Her arms were bare, muscles defined under the skin, every line of her body clear and sharp.

She moved slowly through a series of controlled stretches, side bends, deep lunges, spine rolling vertebra by vertebra. It was clinical and sinuous all at once, like watching a predator wake up.

She saw Eve in the mirror. Their eyes met.

No change in expression. No raised brow, no smirk. Just a small acknowledgement, the slightest nod.

“You are on time,” she said. “Very good. Maybe you want to be here.”

“I had two coffees,” Eve said. “I’m full of bad decisions.”

“Perfect,” Villanelle replied. “Rumba thrives on those.”

She reached for the remote and stopped the generic warm-up music. Silence dropped, too loud.

Eve’s heart started banging stupidly.

Villanelle turned to face her properly. Her gaze flicked over Eve in one sweep - leggings, loose T-shirt, hair in a ponytail - then came back to her face.

“No Gemma drama today?” Villanelle asked mildly.

Eve rolled her eyes. “She’s not Voldemort.”

“She is worse,” Villanelle said. “At least Voldemort has interesting outfits.”

Despite herself, Eve smiled. Briefly. And that was somehow worse - that this woman could still make her laugh when Eve’s internal organs felt like they’d melted into something shapeless.

Villanelle tossed her a bottle of water. Eve almost dropped it.

“We have a long week,” Villanelle said. “We do not talk about Saturday. Or Sunday. We work.”

The words landed heavy. Eve’s pulse tripped.

“Okay,” Eve said. “Professional mode.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “Very boring. Very necessary.”

Eve wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Villanelle walked to the centre of the studio and clapped once.

“Today,” she said, “we build the skeleton. Just steps. No acting. No feelings.”

“That sounds… ideal,” Eve said.

Villanelle’s mouth twitched. “You say that now.”

She clicked the speaker on. Hurt filled the room - softer in the empty space, somehow heavier in daylight.

Villanelle moved to stand in front of her.

“Basic Rumba walk,” she said. “We start from the beginning. Feet. Hips. No crying.”

“I make no promises,” Eve said.

“Good,” Villanelle replied.

⸻

For the first hour, it almost worked.

Just feet. Just timing.

Slow, slow, quick-quick, slow. Back and forward. Weight transfer. Hip settling. Knees soft.

Villanelle drilled her mercilessly - correcting her posture by tapping her lower back, nudging her ankles into line with the toe of her own foot, pushing her ribs lightly to stop her from collapsing inward.

“Imagine you are walking through sand,” Villanelle instructed.

“I hate sand,” Eve said. “It gets everywhere.”

“So does emotion,” Villanelle said. “We still walk through it.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Yes it is.”

Eve’s thighs burned. Her lower back ached. She messed up timing, stepping quick when she should have gone slow, or forgetting which foot to lead with. Her body, still wired for frantic Charleston, kept wanting to hop instead of linger.

“Again,” Villanelle said. “From the top.”

“You said that half an hour ago,” Eve complained.

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “And we were still at the bottom.”

It was normal, almost. This rhythm of criticism and banter. If she didn’t look too closely, it could be any week, any dance.

But underneath, the studio felt dense. The air between them felt charged, as if someone had run wires through it.

Any time Villanelle stepped behind her to adjust her hips, any time her hand brushed Eve’s arm, Eve’s skin lit up like a warning light. She tried not to react. She was fairly sure she failed.

During a water break, Villanelle stood by the mirror, checking her own lines, moving her own body through the steps with exaggerated precision. Eve watched her in the reflection without meaning to.

Villanelle met her gaze in the mirror and held it.

“Do you know why Rumba is difficult?” she asked.

“Because it’s slow and exposes all my flaws?” Eve said.

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “Also because it is honest. You cannot hide behind speed. You cannot distract with tricks. Everything is… there.”

She dropped her arms, turned.

“For you,” she added, “this is a problem.”

“Thank you,” Eve said. “I love being a problem.”

“You love hiding,” Villanelle corrected. “We are here to ruin that.”

“You’re very invested in my emotional unravelling,” Eve said.

“Of course,” Villanelle said. “Otherwise it would be boring.”

She said it flatly enough that Eve couldn’t tell if she was joking.

⸻

They started on the opening section.

Villanelle placed Eve in starting position - downstage right, weight on her right leg, left foot pointed delicately out, spine long.

“In the song,” Villanelle said, “she is talking to someone who is gone. Someone she hurt. Or who hurt her. Depends which verse you listen to.” She lifted Eve’s chin with two fingers. “You are talking to yourself.”

“That’s bleak,” Eve said.

“It is accurate,” Villanelle replied. “You feel guilty. But you are still angry. You hate that you still want.”

Eve’s throat tightened. “Are we talking about the song or…”

Villanelle looked at her. “Both.”

The music swelled.

“Head down,” Villanelle instructed. “We start small. Then lift it on the words ‘seems like it was yesterday.’ You are surprised to still feel this way.”

Eve followed. Head dropped. Breath held.

Then she raised her face as the lyric hit, eyes straight ahead.

She didn’t know what expression she had on. It felt raw.

“Good,” Villanelle said quietly. “Again.”

They ran it until Eve’s neck felt like it was on a swivel.

Then came the first approach.

“Here,” Villanelle said, stepping into position opposite her. “We are not touching. Yet. But the space between us is… busy.”

“You really know how to make things less comfortable,” Eve said.

“Yes,” Villanelle said.

They walked toward each other on the slow beat, stopping just out of reach. Villanelle’s eyes didn’t leave hers. It was just marking, no acting, no intensity required, and yet Eve still felt her heart lurch as if she’d run up stairs.

“Again,” Villanelle said. “You flinched.”

“I did not,” Eve said, stung.

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “Your left eyelid twitched. It was very dramatic.”

“I hate you.”

“No.”

She made them do it six more times until Eve could walk right up to her without her throat closing.

⸻

By late morning, sweat darkened the back of Eve’s T-shirt. Her hair had pulled loose, strands sticking to her forehead. They’d done the opening, the first set of basics, a fledgling turn, and an outline of where the first “almost” moment would sit.

She still felt like she was dancing with exposed wires.

Villanelle called a break. “Ten minutes. Then we work on body contact.”

“I thought that’s what we’ve been doing,” Eve said.

“No,” Villanelle said. “That was foreplay.”

Eve sputtered. “You can’t say that.”

“I just did,” Villanelle said. “Go drink water before you die.”

Eve retreated to the side, gulping from her bottle, staring at the scuffed marks on the floor like they were suddenly fascinating.

The door creaked open.

Nikita’s head appeared. “HELLO, LOVERS,” he called.

Eve nearly inhaled her water.

“We are in rehearsal,” Villanelle said coolly. “Go away.”

“I brought gossip and biscuits,” Nikita said, stepping in fully and closing the door behind him. He held up a packet of chocolate digestives as peace offering. “Social call.”

“We don’t eat biscuits,” Villanelle said. “We are serious artistes.”

“That’s a hate crime,” Nikita replied. “Eve?”

Eve reached for a biscuit like she hadn’t eaten in three days. “Ignore her, she lives on vengeance.”

Nikita flopped dramatically against the wall. “So. How are my favourite Kill Bill lesbians doing?”

“We are not-” Eve began, then gave up. “We’re fine.”

“Liar,” Nikita said happily. “You look like you have developed ten new emotions since Saturday.”

“That’s rehearsal,” Eve said.

“That’s something,” Nikita said, studying her. “Anyway, I just came to say the producers are drooling over your Rumba concept, by the way. Moody lighting, smoke, maybe some rain if health and safety say yes. Also, Claudia wants to know if she should wear waterproof mascara.”

“We have no choreography yet,” Villanelle said. “They drool too early.”

“They know you’ll make something insane,” Nikita said. “And they love the narrative. Movie Week high to Rumba heartbreak? They’re already writing the VTs.”

Eve groaned. “I don’t want to see my face on a sad montage soundtracked by my own emotional breakdown.”

“Oh, too late,” Nikita said. “That’s the dream.”

Villanelle glanced at Eve. “We will give them something real to film,” she said.

Eve’s stomach flipped.

“Okay!” Nikita clapped his hands. “I’ll leave you to your emotional destruction. Don’t kiss on the floor, save it for Saturday.”

He disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.

Eve stared after him. “I hate how perceptive he is when he’s being stupid.”

“He is not stupid,” Villanelle said. “He just hides it with glitter.”

“You would know,” Eve muttered.

Villanelle ignored that. “Break is over,” she announced. “Come.”

⸻

Body contact.

She should have seen it coming. Rumba wasn’t a distance dance. It was intimate by design.

“I don’t see why we have to glue ourselves together,” Eve said as Villanelle explained the hold. “Can’t we do an abstract version? Interpretive regret? No touching?”

“No,” Villanelle said. “Touching is the point. Without it, this dance is just walking slowly to sad music.”

“That sounds nice,” Eve said.

“It sounds lazy,” Villanelle replied.

She stepped into Eve’s space.

“This is closed hold,” she said. “Chest to chest. Hips close. Our centres move as one.”

“That’s horrifying,” Eve said.

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “And hot.”

Eve, unhelpfully, pictured it. Felt her face heat.

Villanelle reached for her hand, placing it with deliberate care - Eve’s right hand into her left, Eve’s left on her upper arm. Then she closed the circle, sliding her right hand onto the middle of Eve’s back and gently pressing until there was no polite gap left between them.

Eve’s breath caught.

“Too close,” she said.

“Correct amount of close,” Villanelle said. “Try to think about your feet now.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “Do it anyway.”

They began to move in tiny, controlled steps - rocking from hip to hip, never fully breaking contact. Eve could feel everything: the dip of Villanelle’s ribs as she inhaled, the steady warmth through her shirt, the subtle shifts of muscle guiding direction.

“Yes,” Villanelle murmured. “Good. Don’t stare at my chest.”

“I wasn’t-”

“You were,” Villanelle said.

Eve’s eyes flew to her shoulder, to the ceiling, to anywhere else. “I’m trying to remember the count.”

“The count is the same as it was on your own,” Villanelle said. “Only now it matters if you lie.”

“That doesn’t even mean anything.”

“It does to your hips.”

They rocked through a full phrase of the song like that. Once. Twice. On the third repetition, the music hit the beginning of the chorus and something in Eve snapped into place. The movement stopped feeling like a test and started feeling like… something else.

She let herself lean more of her weight into Villanelle.

Everything in her wanted to either pull away or collapse entirely. She did neither. She stayed where she was, in that awful, beautiful middle space.

When the music stopped, both of them were breathing harder than the steps warranted.

Villanelle didn’t let go immediately.

“You see?” she said softly. “Honest.”

“It’s choreography,” Eve said. “Not confession.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “Keep telling yourself that. It will be useful. Until it isn’t.”

Eve pulled back first, irritation and fear mixing in her chest. “You can’t just… dig around in my head like this.”

Villanelle tilted her head. “I can,” she said. “That is my job.”

“No,” Eve snapped. “Your job is to teach me how to dance, not psychoanalyse my life.”

“Your life is in your body,” Villanelle said, the tiniest edge creeping into her voice. “If you want to dance well, we use it. If you want to dance safely, we can… fake it.”

“Maybe I want to fake it,” Eve said. “Maybe I don’t want to bleed out all over the floor for some Saturday night entertainment.”

Villanelle studied her. For a moment, the cool dropped, and something more dangerous peered out.

“You kissed me yesterday,” she said, very quietly. “That was not for Saturday night.”

Eve’s pulse slammed.

Her mouth went dry. “I know what I did,” she said. “That’s why I’m trying to… handle this.”

“How?” Villanelle asked. “By pretending it was nothing? You are not that good an actress.”

“I’m not pretending it was nothing,” Eve said, stung. “I’m trying to… not destroy everything in one week.”

Villanelle’s gaze softened, but didn’t withdraw. “Destruction,” she said, “is sometimes the only honest thing.”

“See, this is exactly what I mean,” Eve said, throwing her hands up. “You say things like that and then expect me not to spiral.”

“I expect you to choose,” Villanelle said. “About what this is.”

Sweat cooled on Eve’s neck. The studio felt suddenly claustrophobic, the walls too reflective, the mirrors too wide.

“I can’t do that right now,” she said. “So can we just… focus on the dance?”

Villanelle watched her for a long moment.

Then she nodded once. “Okay,” she said. “We dance. No talking.”

Relief and disappointment twisted together in Eve’s stomach.

“Fine,” she said. “Just dancing.”

“No,” Villanelle corrected. “But we will pretend.”

She reset the music.

“From the beginning,” she said. “This time, try not to lie with your feet.”

⸻

They worked until Eve’s legs trembled and her T-shirt clung to her spine.

By the end of the day, they had the rough shape of the dance: opening sequence, basic pattern, a turned-under arm moment that left Eve spinning away and pulled back in, a placeholder for a lift they hadn’t dared attempt yet.

They hadn’t mentioned the kiss again.

They didn’t have to. It sat in the room with them, woven into every hold and release.

When they finally collapsed against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor, Eve’s entire body buzzed.

Villanelle unscrewed her water bottle and took a long drink. Her throat moved as she swallowed; a strand of hair had escaped and stuck to her neck.

“Good work,” she said eventually.

“‘Good’?” Eve repeated. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever gotten from you.”

“I am exhausted,” Villanelle said. “It has made me generous.”

Eve laughed, a little breathless.

“Tomorrow,” Villanelle went on, “we build the bridge. Lifts. More contact. More risk.”

“Wonderful,” Eve said weakly. “I look forward to ripping my own soul out through my ribcage.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “That is Rumba.”

Eve got to her feet slowly, every joint protesting.

“At least if I die,” she said, grabbing her bag, “they’ll have something dramatic for the VT.”

Villanelle looked up at her from the floor.

“If you die,” she said, “I will kill you.”

Eve frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes it does,” Villanelle said, unbothered. “See you tomorrow, Eve.”

There was something in the way she said her name, like a secret only they knew.

Eve left the studio feeling like every nerve ending was exposed.

⸻

At home, the lights were on.

Niko sat at the table with a stack of exercise books in front of him, red pen in hand. Marking. He looked up when she came in, eyes flicking over her face, her posture, the slight limp in her step from overused muscles.

“How was it?” he asked.

Eve set her bag down more gently than she felt. “Hard,” she said. It was true in every possible way. “But good.”

“Rumba coming together?” he asked.

“Slowly,” she said. “It’s… intense.”

“I saw the song choice,” he said. “Someone posted the clip. Hurt, huh?”

She smiled tightly. “Subtle, right?”

He snorted. “Well. At least you’re not doing it to ‘Call Me Maybe.’”

“That was week one,” she said. “Emotionally.”

He huffed a laugh. The fragile truce between them settled back into place.

“I’ll heat something up for dinner,” she offered.

He shook his head. “Already ate. Left you some in the fridge.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

He picked up his pen again. “Don’t stay up too late. You’ll need your energy.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Big week.”

As she moved around the kitchen, reheating food she didn’t taste, she could feel his eyes occasionally flick up, as if checking she was still there. As if she might evaporate if he looked away too long.

Her phone buzzed on the counter.

She glanced.

Villanelle:
Tomorrow
we try the lift
Don’t be a coward

Her lips twitched.

Eve:
No promises

She deleted the emoji she almost added, put the phone face down, and leaned her hands on the counter.

Fault lines, she thought, aren’t always visible until they move.

This week, everything was starting to shift.

Chapter Text

By Tuesday, Eve’s body had started to understand Rumba.

Her brain, unfortunately, had not.

She stood in Studio 3, barefoot, the cool wood under her toes, the walls humming faintly with the echo of whatever routine had been drilled in there before her. It smelled of resin and sweat and the sharp citrus cleaner that never quite covered everything.

Villanelle was at the centre of the room, already stretching, already in black. Always in black. Leggings, loose tank top, hair twisted into something that looked haphazard and probably took ten seconds. Her concentration wrapped around her like a second skin.

Today, Eve thought, there was a chill on her.

Not overtly. Not hostility. Just… less softness. No teasing. No little smile when Eve walked in. Just a nod.

“Morning,” Eve tried.

“Afternoon,” Villanelle said, checking the wall clock. “You are three minutes late.”

Eve checked her watch. “That’s not late, that’s...”

Villanelle’s mouth didn’t even twitch. “For lifts, three minutes is late. We do not have time for you to be afraid.”

“That’s reassuring,” Eve muttered, dropping her bag.

Villanelle clapped once. “Warm-up. Then we fly.”

⸻

They didn’t start with flying. They started with standing.

“Weight,” Villanelle said. “Trust. If you cannot give me your weight on the ground, you will not give it in the air.”

“Maybe I don’t want to give you my weight,” Eve said. “Maybe I’m emotionally attached to gravity.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “That is the problem.”

They went back through basics in hold, stepping and swaying, then into the first supported lean – Eve letting herself fall a fraction, Villanelle catching, redirecting, bringing her out again. Each time, Eve had to fight the instinct to pull back at the last second.

“You are bracing,” Villanelle said.

“I’m trying not to break my neck,” Eve replied.

“You will not,” Villanelle said. “I like your neck.”

Eve nearly missed the next step.

“Stop talking,” she muttered.

They moved into the first lift concept once Eve’s legs were shaking and her heartbeat had decided to live permanently in her throat.

“This one is simple,” Villanelle said. “You run, I catch.”

“That’s not… simple,” Eve said. “That’s Darwinism.”

Villanelle ignored her. “We build it slow. First, we mark the timing.”

She demonstrated alone: step back, lower centre, arms ready. Then she gestured to Eve.

“Walk into my space,” she said. “No hop yet. Just walk.”

Eve walked forward, feet suddenly made of stone. Villanelle’s hands came to her hips, firm and unwavering, stopping her in place.

“Again,” Villanelle said. “Less like you are being dragged to your execution, more like you are choosing this.”

“I’m not sure I am choosing this.”

“You came back,” Villanelle said simply. “You chose.”

Eve’s stomach rolled. She did it again. Again. Each time, Villanelle’s hands were there, pulling, steadying, guiding.

“Now,” Villanelle said, “small jump. I will lift. You do not climb me like a tree. You float.”

“Floating is not in my skill set,” Eve said.

“Yes,” Villanelle replied. “We will add it.”

She counted them in. “Five, six, seven, go.”

Eve ran. Jumped. Panic flared as her feet left the floor.

Villanelle’s arms locked around her thighs, catching and lifting in one smooth motion. For a heartbeat, Eve was weightless, horizontal in the air, supported solidly under the ribs. Villanelle turned, a small circle, then lowered her in a careful slide.

Eve landed, breathless.

“You see?” Villanelle said. “You did not die.”

“Yet,” Eve said.

Villanelle arched one brow. “Again.”

They repeated it. The jump, the catch, the turn. Each time, Eve’s jump got a little less hesitant, a little more committed. Her hands found the back of Villanelle’s shoulders on instinct; their bodies knew where to go even as her mind buzzed.

On the sixth try, it went wrong.

Not spectacularly. Not catastrophically. Just a fraction too much doubt.

Eve took off, but halfway up her brain screamed this is a terrible idea and her body obeyed, twisting away instead of into the lift. Villanelle caught her anyway, but her grip had to change mid-air, arms tightening suddenly around Eve’s waist, pulling her in close to stop her falling backwards.

Eve’s feet scrambled against the floor. Her hands flew to Villanelle’s shoulders, nails digging into fabric.

For a second they weren’t practising. They were clinging to each other.

They ended up chest to chest, Eve half-hanging off her, breath hot against Villanelle’s collarbone, Villanelle’s arms wrapped fully around her, holding her up.

The music had cut off. The room was quiet but for their breathing.

“See?” Villanelle said, voice low. “This is what happens when you doubt. You make it more dangerous, not less.”

Eve’s heart pounded so hard she felt it in her gums. She was too close. All her senses were full of Villanelle. The smell of her skin, the warmth, the slight rasp of her breath.

She jerked away, stumbling back like she’d been burned.

“Don’t,” she said sharply. “Don’t do that.”

Villanelle looked at her, hands dropping to her sides. “Do what?”

“Catch me like that,” Eve said. “Hold me like that. Look at me like it’s nothing.”

Villanelle’s eyes flickered, just once. “It is not nothing. That is the point.”

“It’s supposed to be dancing,” Eve snapped. “Not… whatever this is.”

“It is dancing,” Villanelle said. “And this is part of it.”

“I can’t separate them,” Eve said, frustrated. “I can’t keep… compartmentalising. I go home and I see that-” she gestured vaguely between them “-everywhere I look. And then I come here and we just… keep doing it again.”

“Good,” Villanelle said.

The word hit like a slap. “How is that good?”

“Because it is real,” Villanelle said, sudden heat in her voice. “You want everything to be neat. Husband here, dance there, feelings in a box. Life is not a filing cabinet, Eve.”

“You don’t get to lecture me about my life,” Eve said. Her own anger surprised her. “You don’t know what it’s like to be married to someone for over a decade and then suddenly realise you’re-”

She stopped herself just in time.

“You’re what?” Villanelle asked softly. “Suddenly realise you’re what?”

Eve’s jaw clenched. Tears burned behind her eyes, humiliatingly hot. “I can’t do this,” she said. “I can’t stand in a studio every day and pretend this is just technical when it’s… blowing my life up.”

Villanelle watched her, expression unreadable. Then she sighed – an impatient sound, like Eve was being difficult on purpose.

“Do you think I am not affected?” she asked. “Do you think I enjoy feeling like my insides are being rearranged by some stupid TV show?”

“It seems to suit you,” Eve snapped.

“Because I do not cry in the toilets?” Villanelle shot back. “Because I am not married? It is still… complicated.”

Eve barked out a bitter little laugh. “You? Complicated? You’re fine. You turn it on, you turn it off. You’re like a switch.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said, eyes flashing. “That is how I survived. But you-”

She cut herself off, teeth clicking shut.

“But me what?” Eve pressed.

Villanelle looked at her as if she were weighing options on a knife edge.

“But you don’t know how,” Villanelle said finally. “You keep pretending you do. You pretend with him, you pretend with me, you pretend with yourself. Of course you are breaking. Pretending is heavy.”

Eve’s throat tightened. “You don’t get to use him like that. You don’t even know him.”

“I know he wants you to stay the same,” Villanelle said. “And you can’t.”

“You’ve talked to him for about ten minutes total,” Eve said. “Who do you think you are?”

“The one you kissed,” Villanelle said.

Silence.

She didn’t say it cruelly. She said it like it was a fact, like the floor is wood or the lights are on. An undeniable detail of the world.

Eve flinched anyway.

“That was a mistake,” she said, hating how thin her voice sounded.

Villanelle’s jaw tightened. “You can call it that if it helps you sleep.”

“It does,” Eve said. “A little.”

“Liar,” Villanelle said, quietly.

Eve’s vision blurred. She hated that she was crying in here and not at home, where it would make sense. Her chest ached with the pressure of trying to hold everything in.

“I can’t do this,” she repeated. “Not like this. Not with you…”

She gestured again, helplessly.

“…being you.”

Villanelle’s face did something small then. A flicker of hurt, quickly buried. It made her look strangely young, for a heartbeat.

Then it was gone.

“Fine,” she said shortly. “Today is finished.”

Eve blinked. “What? We- it’s not even lunch.”

“You ‘can’t do this’,” Villanelle said. “So we stop. I cannot make you want to.”

“That’s not what I said,” Eve protested.

“It is what you meant,” Villanelle replied. She clicked the music off. “Go home. Think. Cry. Talk to your husband. I don’t care. Tomorrow we work. Or we don’t. Up to you.”

“Villanelle-”

She’d already turned away, reaching for her bag. “If you keep coming back, Eve,” she said, not looking at her, “then stop pretending you don’t know why.”

Eve had no answer for that.

She left the studio feeling like her insides had been scraped out and left in a pile on the floor.

⸻

Wednesday was worse.

Eve came back.

Of course she did. She didn’t know what else to do. Staying home made her feel like her skin didn’t fit. Coming in at least gave her a shape to wear, even if it hurt.

Villanelle was civil. Distantly polite. All professionalism.

“From the top,” she’d say. “Textures. Arms softer. Make the lines longer.”

She corrected Eve’s posture, but her hands stayed as minimal as possible, fingertips grazing, no more than necessary contact. It should have helped. It didn’t. It just made every accidental touch feel like an event.

Eve’s dancing fell apart.

She missed counts. She stepped on Villanelle’s foot twice in ten minutes. She went left when she should have gone right, forgot an entire bar, lost the thread of their agreed story.

“Again,” Villanelle said, voice clipped. No teasing, no commentary. Just that one word, over and over, like a hammer.

By Thursday, the air between them had gone brittle.

Villanelle kept her distance physically, but her gaze was unforgiving. When Eve messed up, she didn’t soften it with humour.

“Wake up,” she said, after Eve stumbled out of a turn. “Your body is here but your head is on the floor.”

“I’m trying,” Eve said, frustrated. “It’s a lot.”

“It is not,” Villanelle said. “You have done harder things. Remembering steps is not dying.”

“Debatable,” Eve muttered.

Villanelle didn’t smile.

The music felt heavier every time they restarted. The song seemed to find new ways to pierce her. I’m sorry for blaming you… felt like a knife now.

At one point, mid-afternoon, Elena poked her head into the studio, saw the atmosphere, and slowly backed out again, mouthing text me later with wide eyes.

Eve thought about following her.

She didn’t.

She kept trying. Kept messing up.

By Thursday’s end, Villanelle’s patience had worn thin.

“Do you want to be here?” she asked, as Eve fluffed the same basic pattern three times in a row.

“Yes,” Eve said, too quickly.

“Your feet disagree,” Villanelle said.

“My feet are liars.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “So is your mouth.”

Eve snapped then. “Well, forgive me for not being perfectly composed after kissing my dance partner and watching my marriage fall apart in the background while I’m supposed to remember which hip to roll on count three.”

The words hung in the air, bright and ugly.

Villanelle’s face closed down entirely.

“Tomorrow,” she said, quietly, “you come here and dance. Or you don’t come at all.”

“Is that a threat?” Eve asked.

“It is a boundary,” Villanelle said. “I do not chase people who want to stay asleep.”

Eve had no answer to that either.

⸻

Friday. She came.

She wasn’t sure what she expected when she walked into Studio 3 Friday morning. Maybe more argument. Maybe a thaw. Maybe some awkward apology.

What she got was cold.

Villanelle stood in the middle of the room, arms folded, already in practice clothes. The room was otherwise empty, the speaker silent.

Eve hovered in the doorway. “Hi.”

“Shoes off,” Villanelle said. “We run it.”

No greeting. No eye contact.

Eve’s stomach knotted. “We normally warm up first.”

“We don’t have time. I need to leave early,” Villanelle said. “Tomorrow is live. You want muscles warm? Then dance properly.”

The sharpness stung. Eve swallowed it.

“Fine,” she said, dropping her bag, kicking her trainers off. “Let’s run it.”

Villanelle walked to the speaker, pressed play.

Hurt seeped out, the opening piano slicing through the silence.

“From the top,” Villanelle said, moving to her mark. “No stopping.”

Eve went to her starting point, heart pounding.

Head down. Breathe. Don’t think.

The vocals came in. She lifted her face on cue, eyes finding Villanelle across the room.

They walked toward each other. The space between them felt like a wire drawn tight. Every step felt loaded, but her body knew where it needed to go.

The first basic. The first turn. The first stretch of her hand reaching out and then pulling back.

For the first time all week, she didn’t miss the timing.

The choreography fell into place like it was grateful to finally be allowed to exist. She surrendered to the music in a way she’d been resisting – letting it drag all the things she’d been trying not to feel into her muscles: guilt, desire, confusion, anger, fear.

At the first almost-embrace, she let herself lean into Villanelle fully. Their bodies met in that closed hold, breathing synced, eyes briefly locking.

“Good,” Villanelle murmured. Only that. No commentary. No safety net.

The lift came. The “run then jump then trust” moment that had been falling apart all week.

Eve didn’t think.

She ran. Jumped.

Villanelle’s arms caught her perfectly, stronger than gravity, turning them in a smooth arc. For one second she hung suspended in air above the world, the song tearing through her chest.

They landed. Flowed into the next phrase.

For once, Eve didn’t narrate any of it in her head. She didn’t imagine Niko’s face, or the viewers, or the judges paddles. She felt the curve of Villanelle’s palm on her ribcage, the ache of her own feet, the stretch of her own body pulling against something.

The final chorus hit.

They moved together like they had always been meant to do this - bodies close, then apart, then back again. Every push and pull felt like an argument and an apology fused together.

The ending pose - Eve slightly turned away, Villanelle behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, head near her cheek, the almost-kiss built into the stillness - landed with a soft, violent certainty.

The music cut.

They stayed there, breathing hard, the silence roaring around them.

Villanelle let go first, stepping back.

Eve’s chest rose and fell like she’d sprinted miles.

“That,” Villanelle said, voice steady but not neutral, “is the best you have danced in your entire life.”

Eve swallowed. “Because you yelled at me all week?”

“No,” Villanelle said. “Because you finally stopped lying.”

She walked to the speaker, pressed pause, then turned back.

“Do you know why it worked?” she asked.

“Because I remembered the steps?” Eve tried.

“Because you were dancing with all this-” Villanelle flicked her fingers toward Eve’s chest “-mess. All this pain. All this wanting. You brought it with you instead of leaving it outside the door.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Eve said.

“Exactly,” Villanelle said. “That is why it was good.”

Her gaze softened for a fraction of a second.

“Bring it tomorrow,” she said. “If you want to survive this week.”

Before Eve could respond, Villanelle grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and headed for the door.

She paused with her hand on the handle.

“One more thing,” she said without turning. “Whatever happens after this… don’t ever say you didn’t give everything.”

Then she left, the door swinging shut behind her.

Eve sank slowly to the floor, legs finally giving up. Her heart thudded against her palms where they pressed to her ribcage.

Everything felt raw. Everything felt terrifyingly alive.

⸻

The costume department was a different universe. Racks of sequins. Netting. Feathers. Strips of fabric that would eventually become dresses held together by willpower and tiny hooks. Designers pinning, hemming, fussing.

“Eve!” the head costumier, Mia, called, clipboard in hand. “You’re my Rumba heartbreak today, yes? Come, come, strip emotionally and physically.”

“I would like to decline on both counts,” Eve said, but she stepped behind the curtain anyway.

The dress was waiting on a padded hanger.

Deep maroon, rich as wine. One side split high on the leg, the fabric falling in soft drapes that would catch every hip action. The other cut close, mid-calf length, showing off the curve of her body without suffocating it. Sleeveless, with a subtle sweep across the collarbone that left her shoulders bare.

Someone had sewn tiny crystals into the bodice in spiralling patterns that would only really show when the light hit them.

“Wow,” she said, before she could stop herself.

“Yes,” Mia said, sounding pleased. “She is a woman with regrets she is not ready to give up. This dress says that.”

“That’s a lot for a dress to say,” Eve said, stepping into it.

“It is a Rumba,” Mia said. “It has to shout in silence.”

They zipped her up. Adjusted the waist. Checked the slit sat high enough to be dramatic but not Ofcom-bait.

When Eve stepped out, the room actually went quiet for a second.

“Elena was right,” Nikita said from the corner, where he’d been trying on a tie. “You are going to destroy people.”

Eve looked at herself in the mirror.

She barely recognised what she saw. The maroon deepened the gold in her skin. Her legs looked impossibly long. The cut of the dress made her look… not younger, exactly, but more awake. More dangerous.

She didn’t look like someone whose main hobby used to be falling asleep on the sofa with a glass of wine.

She looked like she might make bad decisions on purpose.

“Rumba works for you,” Mia said, pleased. “Villanelle will die.”

“Villanelle isn’t here,” Eve said, too quickly.

“Villanelle is late,” Mia corrected. “But I have her trousers.”

As if summoned by her name, the door swung open.

Villanelle walked in, hair in a loose low bun, tracksuit bottoms rolled at the ankle, T-shirt knotted at the waist. She’d clearly come straight from some other rehearsal, a fine sheen of sweat still on her skin.

“I am here,” she announced. “Ready to be beautiful.”

“You already are, darling,” Claudia’s voice sang from behind a rack, but she was half-busy trying on a sparkly blazer that looked stolen from a magician.

Villanelle opened her mouth to retort and then she saw Eve.

She stopped walking.

For a rare, satisfying second, Villanelle’s face went absolutely open.

Her eyes travelled, unhurried, from Eve’s bare shoulders down the line of the dress, the exposed leg, the sweep of fabric. Her gaze softened, sharpened, softened again. Breath caught visibly in her chest.

Eve felt suddenly, absurdly, like she might be naked.

Villanelle recovered, but not quickly enough to hide everything.

“Beautiful,” she said.

It wasn’t tossed out casually. It wasn’t a joke. It landed heavy and honest, with a weight Eve felt all the way down to her toes.

Heat shot up the back of Eve’s neck. “It’s the dress.”

“It is you,” Villanelle said, like that was obvious.

For a moment, the room narrowed to the space between them.

Then Mia clapped. “Good, now we all agree she is perfection, try on your trousers.”

The spell broke.

Villanelle blinked, looking mildly annoyed at being dragged back into reality. “What have you put me in?” she asked.

Mia held up her costume.

Black, glitter-threaded vest, cut in a V that would show off her collarbones and strong shoulders. The back dipped low, fully exposing her back muscles. The trousers were maroon to match Eve’s dress, slightly flared, the fabric soft and fluid – built to move, not just to look pretty.

Villanelle eyed them. “I approve,” she said.

“Try them on before you approve,” Mia said. “Assuming you have not gone to fight someone and bruised everything.”

Villanelle disappeared behind another curtain with the clothes. Eve watched the fabric shift as she changed, acutely aware of every sound.

She caught herself staring and looked down, fussing unnecessarily with the side of her dress.

When Villanelle emerged, the effect was unfair.

The maroon trousers sat perfectly on her hips, lengthening her already absurd legs. The black vest glittered subtly when she moved, low back revealing the long line of muscle and skin. She looked like someone had dressed danger in good tailoring.

Claudia stuck her head around a rail, caught sight of them both and screamed.

“OH MY GOD,” she said. “LOOK AT YOU. I CANNOT AIR THIS BEFORE THE WATERSHED, WE WILL BE BANNED.”

Nikita wolf-whistled. “This is not Rumba, this is a public indecency.”

Villanelle gave a tiny, satisfied lift of one eyebrow. “Good.”

Then she glanced at Eve in the mirror.

For a moment she let herself look – really look – at Eve in that dress. The softness at her mouth betrayed her before she schooled her expression back into neutrality.

“We look… fine,” she said flatly.

“Fine?” Eve echoed, half laughing, half offended. “That’s all you’ve got?”

Villanelle shrugged, slipping her hands into her pockets to hide the fact that they’d flexed. “When we dance,” she said, “it will be more than fine.”

There was something dark and promising in the way she said it.

Then the mask settled fully back in place. She turned away, talking to Mia about hem lengths as if she hadn’t just called Eve beautiful and meant it.

Eve watched her reflection beside her own in the mirror - dark and light, sharp and soft, both dressed in colours of blood and night.

Tomorrow, she thought, would be the moment everything tipped one way or another.

And for the first time in a long time, she had no idea which way she wanted it to go.

Chapter Text

Movie Week had been loud, gaudy, theatrical. Swords, feathers, pirate hats. Tonight was stripped back. Darker. The lighting rig hung lower; the beams were tighter. The audience buzz sounded different too - less giddy, more expectant, like they all knew they were here to watch people bleed politely in sequins.

In the makeup chair, Eve tried to keep still while someone attacked her eyes with smoky shadow and tiny brushes.

“Chin up, babe,” the artist muttered. “If you keep frowning, I’ll have to start again and we will both cry.”

“Sorry,” Eve said. She sat back and let her mouth go slack, staring at herself in the mirror.

The maroon dress transformed her again – slit high on one leg, the other side hugging her to mid-calf. The colour made her skin look warm, the cut made her shoulders and arms look stronger, less tentative. The crystals scattered across the bodice caught the overhead light whenever she moved, winking like a secret.

She did not feel like a woman capable of doing what she’d already done.

The door banged open.

Villanelle walked in, already in costume.

The glitter-threaded black vest showed the clean lines of her shoulders and collarbones; the cutaway back bared long, carved muscle. The maroon trousers echoed Eve’s dress, hanging fluidly, ready to move. Someone had slicked her hair back into a severe knot, and the effect was… devastating.

She looked like a threat that had been invited to the ball and chosen to behave just badly enough to be interesting.

Eve’s heart climbed somewhere near her throat.

Villanelle caught her eye in the mirror and simply said, “Hi.”

Her voice was even. Missing were the crooked half-smiles, the throwaway jokes. No Gemma jabs. No psychotic pep talk. Just ‘hi.’

“Hi,” Eve echoed.

The makeup artist swanned off to attack Bill with bronzer, leaving them in a small pocket of quiet.

Eve swallowed. “So… update.”

Villanelle arched a single eyebrow. “You got a better dress? Impossible.”

She tried to make it sound light. It came out flat.

“No,” Eve said. “Niko. He wasn’t sure before, but he… decided to come. Tonight. He’s in the audience.”

Villanelle’s face didn’t move. “Okay.”

“And he-” Eve pushed on, feeling ridiculous and yet compelled. “He brought Gemma. From school. She’s a big Strictly fan apparently. Thought it would be, you know. Fun.”

The word came out mangled.

Villanelle stared at her for a moment.

“Fun,” she repeated.

“Yeah.”

Silence. Eve waited for… something. Jealousy. A sharp joke. A half-serious do you want me to kill her.

Instead, Villanelle said, very calmly, “It is good he is here. Then he will see how beautiful you are when you are not pretending to be asleep.”

It wasn’t what Eve had expected.

“You’re… okay with that?” she asked.

Villanelle’s gaze flicked over her shoulder, toward the door, then back. “What I am,” she said, “does not change the running order.”

It hurt in a way she didn’t know how to name.

Before she could respond, a runner stuck their head in. “Five minutes to stairs, guys.”

Villanelle nodded. “We are last?” she confirmed.

“Closing the show,” the runner said, grinning. “Big emotional finish. No pressure.”

He vanished again.

Villanelle pulled in a slow breath, like she was re-sealing something inside herself.

“When we dance,” she said, low, “it is only us. No Gemma. No husband. No judges. Just you and me. Yes?”

Eve’s throat tightened. “I don’t know if I can block all that out.”

“You don’t block it,” Villanelle said. “You use it.”

Before Eve could argue, someone called their names again, and the spell broke.

They headed for the stairs.

⸻

The famous Strictly staircase glittered under the rigged lights. Couples gathered in clusters along the steps, a patchwork of costumes and nerves.

Bill, in some kind of dark suit for his moody Tango, bounced on his heels. Elena, in an emerald Quickstep dress, tapped Nikita’s arm with her fan. Zara and Vito looked sleek in navy and silver, whispering intensely about footwork. Johannes, in a sharp suit and thin tie, stood with Carolyn, who looked like she’d just stepped out of an old black-and-white film.

Eve and Villanelle took their spot about halfway down. The hem of Eve’s dress brushed Villanelle’s trouser leg. The contact made her skin spark.

Villanelle wasn’t doing her usual whisper commentary tonight. No “do not vomit” or “smile so they trust us.” She looked outward, face composed, jaw tight.

“You okay?” Eve asked quietly.

“Always,” Villanelle said.

That was a lie.

The theme blasted, Tess and Claudia did their opening, and one by one the couples were introduced, walking down for a wave before the first dance.

“And dancing a Rumba later tonight,” Tess’s voice floated up, “it’s Eve Polastri and Villanelle!”

The audience roared. Eve flashed a smile she hoped didn’t look like a grimace. The camera swooped past. Her eyes were drawn, magnetised, to the crowd.

Third tier. Slightly to the right of centre.

There.

Niko. In his good shirt. Gemma beside him, hair pulled back in a high ponytail, smart-casual outfit that probably had pockets. They clapped. Niko’s expression was tight, trying to be supportive, but his shoulders were hunched.

They caught each other’s gaze.

He lifted his hand in a small wave. A reflexive smile tugged his mouth.

Eve looked away first.

⸻

They watched from the Clauditorium as the show unfolded.

Elena and Nikita danced a sparkling Quickstep that had Claudia saying, “IF I HAD EYES LIKE YOURS I WOULD NEVER BLINK.” Zara and Vito did a sharp, icy Couple’s Choice that had Craig muttering about “too much faffing” while the crowd booed. Bill and Katya took a risk with a creepy Tango piece that somehow worked.

Every time Claudia cut back to Eve and Villanelle for a quick “How are we feeling?”, Villanelle did the talking.

“She is ready,” she’d say. “She will not fall. Probably.”

Claudia would shriek and move on.

Eve’s palms grew slicker with each dance. Her mouth dried. Her brain replayed the lift over and over, imagining every possible way it could go wrong. Imagining Niko watching if it went right.

Finally, Tess turned to camera.

“And now,” she said, “closing our show tonight with what promises to be a very emotional performance… dancing the Rumba to ‘Hurt’ by Christina Aguilera, please welcome Eve Polastri and Villanelle.”

The floor manager beckoned. Claudia squeezed Eve’s hand.

“You’ve got this,” she said, eyes bright. “If I cry, I’m invoicing you for mascara.”

Villanelle leaned in just enough that only Eve heard.

“Last chance to run,” she murmured.

“I’m already falling,” Eve said before she could stop herself.

Villanelle’s lip twitched, almost a smile.

“Good,” she said.

⸻

The studio had been transformed.

The set was simple - dark, glossy floor; a single old-fashioned standing lamp in one corner; a low “window” frame with a suggestion of rain streaking down the backdrop in projected shadows. The lighting was deep burgundy and violet, pooling around the centre like a bruise.

The audience quieted to a low murmur. Somewhere beyond the cameras, Niko and Gemma sat, two small anchor points Eve tried, and failed, not to think about.

She took her opening position stage right. Weight on her right leg, left foot softly pointed out. Head down. Arms relaxed at her sides.

She could feel Villanelle across the floor before she saw her.

The first notes of the piano slipped into the space.

Seems like it was yesterday when I saw your face…

On the word yesterday, she lifted her head.

There she was.

Villanelle stood in shadow at the opposite side of the floor, one hand resting lightly on the back of the chair set near the “window,” the other hanging loose. Her eyes were already on Eve.

Not performing. Just looking.

Eve walked towards her.

Slow, slow, quick-quick, slow.

Each step rolled through her feet, hips soft and heavy. The dress flowed around her legs, slit flashing skin with each movement. The pre-show argument, the week of snapped comments and false professionalism, the kiss in the studio - they all wrapped themselves around her muscles like invisible weights.

Villanelle met her halfway. They stopped with inches between them, the space between their chests buzzing.

In rehearsal, this was where Eve had always wanted to break eye contact.

She didn’t.

Villanelle’s hand lifted, fingers trailing barely-there along the side of Eve’s arm as she circled around behind her. Eve turned slowly, feeling the ghost of that touch all the way down to her wrist.

They flowed into the first set of basics together - Eve stepping back in Rumba walk, Villanelle forward, their hips mirroring each other. The music pulled them into a tide - slow, slow, quick-quick, slow - their bodies falling in and out of contact like magnets teasing.

It wasn’t the neat, polite Rumba she’d seen in old clips. There was a wildness under the control. Every time they touched, fingers brushing, hands at waists, palms sliding over shoulder blades, it felt like both a question and an answer.

They moved into a side-by-side section, still connected at one hand, feet drawing figure-eights on the floor. Villanelle spun her out, releasing her hand only to catch it again and pull her back into closed hold.

Their chests pressed together. Eve could feel every breath Villanelle took.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to hear your voice again…

On the lyric, Eve let her head drop briefly to Villanelle’s shoulder. Not choreographed. Not completely out of place either. Her cheek grazed warm skin, and for a second she forgot the cameras, forgot the audience, forgot Niko.

Villanelle’s hand at her back tightened just slightly.

Then they were moving again, sliding into the first lift.

Eve stepped away, three measured steps, heart pounding. Villanelle’s eyes locked on hers, intense and steady.

“Now,” Villanelle had said in rehearsal. “You decide. Trust or break.”

The music swelled. Eve ran.

She jumped.

For a split-second, she was air with nothing under her. Then Villanelle’s arms grabbed her thighs, her waist, lifting, their bodies turning in a smooth arc. The studio spun once, the maroon and black and light blending into streaks.

She felt powerful up there. Exposed and powerful and terrified.

Villanelle brought her down gently, the descent controlled, her body sliding along Villanelle’s until her feet found the floor again.

She didn’t wobble. The audience whooped.

Halfway through.

They shifted into the more intimate centre section. Villanelle guided her into a slow turn, letting her spin away and then - on the lyric I’m sorry for blaming you - pulling her flush back into her chest, one arm banded tight across Eve’s ribs, the other hand splayed over her stomach.

Time stretched thin.

Their bodies moved as one, hips rolling together, upper bodies still. Eve’s hand found Villanelle’s and clutched it, fingers laced.

It felt indecent to breathe.

This was where the “almost” moment lived.

They turned, still locked together, so Eve was facing the audience, Villanelle behind her, their joined hands lifted. Then slowly, deliberately, they unwound, until they were chest to chest again.

The choreography demanded proximity, demanded tension. Their noses were inches apart. Eve could see every tiny fleck of gold in Villanelle’s eyes, the slight dampness at her hairline, the minute twitch of a muscle in her jaw.

In rehearsal, they had held this position for exactly four counts.

Tonight, Eve forgot to move.

She stayed there, staring straight into Villanelle’s eyes, the music swelling around them. Three counts. Four. Five.

Something in her cracked.

Her right hand, which was meant to drop back to Villanelle’s shoulder and push into the next figure, lifted instead.

She raised it slowly, trembling, and let her fingers trail along Villanelle’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

It was small. Barely anything. A touch that could be played as character.

It was not in the choreography.

Villanelle’s breathing hitched. Her pupils blew wide. For a heartbeat, the entire room felt like it flipped inside out.

Then she moved them on, almost violently, spinning Eve out into the final diagonal run.

The rest of the dance blurred.

She knew, distantly, that her feet did what they were supposed to, that her hips moved, that she hit the last line. The final pose came - Eve leaning into Villanelle, one arm looped lazily around her neck, Villanelle’s hand at her back, their cheeks nearly touching, faces turned towards each other.

Once again, they hovered on the knife’s edge of a kiss.

Eve didn’t do it. She didn’t lean in, didn’t close the gap.

But her hand, still on Villanelle’s neck, gave the slightest squeeze. A little sorry. A little please. A little something she couldn’t put into words.

The last note cut out.

Silence, for one beat.

Then the audience erupted.

⸻

They broke apart slightly, both laughing that high, post-adrenaline laugh that comes from not dying on live television.

Tess glided over, eyes bright. “Oh my goodness,” she said. “Eve and Villanelle, everyone!”

The crowd roared again.

Tess turned to Eve, hand on her arm. “Eve, I feel like I’ve just watched something incredibly private that you did in public. How was that for you?”

Eve tried to breathe. “Like… having my heart taken out and shown to me,” she said. “In… in a nice way?”

Laughter.

“And Villanelle,” Tess said, “Rumba queen, what did you want to show us with this choreography?”

Villanelle’s gaze flicked to Eve, then back to Tess. “That she is braver than she thinks,” she said. “And that pain can be beautiful if you let it move.”

There was a little murmur at that.

Tess turned to the panel. “Craig, we’ll start with you.”

Craig gave his trademark long, painful pause, making the audience groan.

“Well,” he drawled, “I am not going to lie, darling, I absolutely loved that.”

The audience screamed.

“Technically,” he went on, “there were a couple of small issues – a tiny bit of foot placement in the basic walks, and I would have liked a little more traditional Rumba content in some of the transitions. But emotionally, it was stunning. You told a story, you were in the moment, and I believed every single second.”

He smiled, almost genuinely. “Fab-u-lous.”

Tess grinned, relieved. “High praise from Craig! Motsi?”

Motsi leaned forward, hands already clapping. “EVE. VILLANELLE. Okay, listen.” She put a hand over her chest. “From the very first step, I could FEEL the history, I could feel the regret, I could feel the LOVE, okay? The textures, the timing, the way you used the pauses… my goodness! There were moments I was like, ‘Do they need a room? Am I intruding?’”

The audience roared. Eve felt her face go hot.

“And the way you used your hips, Eve?” Motsi added. “We have come a LONG way from your first week. That was sensual, that was grounded, and that was REAL. I loved it.”

Shirley’s eyes were shining, that head-judge look of proud-headmistress-on-the-brink-of-tears.

“Well,” she said, “for me, that is what Rumba is all about. The chemistry, the control, the story. Your basics have improved enormously, Eve – those walks at the start, so much better – and your balance in the lift was excellent. You stayed connected the whole time, emotionally and physically. You have a tendency to collapse in your core when you’re tired, so do watch that, but honestly?” She shook her head. “This is your dance. Beautiful.”

Anton almost bounced in his chair. “I tell you what,” he said, “if I’d had a Rumba like that back in the day I’d have retired immediately and lived on it for ten years. I thought it was gorgeous. The storytelling, the atmosphere, the partnership… marvellous. Loved it.”

Tess beamed. “There you go! High praise all round. If you’d like to head up to the Clauditorium, we’ll see what the scores are.”

⸻

The climb to the Clauditorium felt surreal. Cast members reached out as they passed – touches on her arm, her back, quick hugs.

Elena threw both arms around Eve. “WHAT WAS THAT?” she yelled in her ear. “Are you KIDDING?”

“I blacked out,” Eve said. “Did we finish?”

Nikita fanned himself dramatically. “I’m pregnant.”

Bill thumped Villanelle on the shoulder. “You are a menace,” he said, awed.

Claudia slid between them, eyes wide and glittering. “EVE. VILLANELLE. I feel like I just walked in on something private and I’m not even sorry.”

Everyone laughed.

“How do you FEEL?” she demanded, pushing the microphone towards Eve.

“Like I need a very large drink to calm down,” Eve said.

Claudia shrieked. “SAME. Honestly, that was so emotional I think my mascara has filed for divorce. Villanelle, how do you choreograph something like that and not collapse on the floor afterwards?”

Villanelle tilted her head. “Who says I am not collapsing?” she said. “I am just doing it on the inside.”

Claudia clutched her heart. “Hide your pain with cheekbones, I understand. Right! Let’s see what the judges thought. It’s time for the scores.”

The lights shifted. The little scoreboard flickered to life.

“Craig Revel Horwood,” Claudia intoned.

Craig swirled his paddle once for drama, then flipped it.

“Nine.”

The crowd exploded.

“Motsi Mabuse…”

“Nine!” Motsi yelled, already on her feet.

Eve’s stomach swooped. Someone behind her screamed directly into her ear.

“Shirley Ballas…”

Shirley smiled, eyes soft. “Ten.”

The studio went mad. Elena physically jumped up and down, grabbing Eve by the shoulders and shaking her.

“Anton Du Beke…”

“Nine!” Anton announced, clapping as he did so.

“That gives you a grand total of thirty-seven!” Claudia shouted over the noise. “Your highest score so far!”

Eve stared at the number, dizzy.

Claudia shoved the mic under her nose again. “Eve, that’s your first ten! From Shirley! How does that feel?”

“I don’t… I don’t have words,” Eve said honestly. “Which is unfortunate because this is a talking segment.”

Laughter.

Villanelle leaned closer to the mic, eyes on Eve rather than the camera. “She deserves it,” she said. “She gave everything.”

Something in her tone made Eve’s chest ache.

“Right,” Claudia said, clapping. “You’ve done your bit. It’s now up to the viewers at home. If you loved that as much as obviously I did, pick up the phone, vote for Eve and Villanelle! Now go, rehydrate, we’ve got a results show to make before that big drink.”

The music swelled again as they cut away.

⸻

During the break before they recorded the results show, the corridors became a maze of half-costumed people, techies, family members, and runners clutching headsets. The adrenaline high started to ebb, leaving a hollow, shaky feeling behind.

Eve slipped away down a quieter corridor, the maroon dress whispering around her legs, looking for water – or a dark cupboard to crawl into.

She didn’t make it far.

A hand closed around her wrist, firm but not harsh, pulling her sideways.

Villanelle.

She tugged Eve into a small dressing room, one of the generic ones used for quick changes, and shut the door with a quiet click.

The noise of the corridor muffled.

Up close, Eve could see the faint sheen of sweat at Villanelle’s hairline, the way her chest still rose and fell too quickly. Her eyes were dark, intense.

“For the record,” Villanelle said, voice low, “that was… extraordinary.”

Eve let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “You think?”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “But that is not why I dragged you in here.”

Ah.

Eve’s stomach dropped. “Okay.”

Villanelle took one step closer. The room felt instantly smaller.

“Why did you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?”

Villanelle’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t play stupid. The hand.” She mimed it, fingers brushing along her own jaw, thumb at the corner of her mouth. “In the middle. That wasn’t in the choreography.”

Eve’s mouth dried. “I know.”

“You know,” Villanelle repeated. “So why?”

“I don’t…” Eve started, then stopped. Lies stuck in her throat. “I don’t know. It just… happened.”

Villanelle scoffed, not amused. “Things do not ‘just happen’. People make choices. Even when they pretend they don’t.”

Eve bristled. “What do you want me to say? That I lost my mind for a second? That I’m a terrible professional? That I shouldn’t have done it?”

“I want you to stop pretending you don’t want me,” Villanelle snapped.

The words landed like a slap. Everything in the room seemed to shift.

Eve’s breath caught. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” Villanelle demanded. “You kiss me. Then you panic. Then you come back. Then you say you ‘can’t do this’. Then you dance like that-” she jerked her head toward the direction of the door.

“-like it is a confession in front of millions of people, and then you tell me you ‘don’t know’ why you touched me like that?”

Eve’s eyes stung. “I’m trying not to destroy my entire life in four weeks,” she said. “I’m trying to be a decent person.”

“You are not decent,” Villanelle said. “You are alive.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is,” Villanelle insisted. “You keep saying you ‘can’t choose’. But you already are choosing, every day. You chose to come back after you kissed me. You chose to answer my messages. You chose to walk into the studio on Sunday instead of staying in your nice, safe, dead marriage.”

“Don’t call it dead,” Eve said, stung.

Villanelle stepped closer again, voice dropping. “Why not? You told me you felt like you were sleepwalking. You told me ever since this started you feel awake. Do you know how rare that is? To wake up in your own life? And you treat it like a disease.”

Eve’s back hit the dressing table.

Villanelle just kept going.

“Yes, I am selfish,” she said, eyes blazing. “Of course I am. I want you to choose me. I want you to look at me the way you look at him when you are pretending not to be bored. I want you in my arms without excuses.”

“Villanelle-”

“And why would you not?” Villanelle pressed. “Why would you not want to choose someone who looks at you like-” She broke off, jaw clenching. “Have you even seen yourself? In that dress? When you dance? When you laugh at my jokes? You don’t. You think you are… ordinary. Comfortable. That is how he likes you.”

“This isn’t fair on him,” Eve managed.

Villanelle’s eyes flickered, softer for a fleeting second. “Maybe not,” she said. “But tell me something. When was the last time you felt like someone looked at you and really saw you?”

Eve opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Villanelle’s voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “Because every time I look at you I feel like I am being set on fire. And I am not sorry. I am only sorry you are so scared of your own desire.”

Something broke open then.

For all the rehearsals and speeches and noise, for all the weeks of careful dancing around things, that honesty cut through her like a blade.

She didn’t think.

She dropped her water bottle. It hit the floor with a soft dull thud.

And then she shoved Villanelle backwards into the wall, palms flat against her shoulders, and kissed her like she’d been waiting years to do it.

The impact knocked a small framed mirror askew. Villanelle made a startled sound against her mouth that turned almost instantly into a low, hungry noise. Her hands came up, grabbing Eve’s waist, fingers tight on the maroon fabric, yanking her closer until their bodies fully aligned.

This wasn’t the tentative, shocked studio kiss. This was messy and urgent and full of everything they hadn’t said.

Villanelle kissed her back with a kind of disciplined ferocity, mouth opening under Eve’s, one hand sliding up her spine to tangle in her hair, angling her head to deepen the contact. Eve clutched at the back of her vest, fingers pressing into bare skin, feeling muscle flex under her fingertips.

She didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly Eve was the one pressed against the door instead, Villanelle crowding into her space, one thigh slipping between hers, pinning her there. Eve gasped into her mouth, and Villanelle swallowed the sound, lips trailing briefly across her jaw before returning to her mouth like she couldn’t stay away.

Eve’s world shrank to the heat of it. The taste of lipstick and breath and something that was just Villanelle. The scrape of teeth. The press of palms. The way her own body betrayed her, arching into contact that felt both terrifying and inevitable.

For once, she didn’t pull away.

For once, she let herself want.

It could have been ten seconds or ten years.

“EVE!”

Elena’s voice sliced down the corridor outside, distant but getting closer. “EVE, ARE YOU BACK HERE? WE NEED A CHECK-IN, WHERE ARE-”

Eve jerked like she’d been electrocuted, tearing her mouth away. Her chest heaved. She pushed weakly at Villanelle’s shoulders.

“Stop, stop, stop-” she hissed.

Villanelle froze immediately, breathing like she’d run a race, eyes dark, lips swollen and flushed.

Eve slid sideways out from between her and the door, stumbling towards the small mirror above the dressing table. Her reflection was undeniable - smeared lipstick, flushed cheeks, hair slightly ruined. A woman who had very definitely just been thoroughly kissed.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Oh my God.”

Villanelle watched her, chest still rising and falling, hands flexing like she didn’t know what to do with them.

“We are not… done with this,” Villanelle said, voice rough, nodding faintly between them.

“I know,” Eve said, trying to pat her hair flat and not look like she’d been making out against a wall. “We’ll… we’ll address this. Later. We have to go.”

“EVE!” Elena’s voice again, right outside the door now.

Eve looked once at Villanelle, at her swollen lips, at the way she was staring like she was memorising her, and then wrenched her gaze away.

She opened the door, forcing her face into something like normal.

Elena stood there, eyes wild. “There you are! I’ve been yelling like a fishwife. What-” She paused. Looked at Eve’s face. At Villanelle behind her. At the slightly skewed mirror.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Oh,” she said. “OH.”

“It’s not-” Eve started.

“Don’t even,” Elena said. “We do not have time for your lies, only your gossip. Come with me.”

She grabbed Eve’s hand and pulled her into the corridor, glancing back once at Villanelle. “You too, assassin. Saturday night waits for no one.”

Villanelle smirked faintly. “In a moment,” she said. To Eve: “Don’t disappear.”

“I won’t,” Eve said, before she could stop herself.

⸻

Elena dragged her a few doors down, into a slightly quieter nook by a drinks table.

“Okay,” she hissed. “We have, like, fifteen minutes before they call us all to pretend tomorrow hasn’t happened yet. What the hell is going on with you two? Because whatever it is, it made that dance… insane.”

Eve made a helpless little noise. “We kissed.”

Elena blinked. “Yes, darling, that part I have just deduced with my eyes.”

“No, I mean-” Eve’s hands flailed. “We kissed before. In rehearsal. And then again. Today. Just now.” She gestured vaguely back toward the room. “Twice. There. Against a wall. And a door. I think I’ve lost my mind.”

Elena’s jaw dropped. “How dare I interrupt the greatest moment of my life,” she said, genuinely aggrieved. “I will be writing to my MP.”

Despite herself, Eve laughed, a slightly hysterical edge to it.

Elena squeezed her arm. “Okay,” she said more softly. “Joking aside. Are you… okay?”

“I don’t know,” Eve said. “I feel like I’ve been dropped into someone else’s body. I’m doing things I don’t recognise. I keep thinking about Niko and then I’m… here. With her. And I can’t-” She broke off, breath hitching.

Elena’s expression softened. “Okay,” she said. “We are absolutely going to unpack that. But maybe not while you’re in a dress slit up to your armpit and the camera crew are four feet away.”

Eve nodded weakly.

“Also,” Elena added, “for the record? I am both sad I interrupted and proud that you are living my fanfic.”

Eve covered her face with her hands. “Don’t say fanfic, I’ll die.”

“Too late, you’re already in a gay slow-burn on national television,” Elena said. She looked over Eve’s shoulder. Her expression shifted. “And speaking of television drama… we might need to park this.”

“What?” Eve asked.

Elena tilted her head slightly.

Eve turned.

Niko was standing at the end of the corridor.

He looked out of place – too normal in his shirt and jeans, visitor lanyard hanging round his neck. Gemma was nowhere to be seen. He had his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, eyes on Eve with a look that made her stomach flip.

“Oh God,” Eve whispered.

“I’ll… disappear,” Elena murmured. “But I am not far. Scream if you need rescuing.”

She squeezed Eve’s hand and melted away down another corridor, giving Niko a polite nod as she passed.

Eve walked towards him, legs suddenly heavy.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he replied.

Up close, she could see the crease between his eyebrows, the tightness around his mouth.

“You were incredible,” he said, after a beat. “The judges loved it. Shirley gave you a ten.”

“Yeah,” Eve said. “I still can’t quite believe it.”

“I can,” he said. “You were… really good.”

It sounded like the words cost him something.

“How’s Gemma?” Eve asked, then wanted to kick herself.

“She’s fine,” Niko said. “She’s somewhere out there getting photos with Zara. She’s obsessed.” A small, tight smile. “She cried when Vito walked past. It was weird.”

Eve hoarded that tiny smile like a crumb.

“Look,” Niko said, exhaling hard. “We need to talk.”

Her stomach clenched. “Okay.”

He glanced around, then gestured down the quieter stretch of corridor. They moved a little further away from the main traffic.

He didn’t waste time.

“It’s too much,” he said quietly. “Tonight.”

Eve blinked. “What is?”

“The dance,” he said. “You. Her. All of it. I…” He swallowed. “I felt embarrassed. Sitting there. In front of Gemma. The others. Watching my wife do that with someone else.”

Guilt stabbed through her, sharp and immediate.

“It’s a Rumba, Niko,” she said, but the protest sounded weak to her own ears. “It’s supposed to be intense. That’s the whole… point.”

“There’s intense,” he said, “and there’s… that.” He shook his head, searching for words. “You didn’t look like you were acting.”

Her mind flashed back, unhelpfully, to Villanelle’s mouth under her hand mid-routine. To the way she’d stayed in that held moment for five counted beats instead of four. To the dressing-room just minutes ago.

“I…” Her throat tightened. “I don’t know what to say.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “You don’t think it’s weird? That we’re sat there, watching you basically undress yourself emotionally in front of some stranger?”

“She’s not a stranger,” Eve said, then instantly regretted it.

“Oh, I know,” Niko said, voice sharpening. “I can see that.”

“That’s not fair,” Eve said, automatic.

“Isn’t it?” he asked. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re falling in love with your dance partner on television and I’m just… applauding like an idiot.”

The word love punched the air between them.

“I’m not-” she began.

“You don’t even see yourself,” he said, leaning back against the wall, eyes closing briefly. “You should see how you look at her. How you move with her. Like she’s the only person in the room. And then you come home and you’re… somewhere else entirely.”

“I’m trying,” Eve said, hating how small she sounded. “I’m trying to do the dance, to do the show, to not… hurt you.”

“Congratulations,” Niko said. “You’re failing.”

The sting of it made her flinch.

Anger flickered in his eyes, the kind that comes from being hurt too long and too quietly.

“And I’m supposed to just sit there,” he went on, “next to my coworker, who I have to see on Monday, while you grind your heart against hers on the dancefloor and everyone stands up and claps.”

“That’s not what it is,” Eve said, but her voice wavered. Because inside, another voice whispered - Isn’t it?

“What is it then?” he asked. “Because it doesn’t feel like just a job. It doesn’t look like just a job. And if you tell me again you ‘don’t know’ how you feel, I swear, Eve-”

He broke off, shaking his head.

“Why are you being so cruel?” she asked quietly.

“Because I’m scared,” he said, equally quiet. “And when I’m scared, I say things I shouldn’t. You know that.”

A beat. They both breathed.

Footsteps sounded at the other end of the corridor.

Villanelle.

She walked toward them, still in costume, expression neutral but eyes watchful. She must have heard enough to read the scene - it didn’t take a genius.

She stopped a few feet away. Looked at Eve. Then at Niko.

“This is a private conversation,” Niko snapped.

“No,” Villanelle said, tilting her head. “You are shouting in the corridor. It is public theatre.”

Eve put a hand to her forehead. “Oh God.”

Niko turned fully toward Villanelle, jaw clenched. “You enjoy this, don’t you? Watching us fall apart.”

Villanelle regarded him like he was something under glass. “I enjoy truth. It is rare.”

“Don’t speak in riddles,” he said. “You’re not a movie villain.”

Villanelle’s lips twitched. “You have not seen enough movies.”

“Niko, stop,” Eve said, stepping between them slightly. “Please.”

He ignored her. “What do you think is happening here?” he demanded of Villanelle. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re dancing with my wife like she belongs to you.”

Villanelle’s eyes cooled. “She does not belong to you, either.”

“She’s my wife,” he shot back.

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “Not your property.”

The words hung in the air, sharp as glass.

“You don’t know anything about our marriage,” he said, quieter now, dangerously restrained.

“I know you talk to her like she is a problem to solve,” Villanelle replied. “I know she shrinks when you are near, and expands when you are not. I know you did not notice when she started to disappear; you only noticed when someone else saw her.”

“Nobody asked you,” he snapped.

Eve’s stomach lurched. “Villanelle, it’s okay-”

“No, it is not,” Villanelle said. She took one step closer. “You are embarrassed?” she said to Niko. “Because people see your wife is extraordinary? You should be ashamed to feel anything except proud.”

“I am proud,” Niko said, temper flaring again. “I’m also her husband. Watching her… look at someone else like that? That’s humiliating.”

“She looks like that because someone finally gives her permission to feel,” Villanelle said. “You should be thanking me.”

“Villanelle,” Eve said, warning in her voice. “That’s enough.”

But the damage was already done.

Niko laughed once, incredulous. “Oh wow, here we go. You really think you’re some kind of saviour, don’t you?” Niko said, laughing once, bitterly. “The great Villanelle, saviour of sad wives.”

“No,” Villanelle said. “I think I am honest. And I think you are boring.”

Eve winced. “Okay, that’s-”

“Before this,” Niko said, “we were fine. Comfortable. Happy.”

“Stop,” Eve said, but they both ignored her now.

“Comfortable,” Villanelle repeated, lips curling. “Comfortable is what you make people with a terminal illness.’”

Eve made a helpless, horrified sound. “Oh my God.”

Niko stared at her. “Who do you think you are?” he demanded of Villanelle. “You don’t know anything about us.”

“I know what I see,” Villanelle said. “I see a man who liked his wife small and sleepy. I see a woman who is finally waking up. And I see you trying to shove her back into the dark because it is easier for you.”

“You’re a psychopath,” Niko said, the word ripping out of him. “Do you know that? You are a psychopath.”

Villanelle’s eyes flashed dangerously, but there was something like amusement there too.

“You should never tell a psychopath they are a psychopath,” she said softly. “It upsets them.”

The deadpan delivery, so perfectly Villanelle, broke something in the tension. Eve let out a startled laugh that sounded a bit like a sob.

Niko stared at her. Then, almost despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitched. The anger drained a fraction from his shoulders.

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “Look,” he said, voice rough. “I’m… sorry. I’m not really angry at you.” He glanced at Villanelle. “You’re just… in the middle of it. This is between me and her.”

Villanelle held his gaze for a long second, then nodded once.

“It is okay,” she said. “I understand.” She turned her eyes back to Eve, and for a moment all the walls dropped. The longing there was unmistakable. “Sometimes, when you love someone,” she added, “you do crazy things.”

The words hung, heavy and pointed.

Eve’s breath caught. She knew exactly who that “someone” was. Niko, mercifully, didn’t.

A voice called from somewhere down the corridor: “Guys! Places for the results show, please! Two minutes!”

Villanelle glanced in that direction, then back at them.

“We have to go,” she said. “They will start without us and then Claudia will cry.”

To Eve, she added quietly, “You should follow. We still have a public to lie to.”

There was no cruelty in it. Just weary truth.

She turned and walked away, maroon trousers catching the light, back bare and unguarded for once.

Eve watched her go, something in her chest twisting.

Niko let out a slow breath. “She’s… a lot,” he said.

“Yeah,” Eve said softly. “She is.”

She turned back to him. “Can we… talk properly later?” she asked. “Not in a corridor. Not with cameras down the hall.”

He studied her face like he was trying to find the person he knew underneath all this.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “We have to.”

She stepped in and hugged him. He felt solid and familiar and suddenly slightly foreign all at once. He wrapped his arms around her after a moment, squeezing tight.

“Go,” he said, pulling back. “You’ll get shouted at if you’re late.”

She nodded, wiping under her eye, careful not to smudge.

“See you after,” she said.

He nodded. “I’ll be in the same place. Watching.”

She turned and walked towards the studio doors, the call for places echoing again.

Behind her, the fault lines of her life had never felt more visible.

Ahead, the lights waited.

And somewhere in the middle, in maroon and black and something dangerously like love, Villanelle stood ready to dance with her again.

Chapter Text

The studio always felt wrong on “Sunday.”

Technically, it was still Saturday night. Same crowd, same lights, same judges, same adrenaline still vibrating in Eve’s muscles. But as soon as they said, “And we’ll see you tomorrow for the results,” and the credits rolled on the main show, something in the air shifted.

Things got quieter.
Stranger.
More honest.

They didn’t change. That was one of the rules. Results-show Strictly didn’t get a costume reset. Everyone stayed in their outfits from the night before, makeup retouched, hair re-glittered, smiles reapplied.

Eve was still in the maroon Rumba dress that clung to her like an accusation. The slit on one thigh shifted when she breathed; the low back still felt imprinted with the memory of Villanelle’s hands. Her hair had been re-pinned into the same loose, romantic twist. It felt like pretending to be something heartfelt again.

Villanelle was back in the black glittered vest and maroon trousers that had undone Eve’s brain the night before. Her hair was slicked tight again, a single curl falling rebelliously out of place at the nape of her neck. Beneath the stage lights, the line of bare spine down the back of the vest looked like something a painter would obsess over.

They stood on the stairs with the others as the warmup VT rolled, showing slices of everyone’s Week 4 dances. Bill and Katya in their dramatic Tango; Elena and Nikita in their wild, bright Quickstep in that emerald dress Elena kept tripping over backstage; Zara’s sharp Couple’s Choice; Archie flinging himself through a Jive; the brief, dizzying flash of Eve and Villanelle, nearly kissing in silhouette before the montage cut away.

Then the VT shifted to a teaser for Icons Week - quick little slices of the celebrities talking about their favourite musicians.
Bill clutching a Bowie mug.
Carolyn crisply declaring, “Joni Mitchell. Obviously.” Elena rambling for twenty seconds about Whitney Houston before Nikita dragged her out of frame. And finally Eve’s own face appearing onscreen, saying far too seriously: “My icon? Celine Dion. She raised me.”

Eve winced. “Oh God.”

“That is a very guilty neck twitch,” Villanelle murmured behind her, voice low and amused.

Eve kept her eyes front. “I don’t have a guilty neck twitch.”

“You do. It is new. I like it.”

“Good,” Eve hissed. “Because apparently everyone in the country saw that rumba clip and decided my neck is now a metaphor.”

Villanelle’s shoulder brushed her upper arm. It felt deliberate.

“Relax,” she said. “Tonight is only consequences. The dancing part is finished.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

“Hm,” Villanelle said. “We will see.”

Down below, Tess and Claudia took their opening positions.

“Welcome,” Tess smiled into the camera, “to the Strictly Come Dancing results show!”

Applause. Theme sting. A wave of crowd noise that washed over the staircase like weather.

“Short recap, pro dance, then the results,” a floor manager hissed up the stairs, counting with two fingers. “Pros, you’re off in thirty seconds. Go, go, go!”

Villanelle straightened. The small softness that had gathered around her eyes vanished, replaced by that sharp, focused neutrality she wore like armour whenever she was “just” a professional dancer.

“I have to be dazzling,” she said, as if this were a medical emergency.

“Like you weren’t last night?” Eve muttered.

Villanelle glanced down at her. “You were dazzling,” she said simply. “I was… an accessory.”

Eve’s stomach did an unhelpful swoop. Before she could respond, Villanelle added briskly:

“I will change. You will watch. Clap loudly. If you do not, I will know.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“Yes,” she said. “Good luck.”

Then she slipped away, following the line of pros down off the staircase and into the backstage corridors, vanishing between costume rails and headset-wearing crew.

Eve exhaled. The steps suddenly felt colder without her there.

⸻

The Clauditorium always reminded Eve of a bird’s nest. Too many people, too much noise, everyone half-watching and half-waiting to be shoved back onstage. They were herded up into it now, sequins rustling, hairspray fumes mingling with the smell of electrics and coffee.

The pros had already gone to change for the professional number. Eve caught a glimpse of them in the wings as she passed - Vito in half a shirt, Johannes adjusting suspenders, Karen stepping into a metallic skirt. Villanelle disappeared behind a rack of silver fabric, holding something strappy in one hand.

Elena materialised at Eve’s elbow, emerald fringe trembling with her nerves.

“You alive?” she asked. “You look like a very old ghost who died of overthinking.”

“I’m functional,” Eve said. “That’s enough.”

“Great. Functional looks good on camera.” Elena paused, eyes narrowing. “So… what happened backstage with Niko?”

Eve stiffened. “Nothing.”

“Liar,” Elena whispered cheerfully. “You had the face. The ‘my marriage is in the bin’ face.”

“Can we not-”

“Fine, fine. Later. I’ll pry it out of you with wine.”

The studio lights dipped. Claudia appeared at the foot of the stairs, vibrating like she’d just drunk a litre of espresso.

“And now,” Tess announced, “please welcome our professional dancers!”

The band exploded into a jazz-latin fusion track.

The pros poured out.

Eve’s breath caught.

Villanelle emerged dead centre in a silver halter top that exposed the clean cut of her shoulders and the long line of her neck, paired with wide black trousers that snapped in sharp shapes when she moved. Her hair was loose now - waves tossed deliberately, brushing her jaw whenever she spun.

She looked less like a pro and more like the reason the routine existed.

“You okay?” Elena murmured.

“I’m fine,” Eve said quickly.

On the floor, the routine unfolded - Latin shimmies, ballroom lines, that insane overhead lift where Vito threw Karen into the air like a decorative missile.

Villanelle was paired with Aljaž for a section - she spun into his hold, he reeled her back in, hands at her waist, their faces close enough to imply tension.

It was nothing. Just choreography. It didn’t mean anything.

Eve’s jaw clenched anyway.

Aljaž lifted Villanelle clean off the floor, tilting her back over his arm. She trusted him fully - Eve could see it in the way she softened for the line.

Heat flared in Eve’s chest. She didn’t like it.

“So who are we mad at?” Elena whispered. “Aljaž? Or his enormous Disney prince arms?”

“I’m not mad,” Eve muttered. “I’m… observing.”

“Sure,” Elena said. “Observing whether you need to burn something later.”

The number built to a finish with all the pros in tight formation. Villanelle stood near the centre, arm extended, chin high, mouth curved in that small, satisfied smile she wore when her body had obeyed her perfectly.

The crowd roared. Claudia clapped above her head. The lights dimmed again.

Two minutes later Villanelle reappeared in the wings in her Rumba outfit, hair slicked, vest glittering, expression neutral.

Back to being hers.

The thought startled Eve so much she dropped it immediately.

⸻

The recap montage rolled next – Tango, Jive, American Smooth, Couple’s Choice, the nearly-kiss from the Rumba (which someone in editing kept lingering on for half a second too long). Eve looked away from the screen.

“Don’t look away,” came a low voice.

Villanelle had stepped back beside her.

“I wasn’t looking away,” Eve said.

“You were,” Villanelle replied. “But this time only a little. Progress.”

Eve rolled her eyes, but her pulse betrayed her.

The montage finished and everyone on the stairs stiffened. They stayed exactly where they were - Strictly never put them back on the floor until the finale. Instead the camera swept across them, frozen in polite panic.

Tess stepped forward.

“The judges’ scores have been combined with your votes at home,” she said, “and it’s time to find out who will be back for Icons Week, and who will be in the dance-off.”

Eve felt her heartbeat everywhere - her hands, her throat, her ribs.

Villanelle’s fingers brushed the back of her hand in the smallest intentional touch.

“Your heart is very loud,” she murmured. “It is good television.”

“That is not comforting,” Eve whispered.

“It is not meant to be.”

Tess looked down at her card.

“Zara and Vito… you are safe.”

Screams. Hugs. Vito lifted Zara clean off her feet.

“Carolyn and Johannes… you are safe.”

Carolyn nodded like she’d expected nothing less; Johannes blew kisses to the balcony.

“Elena and Nikita… you are safe.”

Elena immediately burst into tears and then insisted she was “just sweating from the eyes.”

“Bill and Katya… you are safe.”

Bill fist-pumped like he’d just won Eurovision.

The staircase thinned.

Tess took a breath.

“Archie and Amy…” she said, voice gentle. “You are in the bottom two.”

The audience groaned. Archie nodded bravely, Amy squeezing his hand.

Eve tensed.

Tess glanced back at her card.

“And finally… Frank and Nadiya… you are in the bottom two.”

A hush. Frank nodded once, resigned; Nadiya wrapped an arm around his back.

Which meant-

Tess turned slightly, looking up toward their section of the stairs.

“And Eve and Villanelle… you are safe.”

The relief was so intense Eve swayed.

The crowd erupted. Elena shrieked in the balcony. Someone shouted “EVEILL FOREVER!” which Eve prayed wasn’t caught on mic.

She reached for something steady and found Villanelle’s hand already waiting, fingers threading through hers.

For a moment they stood like that - still lit by the studio glow, still holding hands like something had snapped into place between them.

“Of course we are safe,” Villanelle murmured, lips barely moving. “I am not finished with you yet.”

Eve’s pulse punched through her skin.

“Up to Claudia, you two!” Tess called.

They let go only at the last possible second, climbing toward the Clauditorium together.

⸻

The Clauditorium was all noise and colour and relief.

Claudia launched herself at them as soon as they stepped through the curtain.

“MY LITTLE RUMBA SURVIVORS!” she shrieked, grabbing Eve’s arm with one hand and Villanelle’s shoulder with the other. “You’re safe! The nation has voted to keep my emotional crisis going for another week!”

Eve laughed, half from nerves, half from the surreal absurdity of it all. “Thank you,” she said. “To… everyone. Honestly.”

Claudia thrust the microphone at her. “Eve, first of all, congratulations on your enormous scores last night. Thirty-seven is insane. And now the public have kept you in. How does that feel?”

Eve inhaled. She’d thought about what to say. All of it felt flimsy next to what her chest was doing.

“It feels… strange in the best way,” she said. “Every week I think, ‘Okay, that’s it, they’ve seen enough of me falling over my own feet,’ and then I get to come back and do it again but slightly less disastrously. I feel… very, very lucky.”

She heard her own voice catch on the word lucky. Her eyes, traitorous, flicked sideways.

Villanelle was already looking at her.

For a second it felt like they were the only two people in the room.

“And Villanelle,” Claudia said, twisting a little to face her, “how proud are you of Eve this week?”

Villanelle didn’t look at the camera. She kept her gaze on Eve.

“Very,” she said simply. “She gave everything. And she looked so good doing it.”

Claudia made a small, strangled sound. “I’m fine,” she said. “Nothing to see here.” She flapped her cue cards like a fan. “Now. You don’t get to bask forever, because next week is… ICONS WEEK!”

The crowd whooped; the band played a noisy little sting.

“Villanelle,” Claudia went on, “what icon have you chosen to emotionally destroy us with?”

Villanelle’s lips curled. She took the microphone from Claudia with a kind of casual arrogance.

“We will dance a Waltz,” she said. “To ‘My Heart Will Go On.’”

The reaction was immediate. A long, rippling “oooooooh” from the audience, like a wave breaking over them.

“CELINE?!” Claudia yelped. “THE Titanic Celine? I’m not ready. We’re not ready. We need a boat and a safety demonstration.”

Eve laughed weakly. “Is there a limit on how many tragic love songs we’re allowed to do in one series?”

Villanelle leaned a fraction closer to the microphone.

“No,” she said. “I checked. You chose the icon. I chose the song, the choreography, the scene… and the heartache.”

The room screamed.

Claudia thumped her cards against her chest. “Okay, well, we cannot WAIT to drown emotionally next week. For now, though, go and try to breathe, because we still have a dance-off to traumatise everyone with. Eve and Villanelle, everyone!”

The applause rolled over them; they waved, then were nudged to the side as the next couple were pulled into position.

Eve pressed her back lightly to the rail, trying to catch her breath.

Below, Archie and Amy walked out to dance again. Frank and Nadiya waited just off-stage, holding hands.

Villanelle rested her hands casually on the balcony edge next to her, shoulders relaxed, eyes fixed on the floor.

“I hate this bit,” she said quietly.

“I don’t,” Villanelle replied.

⸻

The dance-off felt cruel in a way the live show didn’t. Everything was quieter. Smaller.

Archie and Amy went first. He danced harder this time, jaw tight, sweat already visible along his hairline. Amy was all encouragement - you could see it in the way she looked at him, every chin lift and tiny nod trying to telegraph I’ve got you, keep going.

Frank and Nadiya waited in the shadows, silhouettes behind the edge of the set.

Villanelle’s arm brushed against Eve’s. Eve didn’t realise she’d reached out until her fingers had already closed loosely around the fabric at Villanelle’s wrist.

Villanelle didn’t move away. She shifted just enough that Eve’s hand slid from cloth onto skin.

When Frank and Nadiya stepped out, they danced like they knew, somewhere under the choreography, that this was the end. Frank’s feet were a fraction behind the beat; his smile stayed on, brave and resigned. Nadiya held him in every line, every turn, like she was trying to will him through it.

The applause at the end was warm. It didn’t feel like enough.

The judges gave their verdict. Archie and Amy were saved. Frank and Nadiya were thanked, hugged, applauded through their “Last Dance” VT.

Eve’s throat tightened. She thought fleetingly of standing where Frank was now - of it all being over in a single sentence. She couldn’t tell if the thought felt like relief or terror.

Villanelle’s fingers curled, a soft squeeze against her palm.

We’re still here, the gesture said.

For now.

⸻

The show closed with Tess and Claudia smiling into camera, thanking the band, the judges, the audience at home. The theme swelled. The credits rolled.

“Cut!” someone shouted. The red light died.

The spell snapped.

⸻

Within twenty minutes, backstage had dissolved into its usual messy afterimage.

Some couples were hustled into small interview corners with branded backdrops and tired producers. Others staggered straight to wardrobe to peel off eyelashes and sequins. Bill vanished in the direction of the bar with Katya and three crew members. Nikita and Elena could be heard somewhere down the corridor arguing loudly about whether eating an entire pizza alone counted as carb-loading or a cry for help.

Eve and Villanelle ended up back in their small dressing room, door half-open, corridor noise a low hum outside.

Eve sat at the mirror, staring at herself. The smoky eyeliner, the flushed cheeks, the mouth that had been pressed to Villanelle’s. Twice. Three times, if she was brave enough to count properly.

Villanelle leaned in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, half in, half already on her way out.

“We survived,” she said.

“For now,” Eve replied.

Villanelle watched her reflection for a moment. “You did well tonight,” she said. “With the public. With… all of it.”

“Feels like lying,” Eve said.

“It isn’t,” Villanelle said. “You belong here.”

Eve’s laugh snagged on itself. “You keep saying that like it’s obvious.”

“It is obvious,” Villanelle said. “You are just the last one to believe it. You are always late to your own party.”

There were a hundred replies in Eve’s mouth. None of them organised themselves into speech.

From the corridor came a shout. “Pros to the bar in five! Katya says shots are fitness!”

Villanelle sighed theatrically, pushing off the frame. “They will cry if I am late,” she said.

“Who will?” Eve asked.

“Nikita,” Villanelle said gravely. “He is very fragile.”

Eve snorted, the sound half-laugh, half-exhale.

Villanelle’s eyes softened for a heartbeat. “Are you coming?” she asked. “To the bar.”

Eve hesitated. The thought of more noise, more people, more pretending scraped across something raw and already bruised.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I probably should go home. Niko texted before the show finished - he’s waiting outside to take me back. We… need to talk.”

Something flickered across Villanelle’s face - quick, sharp, almost a flinch - then vanished, tucked away behind that clean, neutral mask.

“Of course he is,” she said lightly. “He should be proud of you. Not hiding.”

A small ache opened in Eve’s chest at the echo of what Villanelle had said to him in the corridor earlier. Proud, not ashamed.

“I don’t think he’s hiding,” Eve said quietly. “I think he’s… terrified.”

“We all are,” Villanelle said. “That is not a reason to be boring.”

Eve huffed out a laugh.

Villanelle stepped back into the corridor, then leaned in again for one last look.

“Do what you need,” she said. “But text me if you decide to come. So I don’t imagine you murdered in a car park.”

“That’s specific,” Eve said.

“This is London,” Villanelle replied, as if that explained everything. “Goodnight, Eve.”

“Goodnight,” Eve said.

Then Villanelle was gone, swallowed by the stream of bodies and voices.

For the first time that day, Eve was completely alone with herself.

The quiet in her head was louder than the studio.

⸻

By the time she’d changed into her own clothes, jeans, jumper, coat, the adrenaline had ebbed, leaving her hollow and over-aware. She slid the maroon dress onto its hanger with something like reverence, like she was bagging up evidence from a crime scene. Makeup went into a little pouch. She avoided her own eyes in the mirror.

Her phone lay on the dressing table.

She picked it up. The screen lit her face.

One new message.

Niko:
I’m outside by the barrier when you’re done x

The small x made something twist in her chest.

She locked the phone, slid it into her pocket, and walked down the narrow backstage corridor toward the side exit where the crew sometimes smoked. The air smelled like hairspray and rain trying to get in.

Niko was just outside the barrier. He still had his audience wristband on, his good shirt a little rumpled now. Hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. Under the streetlamps he looked tired, like the night had stretched him.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Eve replied.

They did a quick, off-centre half-hug that felt like missing a step in the dark.

“Well done…” he started, then blew out a breath. “I knew they’d vote for you. Really.”

“Thank you,” Eve said, unsure what to do with it. “The judges were… nicer than I expected.”

“They weren’t being nice,” Niko said, looking at her properly now. “They were right.”

She glanced away, throat tight.

“And she was right too,” he added, quieter. “About me.”

“Villanelle?” Eve asked.

He nodded. “About being proud instead of… embarrassed.” His mouth twisted. “I felt like an idiot in that corridor. I’ve been acting like one. I’m sorry.”

The apology landed somewhere complicated inside her.

“Thank you,” she said. “That… means a lot.”

A cab pulled up. “You two the booking for Polastri?” the driver called.

“That’s us,” Niko said.

He opened the door for her. She slid in, he followed. The driver confirmed their address and pulled away from the studio.

City lights smeared across the windows. For a while, neither of them spoke. The radio burbled about comfort food and serotonin.

“You were incredible,” Niko said again, softer now. “Tonight. And yesterday. I just… wanted to say it properly.”

Eve stared at her hands. “It felt… different,” she admitted. “That dance. Like standing at the edge of something and jumping anyway.”

“I saw,” he said. “Everyone saw.”

She didn’t know if that was comfort or accusation.

They let silence have the rest of the ride.

At home, they moved through the hallway on muscle memory. Coats on the hooks. Shoes in their usual spot. The living room exactly the same as it had been before she’d stepped into a world of glitter and spotlights.

It felt too small now. Or maybe she did.

“We should talk,” Niko said.

The words she’d been bracing for finally arrived.

“Yeah,” Eve said. “We should.”

They sat at opposite ends of the sofa. The space between them felt like a third person.

Niko rubbed his palms on his jeans, then looked up.

“I’m scared,” he said.

Eve blinked. “Of what?”

“Of losing you,” he said simply.

She looked down at her hands, fingers knotted together. “I’m still here,” she said.

“Are you?” he asked.

The question didn’t sound cruel. That somehow made it worse.

She swallowed. “Something is happening,” she said. “Inside me. I don’t know how to stop it or control it or pretend it’s not there anymore. Doing this show, dancing with her… it’s like someone pulled a plug and now everything’s loud and bright and-” She broke off, searching. “And I need you to help me get through that. To not shut down on me because I don’t fit exactly into what we were before.”

He watched her with a kind of exhausted patience.

“Do you hear how that sounds from here?” he asked. “You’re asking me to help you… drift away. To hold your hand while you walk towards someone else.”

“I’m asking you not to treat me like I’m already gone,” she said, voice fraying. “I still love you. I still chose you. I’m not… planning anything. I’m confused and scared and trying not to blow up our life while this is happening.”

“You keep saying ‘I’,” Niko said. “I feel awake. I can’t ignore it. I need support. When do I get to exist in this story?”

Her stomach twisted.

“That’s not fair,” she said, even as something inside her flinched. “Of course I care how you’re doing.”

“Do you?” he asked. “Because the last few weeks I’ve felt like… background sound. You come home and your head’s still at the studio. You talk about her. The others. The judges. I ask how you are and you give me a monologue. You ask how I am and by the time I’ve got past ‘fine’, you’re checking your phone.”

The image burned because it was true.

“I didn’t realise I was doing that,” she said, throat tight.

“No,” he said, more gently. “You didn’t. And that’s the point.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “People at school have asked me how I am more honestly than you have,” he said. “Tom. Gemma. They listen. They let me be angry, or confused. And I hate that. I hate that I feel more… seen at work than I do here.”

Guilt slid cold under her ribs.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I am. I’m not… trying to make you small. Everything’s just-”

“A lot,” he finished. “I know. I really do, Eve. But intention doesn’t patch this up.”

Silence lapped at them like dark water.

“We’re not okay,” she said.

“No,” he agreed. “We’re not.”

They sat with that. Neither of them said, so we’re done. Neither of them said, so we fix it.

“Maybe we need space,” Niko said eventually. “Before we say things we can’t take back.”

Her heart lurched. “What kind of space?”

“I’ll take the spare room,” he said. “For a while. You keep the bedroom. At least then we’re not pretending to sleep next to each other while we’re both thinking about… other people.”

The bluntness stung. More so because she felt the accuracy of it.

“If you think it will help,” she said, voice small.

“I think it’ll be better than this,” he said.

She nodded slowly. “Okay. But can we also try to fix it? Not just… retreat into separate beds and hope it magically gets better? We could talk to someone. A counsellor. Or go for a walk tomorrow. Just us.”

“I can’t tomorrow,” Niko said.

“Why not?” Eve asked.

“Gemma asked me to a wine tasting thing,” he said. “I told her I’d go.”

Eve stared. “You hate wine.”

“I’m trying new things,” he said.

“And I thought we both hated Gemma,” she shot back. “I thought that was sort of… our thing.”

Something sharp flashed through his expression. “Oh,” he said. “So now you get it. The fun of watching your partner bond with someone else over… you.”

“It’s not the same,” Eve said. “This is work. It’s a TV show. It’s-”

“It’s intimate,” he cut in. “It’s you wrapped around someone else on national television. It’s you looking at her like nothing else exists. You keep telling me it’s ‘acting’ but I’m not blind, Eve. I’m not stupid.”

Her temper, usually buried under worry, flared.

“And what exactly is sitting in a wine bar with Gemma talking about your ‘feelings’?” she snapped. “Colleague bonding? Research? Revenge?”

“At least she asks how I am and waits for the answer,” he shot back. “At least with her I don’t feel like the bit of furniture that pays the bills and makes the dinner.”

His words lodged under her skin.

“You’re being childish,” she said. “You’re sulking your way into a wine tasting to prove a point. It’s petty, Niko.”

“I’d rather be petty,” he said, anger finally breaking through, “than a cheating bitch.”

The words hit like a slap.

The room seemed to ring with them.

For a second Eve thought she must have misheard. Then she saw his face, already horrified at himself, and knew she hadn’t.

“What did you just call me?” she asked, voice very calm.

“I- Eve, I didn’t-” he began.

Her throat burned. Tears flooded her eyes before she could stop them. Not just from the insult, but from the horrible, guilty fact that some part of it wasn’t entirely wrong.

She had kissed Villanelle. She had wanted it. She had wanted more.

Hearing it named out loud, though, with that ugliness, that bitterness, split something open inside her.

She stood up too fast, her knee clipping the coffee table, making a glass rattle.

“I can’t do this,” she said, voice shaking. “Not like this. Not right now. I can’t sit here and listen to you spit that at me and then watch you try to soften it.”

“I didn’t mean it,” he blurted. “I’m just-”

“You did,” she said. “On some level, you did. That’s why it came out.”

She grabbed her coat from the hook, fingers fumbling at the sleeves. Her keys were where they always were, in the dish by the door. She took them.

“Where are you going?” he demanded, standing too.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Out. Away. I need… air. Space. I can’t be in this room with you right now feeling like this.”

The guilt sat heavy in her chest - because he wasn’t entirely wrong about her, about Villanelle, about what had already passed between them. But being named like that, like she was a caricature on some trashy show, made her feel smaller than anything she’d actually done.

“Eve-” he said.

She opened the door. Cold air rushed in, sharp and clean, filling the doorway like a way out.

“I know I’ve done things I don’t recognise myself in,” she said, not turning around. “I’m not pretending I’m innocent. But I don’t deserve to be called that. Not by you.”

She stepped outside and closed the door behind her, carefully, like it was fragile.

The click sounded louder than it should have.

⸻

The night hit her lungs like a slap.

The street was quiet, just the distant hum of traffic and the occasional fox shriek somewhere down the road. The sky was that flat city grey that never quite bothered to be dark.

She walked.

No idea where she was going.
No idea how long she’d been moving.

At some point she ended up perched on a low brick wall outside a shuttered corner shop, breath misting faintly in front of her, fingers numb where they clutched her phone.

She thumbed it awake.

Sometime between leaving the studio and now, she’d put it back on silent. She couldn’t remember when.

The notification screen bloomed.

6 unread messages from Villanelle.

Her throat tightened. She opened them.

The first, time-stamped not long after the show wrapped.

Villanelle:
You chose romantic husband exit over bar
Nikita says this is betrayal

A laugh broke out of her, sharp and broken.

The next, about twenty minutes later.

Villanelle:
He and Vito are doing a samba off to terrible Spanish club music
It is like watching two flamingos fight

There was a blurry photo attached - Vito in mid-hip-thrust, Nikita in the background with his arms in the air, both clearly far too alive.

Another.

Villanelle:
Also
I meant what I said
About crazy

Eve’s chest ached.

Next.

Villanelle:
You did not come
Where are you
I am tipsy and sentimental
I cannot stop thinking about kissing you in the dressing room

Tears pricked her eyes. She scrubbed at them with the heel of her hand.

The next message.

Villanelle:
Fudge face better not have killed you

A strangled laugh tore out of her, tangled with a sob. She pressed her fist to her mouth to muffle it.

The most recent.

Villanelle:
Please text
or call
or send an emoji
I will not rest until you do

Her vision blurred again.

Niko’s voice replayed in her head, that ugly phrase like a bad recording she couldn’t turn off.

Cheating bitch.

This is what she’d done. Walked into a glittering ballroom, let someone set her on fire, then come home and tried to pretend she wasn’t burning. Now everybody was choking on the smoke.

Her thumb hovered over Villanelle’s name.

She couldn’t trust herself to call. Not with her voice sounding like this. Not with everything feeling that sharp.

She scrolled instead and hit another contact.

“Elena,” she croaked when the call connected.

“Elena here,” came the instant reply. The background was chaos - music, laughter, someone yelling about sambuca - and then the sound dulled, like she’d ducked outside. “Okay, that voice is not a good voice. Where are you?”

“I… I left,” Eve said. “I left the house.”

“Elaborate,” Elena demanded. “On both the geography and the emotional disaster.”

“He called me something,” Eve said. “I left. I don’t want to be there, I don’t want to be alone, I know you’re out, this is stupid, I just- I didn’t know who else to-”

“Hey,” Elena cut in, voice changing, jokes dropping away. “First of all - not stupid. Second - you did exactly the right thing. Third - text me your location. I’m leaving the bar now. I am not leaving you crying in the street; there are foxes and perverts out at this time.”

“I am the pervert, apparently,” Eve said, a wrecked little laugh bursting out before it caught on a sob. “You don’t have to-”

“Elena’s rule,” Elena said crisply. “We do not abandon friends to foxes, perverts or emotional spirals. Text me your street. I’ll get my Uber to swing by you on the way. You’re not sleeping in a park. We’ll cure this with reality TV, fast food, and copious amounts of wine if needed.”

Relief and shame knotted together in her chest. “Thank you,” Eve whispered.

“In the meantime,” Elena added, voice lighter again, “remember he’s not the only one who gets to be hurt here. And if he called you anything I think he might have called you, I’m going to steal one of the swords from props and commit a small murder.”

Eve sniffed. “Please don’t murder my husband.”

“Ugh, fine. Grievous bodily harm,” Elena said. “Text me. Ten, fifteen minutes, I’ll be there. You can cry or brood until then, but not both. That’s indulgent.”

“Got it,” Eve said, managing the ghost of a smile. “Thank you.”

“Always,” Elena replied. “Now hang up so I can rescue you dramatically.”

They disconnected.

Eve sent her location, then stared down at Villanelle’s messages again.

Her thumb hovered.

She typed:

🙂

Stared at it for a full five seconds, then hit send before she could spiral about the implications of emoji tone.

A small yellow face appeared under Villanelle’s last plea.

After a moment, she added:

Eve:
not dead x

She almost deleted the x.

She didn’t.

Her phone was still in her hands when it buzzed again less than five minutes later.

Not a text this time.

Incoming call: Villanelle.

Eve’s heart lurched. She hesitated just long enough to torture herself, then slid her thumb to answer.

“Hi,” she said, voice still hoarse.

“Are you okay?” Villanelle asked.

No preamble. No joke. Just that.

“I-” Eve started, then felt her throat seize. “Not really.”

In the background she could hear the muffled thump of the bar - music, laughter, someone who sounded a lot like Nikita yelling “AGAIN!”- and then a door closing. The noise dropped away.

“Elena has just left like the building is on fire,” Villanelle said. “She grabbed her coat, told Nikita ‘Eve emergency, I’ll text you,’ and vanished. I am putting pieces together. Don’t lie to me.”

A shaky laugh escaped Eve. “You heard that?”

“I hear everything,” Villanelle said. “Tell me what happened after you left us. With him.”

So she did. Not every detail, not every look, but enough - the talk on the sofa, the space, the wine-tasting with Gemma, the argument curling tighter and tighter around them until the word dropped.

“He called you what?” Villanelle asked quietly when Eve faltered.

Eve shut her eyes. “A… cheating bitch.”

There was a long, dangerous silence on the line.

“That is lazy language,” Villanelle said at last. “And technically, technically a little accurate. But still not okay.”

A wet, shocked laugh burst out of Eve. “You are the worst comforter,” she managed.

“I am honest,” Villanelle said. “You kissed me. I kissed you. You are married. This is… messy. But you are not some cartoon villain he drags out when he wants to feel righteous. You are confused. He is scared. Scared people spit ugly words. It does not make them gospel.”

“I did kiss you,” Eve said. “Twice. Three times. I don’t even know anymore. Once in the studio, once in the dressing room…” Her voice dropped. “I keep doing things that don’t match the person I thought I was and then expecting my life to just… stay still.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “That is not how it works. Sadly.” There was a tiny pause, then, lighter: “But if it helps you work through your emotions, I can let you kiss me a few more times. For… therapy.”

Eve snorted, a tear sliding down her cheek as she wiped it away with her sleeve. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” Villanelle said comfortably.

“I feel disgusting,” Eve admitted. “Not just because he said it. Because part of me… knows he isn’t completely wrong about what I’ve done.”

“Of course you feel disgusting,” Villanelle said, softer. “You have been living in one story for a long time. Now you are accidentally in another one. There is overlap. That does not make you filth. It makes you human.”

Something in Eve’s chest pinched and eased at the same time.

“I’m sorry you’re hurting,” Villanelle added, almost under her breath.

It did something horrible and lovely to Eve’s breathing.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

There was a rustle on the other end, like Villanelle had shifted against a wall.

“You are outside?” Villanelle asked.

“Yeah. On a wall. Like a very sad raccoon.”

“Is it cold?”

“Yes.”

“You should go inside somewhere.”

“I will. Elena’s on her way. She said her Uber will pick me up.”

“Good,” Villanelle said. “She is small but efficient. I will be her accomplice if she murders your husband.”

Eve actually laughed. “You cannot both go to prison on my behalf.”

“We won’t go to prison,” Villanelle said. “We will be celebrated. Two beautiful women avenge friend - it will be Netflix documentary.”

Eve shook her head, smiling damply.

“Why did you call him Fudge Face again?” she asked suddenly. “In your text.”

Villanelle made a pleased little sound. “Because, like I told you before, his face looks like someone stuck eyes on a piece of fudge.”

Eve burst into a messy, genuine laugh. “That’s so awful.”

“I did not say it was kind,” Villanelle replied, teasing. “But you laughed. So it is medicine.”

“You’re impossible,” Eve said, wiping her eyes.

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “And yet, here you are on the phone with me.”

They let the silence stretch a little, this one softer.

“Why are you… being nice to me?” Eve asked quietly at last. “I’ve been - God, I’ve been a nightmare with you. I kissed you, pretended it meant nothing, then danced that Rumba like it wasn’t just…” She swallowed. “Like it wasn’t just acting. And then I kissed you again.”

Villanelle didn’t say exactly. She didn’t have to.

“You are not the only one who is confused,” she said instead. “But I know one thing.”

“What?” Eve asked, her voice small.

“I am not going anywhere,” Villanelle said. “If you need someone tomorrow who will not call you names, I will be there. Studio. Coffee shop. Your friend’s couch. I will keep you company.”

Warmth unfurled under Eve’s sternum, aching and dangerous.

“You don’t want my company,” she said, reaching for something lighter. “You just want my body.”

There was a tiny beat of silence.

“For dancing,” she added quickly, horrified at herself.

“Mmm,” Villanelle said. “Yes. For dancing.” Her tone suggested a far less wholesome bullet point two. “But I like your company also. Even when you are a disaster.”

“You are not supposed to say that part out loud,” Eve muttered.

“You started it,” Villanelle said. “Progress.”

“I honestly don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow,” Eve admitted. “Elena wants to binge TV and drink terrible wine. I might be useless.”

“Then Monday,” Villanelle said. “We ignore that life is on fire, and we waltz.”

“To Celine Dion,” Eve said.

“Yes,” Villanelle replied. “To very sad Celine Dion. My Heart Will Go On. We will be beautiful and miserable.”

Eve laughed again, the sound shaky. The idea of gliding around a ballroom to a song about doomed love felt offensively appropriate.

“No matter how bad it feels now,” Villanelle went on, “at least you are not freezing to death in the Atlantic Ocean while your lover floats on a door and refuses to share.”

“Hey,” Eve protested. “Why am I Jack in this scenario? I want to be on the door.”

“Because you are the one in the cold water,” Villanelle said calmly. “I am the door.”

“That’s… wildly arrogant,” Eve said.

“Yes,” Villanelle agreed. “And a beautiful metaphor. In my head, Niko is the boring fiancé. With the stupid hair.”

Eve let out a startled bark of laughter. “You’re going to hell.”

“I am already there,” Villanelle said. “It is called the pro rehearsal room.”

Headlights turned the corner at the end of the street. A car slowed, indicator blinking as it approached.

“That might be Elena,” Eve said.

“Good,” Villanelle replied. “Let her take you somewhere warm with snacks.”

Eve hesitated.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For calling. And listening. And… insulting my husband’s face.”

“You are welcome,” Villanelle said.

There was a pause, then.

“Eve?” she added, suddenly awkward.

“Yeah?” Eve said.

“I think…” Villanelle exhaled. “I think my monster encourages your monster.”

Eve’s eyes stung again for a completely different reason.

“I think I wanted it to,” she said quietly.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

The Uber rolled to a stop. Through the glass, Eve saw Elena’s silhouette in the back seat, phone held up like a beacon.

“I have to go,” Eve said. “I’ll… speak to you tomorrow. See you Monday.”

“Sleep,” Villanelle said. “You have to be tragic and graceful soon. It is hard work.”

“Goodnight,” Eve said. “Don’t let them talk you into another samba-off.”

“I will kill them first,” Villanelle said, voice brightening. “Goodnight, Eve.”

The line clicked off.

Eve slipped the phone into her pocket and walked toward the car. Elena flung the back door open.

“There she is,” Elena said, eyes fierce but kind, arm already reaching to haul her in. “Come on. I’ve got crisps, a spare toothbrush, and a lot of opinions.”

Eve climbed into the warm, dark bubble of the back seat.

As the car pulled away - leaving the house, and Niko, and the echo of those words behind - she rested her forehead briefly against the cool window and let herself, just for a moment, feel held. By Elena’s bright, relentless chatter. By the knowledge that someone at a bar had ducked into a corridor to call her because she hadn’t answered. By the terrifying, undeniable reality that her heart was moving, whether she wanted it to or not.

On Monday, there would be a Waltz. Celine would wail about love and loss. Villanelle would put her hand at the small of Eve’s back.

And Eve would have to decide which parts of her life she was still willing to dance through like she was asleep.

Chapter Text

Eve woke up to the sound of someone swearing at a kettle.

For a disorienting few seconds she had no idea where she was. The ceiling was wrong - too low, faint crack in the plaster. The window was on the other side. The sheets smelled like fabric softener and wine.

Then her brain caught up.

Elena’s flat.

Her head throbbed in a slow, resentful pulse. Her mouth tasted like she’d chewed on dry carpet. When she shifted, the duvet rustled with the unmistakable sound of a Primark purchase and crumbs.

There was a glass of water on the bedside table. Two ibuprofen. A banana that had seen better days.

Eve stared at them.

“Oh God,” she muttered, sitting up. Her spine protested. Her stomach fluttered with leftover panic.

She swallowed the tablets and half the water, then swung her legs out of bed. She was still wearing one of Elena’s oversized t-shirts - the one with a peeling graphic of an angry cartoon cat that said NO in three languages. Underneath, yesterday’s knickers. Glamorous.

The flat’s bedroom door was half-open. Somewhere beyond, the kettle clicked off, and Elena said, very gently.

“Why is this tea bag judging me right now?”

Eve padded out into the hallway.

Elena’s flat was small and overstuffed. Plant pots on every available surface; a gallery wall of mismatched frames full of friends and family; cushions that all seemed to have slogans involving wine. The living room and kitchen blurred into one L-shaped space.

Elena stood in the middle of it in baggy joggers and a vest top, her hair in a lopsided bun, stirring two mugs like the spoons had personally offended her.

She looked up.

“There she is,” Elena said, voice softening. “London’s most emotionally unavailable ballroom princess.”

Eve tried to smile. “Morning.”

“Afternoon,” Elena corrected gently, glancing at the clock. “Just. How’s the head?”

“Confused,” Eve said. “And like there’s a small man with a tiny hammer inside my skull.”

“Good,” Elena said. “Means you’re still alive.”

She handed Eve a mug and a slice of toast. The toast was badly buttered but warm. The tea was strong enough to kill something.

“Eat,” Elena ordered. “Then we’ll ignore everything for an hour.”

Eve blinked. “Ignore?”

“Yeah.” Elena nodded at the sofa. “We’re watching trash dating TV until your soul stops screaming. Then we do feelings. In that order.”

⸻

They curled up on Elena’s grey sofa under a blanket that smelled faintly of cat even though Elena didn’t own one. The blinds were half-drawn, letting in a wash of grey light.

On the TV, a group of unbearably shiny twenty-somethings argued by a swimming pool about whether someone had “pulled them for a chat” with malicious intent.

Eve stared at the screen without seeing it. The colours hurt her eyes. Her body felt heavy, like she’d been poured full of wet sand.

Elena, however, was fully committed.

“Oh my God,” she said, pointing with her toast. “Look at his stupid tiny necklace. That is not a man, that is a warning label.”

Eve huffed a laugh despite herself. “You’re very aggressive this morning.”

“The necklace boy is getting everything I can’t legally do to your husband.”

Eve flinched a little at husband. Elena clocked it. Her voice softened.

“Hey,” Elena said. “Not him. His behaviour.”

They watched in silence for a bit. Onscreen, one of the women was crying in full contour, eyelashes barely moving.

“I am jealous of her,” Eve murmured.

“Why?” Elena asked.

“She’s crying over someone she’s known three days,” Eve said. “She gets to go home after this and forget he exists.”

Elena took the remote and muted the TV.

“Okay,” she said. “Fun’s over. Talk.”

Eve stared at the quietly flailing contestants. “Can we not just-”

“Nope,” Elena said. “We have reached the feelings section of the schedule. Start from the bit before I dragged you into the Uber and you looked like the ghost of Christmas breakdown.”

So Eve did.

She told her about the argument, the name-calling, leaving the house, sitting on the wall, calling Elena. About reading Villanelle’s messages. About the call.

Elena listened, one knee tucked up under her chin, hands cupped around her mug like she could squeeze information out of it.

“Niko called you that?” she asked softly, when Eve finally got there.

Eve’s throat tightened. “Yeah.”

Elena’s eyes went very flat, very calm. “A cheating bitch?,” she said.

Eve swallowed. “He called me a cheating bitch.”

Elena exhaled through her nose. “Right.”

She put her tea down with exaggerated care.

“I am going to say something very mature first,” she said. “Then I am going to say something terrible.”

“Okay,” Eve said.

“Mature thing: that was wrong,” Elena said. “It was cruel and lazy and he said it to hurt you, and he does not get to do that, even if he’s hurting. Now the terrible thing: if you want me to help you bury his body, I need forty minutes and a shovel.”

A startled laugh burst out of Eve, then choked into a sob halfway through. Elena moved automatically, sliding closer to wrap an arm around her shoulders. Eve let her head drop onto Elena’s shoulder, tears spilling over hot and fast.

“I am not… innocent in this,” Eve managed. “I did things. I crossed lines. He didn’t just pull it out of nowhere.”

“You’re not innocent,” Elena said. “You’re not a villain either. You’re a person who fell asleep in a life that fit once and then woke up in a glitter box with a psychopath in eyeliner. Nuance exists.”

A watery snort escaped Eve. “You’ve been around Villanelle too long.”

“I know,” Elena said. “She’s growing on me. Like a very glamorous fungus.”

They sat there for a while, Eve crying quietly, Elena just holding on.

Eventually, Elena said, “Tell me the bit you skipped.”

Eve froze. “What?”

“Kissing her,” Elena said. “You hopped over that part. Oh actually,’THOSE parts. It was twice right?.”

“It was nothing,” Eve said automatically.

Elena snorted. “Oh, great, you’re lying. Do you know how I know? Because you said it in that voice.”

Eve closed her eyes.

“In the dressing room,” she said quietly. “Before the results. We… kissed. Again. It was… a lot. And then you were yelling my name in the corridor and I left her in there. And then five minutes later I was with Niko and Gemma having a normal conversation like nothing had happened, and I-” Her voice broke. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Elena.”

Elena exhaled slowly. “Okay,” she said. “There it is.”

Eve pulled away a little, wiping her eyes. “You think I’m horrible.”

“I think you’re a human car crash,” Elena said. “But a very relatable one.”

“That’s worse,” Eve muttered.

“No,” Elena said. “Worse would be if you were doing this and feeling nothing. You’re not. You are imploding.”

She nudged Eve’s shoulder gently with her own. “You’re scared of her,” she added.

Eve frowned. “I’m not scared of her.”

“Yes, you are,” Elena said calmly. “You are terrified of Villanelle. Because she sees you. All of you. All the little bits you’ve spent, like, a decade tucking away behind sensible cardigans and lesson plans.”

Eve stared at the muted TV. The contestants were arguing about loyalty in a villa they’d known for eight days.

“Niko is scared of you,” Elena went on. “For the same reason. Because you’re waking up. Because you’re saying ‘I don’t know who I am without this anymore,’ and that terrifies him.”

Eve swallowed. “He thinks I’m choosing her over him.”

“Are you?” Elena asked gently.

“No,” Eve said immediately. Then paused. “I… I don’t know.”

“There it is,” Elena said.

“That doesn’t help,” Eve said, voice thin.

“I know,” Elena replied. “But you can’t fix this if you’re lying to yourself about the scale of it.”

They sat in silence for a while. The dating show on-screen cut to an advertisement for laundry detergent as if nothing monumental was happening in a living room in London.

“Are you going home today?” Elena asked eventually.

“I should,” Eve said. “I can’t just… not go back. We need to talk. Properly.”

“Yeah,” Elena said. “I think you do.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Eve whispered.

“Some suggestions,” Elena said, ticking them off on her fingers. “One: ‘We’re not okay and that scares me.’ Two: ‘Something has happened with my mental health, my sexuality, my entire existential landscape, and I need help.’ Three: brutal honesty about the fact you are not just ‘fond’ of your dance partner.”

Eve winced. “You think I should tell him about the kiss.”

Elena met her eyes. “I think he already knows something happened,” she said. “His gut is screaming at him. You either keep gaslighting both of you and call it acting, or you rip the plaster off and maybe, maybe build something honest in the wreckage.”

Eve stared at her hands.

“Is it more cruel,” Elena said softly, “to tell him, or to let him spend the next year thinking he’s crazy for feeling what he feels?”

Eve felt tears sting again.

“I don’t want to lose him,” she said. “He’s… he’s my life.”

“And you don’t want to lose her,” Elena said quietly.

Eve said nothing.

“You’re not going to walk out of this without something breaking,” Elena said. “That’s the bit no one wants to hear, but it’s true. The question is what you’re okay with losing. And what you’d regret not choosing.”

“That’s not helpful,” Eve whispered.

“I know,” Elena said. “I’m not a licensed therapist. I’m a woman in a tiny flat with good instincts.”

She squeezed Eve’s hand. “Whatever you decide to say to him, say it as if you want to be able to look yourself in the mirror in a year. That’s all.”

Eve nodded slowly, throat too tight for words.

Elena stood. “Okay,” she said briskly. “Enough doom. You need to shower so you don’t go home smelling like my couch. I’ll make more tea. And then I’ll call you an Uber and bully you into emotional maturity.”

Eve let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “You’re a really amazing friend,” she said.

“I know,” Elena said. “It’s exhausting.”

She leaned over and kissed Eve’s forehead, quick and fierce, then headed for the kitchen.

⸻

Eve showered in Elena’s bathroom, wrapped herself in a towel that had seen better days, and dressed in the jeans and jumper she’d worn to the studio the day before. They smelled faintly of hairspray and adrenaline.

Her phone buzzed on the side of the sink.

Elena:

Uber 6 mins. I put your location in. No backing out.

Underneath it, the thread with Villanelle still sat open from last night. The last thing Eve had sent was not dead x.

Her chest tightened.

She opened their chat and stared at the blank box for a full minute before typing.

Eve:
Sorry I vanished last night
Ended up staying at Elena’s
Her bed is dangerously comfortable
Hope you got home okay

She hovered, then added:

You were… very kind on the phone
Thank you

She hesitated again, considered deleting that last line, then hit send before she could overthink.

The three dots appeared almost immediately.

Villanelle:
I am alive
Nikita is not
He lost at tequila

Eve huffed a tiny laugh.

A second later:

Villanelle:

I am glad Elena’s bed was comfortable

I would not have guessed you would end up in another woman’s bed so quickly

Heat flooded Eve’s cheeks.

She typed:

It was strictly PG
There were crisps

Villanelle:
That is worse
Crisps are intimate

Eve smiled, despite everything.

Elena banged lightly on the bathroom door. “Coach is here,” she called. “Final pep talk in the hallway!”

Eve slipped her phone into her pocket and went to meet her fate.

⸻

The house was too quiet.

Eve stepped inside, key turning with its usual soft click, and was struck by how normal everything looked. Coats on the hooks. Shoes lined up by the wall. A mug in the sink, rinsed but not washed.

“Niko?” she called.

“In here,” came his voice from the living room.

She found him on the sofa, still in yesterday’s jeans and t-shirt, hair rumpled. The TV was on but muted - a football match in slow-motion silence.

He stood up when he saw her, then seemed to change his mind halfway and sat back down again.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” Eve echoed.

She hovered by the doorway for a moment, then came in and sat on the armchair opposite him. The distance felt deliberate.

“I’m sorry,” they both said at once.

They stopped. Looked at each other. Something painful flickered in both faces.

“You go first,” Niko said quietly.

Eve took a breath. “I shouldn’t have just left like that,” she said. “I should’ve… I should’ve stayed and talked, even if I needed space. I was… hurt. And scared. And I didn’t want to say anything I couldn’t take back. But walking out wasn’t fair.”

Niko nodded slowly. “Thank you,” he said. “For saying that.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I shouldn’t have called you that,” he said. “It was ugly and cheap and… I was angry and jealous and feeling humiliated, and I wanted you to hurt the way I was hurting. That doesn’t excuse it. I hate that it even came into my mouth.”

The sincerity in his voice twisted something in her.

“Thank you,” Eve said. “It… really hurt.”

“I know,” Niko whispered. “I heard it. As soon as I said it, I heard it. I’m so sorry, Eve.”

Silence settled between them, less sharp now but heavy.

“I love you,” he said suddenly. “That’s the stupid heart of it. I love you and I don’t know where you’ve gone.”

“I’m still here,” she said.

“Are you?” he asked, gentler this time.

She stared at the dark TV screen.

“I don’t know,” she said.

He nodded once, as if he’d expected that.

“Something’s happening to you,” he said. “I can see it. Everyone can see it. You’re… waking up, I guess. And I’m happy for you, genuinely. Seeing you on that dance floor last night… you were alive in a way I haven’t seen in years. And also I was sitting next to Gemma wanting to crawl out of my own skin because I’m watching my wife be in love with a dance and I don’t know if it’s just the dance.”

Eve swallowed hard. “It’s not just the dance,” she said quietly.

He flinched, just a little. “I know,” he said. “That’s the part that keeps me up.”

She stared down at her hands, fingers twisting together. “I don’t know how to explain it,” she said. “Being with her is like… like someone turned a light on in a room I didn’t know was there. It’s not just attraction. It’s-”

She stopped herself.

“Something happened,” she said instead. “Between us. Lines got blurry. I didn’t mean for it to. I didn’t go into this intending to…” She gestured helplessly at the space between them. “This wasn’t - there was no plan.”

“What happened?” Niko asked. His voice was steady, but his knuckles had gone white.

“Something,” she repeated weakly.

“Eve.” His gaze met hers, steady and tired. “Please don’t do the thing where you tidy it up with vague words. If we’re going to have any chance of surviving this, I need you to be… brutally honest. Even if it kills me. Because the not-knowing, the guessing - it’s worse.”

Her chest squeezed.

She thought of Elena’s words. Rip the plaster off.

Eve took a breath that felt like jumping.

“We kissed,” she said. “Twice. Once in the studio, after rehearsal. Once in the dressing room. Before the results.”

The words dropped into the room like stones into water.

Niko went very still.

“Okay,” he said quietly, after a long moment. “Okay.”

“I’m so sorry,” Eve said, the tears rising fast again. “I didn’t… I didn’t set out to do this to you. It just-”

“Stop,” he said, raising a hand, not unkindly. “Please don’t say you ‘didn’t mean it’. You meant it in the moment. That’s… the problem.”

She bit her lip, nodding helplessly.

He looked away for a second, blinking hard, then back.

“I appreciate you telling me,” he said. “I do. I think I would have gone mad if you hadn’t.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” she whispered.

“No,” he agreed. “It just makes it true.”

He leaned back, staring at the muted match on screen without seeing it.

“Do you… love her?” he asked, so quietly she almost pretended she hadn’t heard.

“I don’t know,” Eve said honestly. “I don’t know what this is yet. I know I feel… drawn to her. Like I’m made of magnets. I know that being around her makes me feel more myself and also like I don’t know myself at all. I know that kissing her felt like stepping off a cliff, and I-” Her voice cracked. “I still love you. This isn’t about not loving you.”

His jaw flexed. “You realise that in some ways that makes it worse.”

“I know,” she said.

He swallowed. “I feel like I’m watching someone kick down the house we built together because they’ve just remembered what it feels like to be outside.”

The image sliced through her.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she said.

“Then stop sawing at the foundations,” he said, and there it was, the anger again, frayed but real.

“I’m trying,” she said, a little helplessly. “I don’t know how.”

He breathed out slowly, like he’d been holding it for days.

“Then here’s what I need,” he said. “To have any chance of getting through this. I need you to stop whatever… this is with her. Completely. No more kisses. No more… late night ‘accidents’. No more emotional affairs in the corridor. If you can’t promise me that, then we’re not… we’re not us anymore.”

“I can’t just leave the show,” Eve said. “It’s live. People have voted. I’d look insane if I suddenly dropped out because I caught feelings for my dance partner.”

“I’m not asking you to leave the show,” Niko said. “I’m asking you to treat it like a job. To dance and then come home. To stop feeding whatever is happening between you. To not make me watch my wife fall in love with someone else on Saturday nights.”

Tears burned again.

“I can try,” she said.

He closed his eyes briefly. “I need more than ‘I can try,’ Eve.”

She looked at him, at the man who’d spent years loving her when she felt dull and flat and half-asleep.

“I’ll step back,” she said at last. “I’ll… I’ll put up some kind of wall. I won’t… do anything with her. Outside what’s required for the show. I won’t kiss her. I owe you that.”

The words rang in her own ears like a lie and a promise at once.

Niko nodded, a small, desperate motion. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s… that’s something.”

He scrubbed his face. “We should… still give each other some space for a bit. Separate rooms. So we’re not lying there pretending it’s fine.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “Elena said the same.”

“That woman is clever,” Niko muttered. “Terrifying, but clever.”

They both laughed, brokenly.

“I’ll take the spare room,” he said. “You keep the bedroom. It’s… symbolic, I guess.”

“I don’t want you to feel pushed out of your own home,” Eve said.

“I already do,” he said softly. “This just makes it… official.”

Her eyes filled again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said. “Me too.”

There was nothing else to say that didn’t feel like rearranging deckchairs on a sinking ship.

He stood. “I’m going to… go for a walk,” he said. “Clear my head. You can… do whatever you need to.”

He hesitated, then leaned down and pressed a quick, awkward kiss to the top of her head. It felt like saying goodbye to something.

The front door clicked shut behind him a moment later.

Eve sat very still on the sofa, staring at nothing, phone heavy in her pocket. It buzzed once - a message from Villanelle, no doubt.

She didn’t take it out.

She pressed her palm over it instead, as if she could muffle her own impulses.

For the rest of the day, she moved through the house like a ghost - putting washing on, making tea she didn’t drink, standing at windows without seeing the street outside. Every few hours her phone buzzed again.

She didn’t look.

By the time she crawled into bed that night - alone - the ache behind her ribs had settled into something dull and persistent.

She lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling.

She didn’t text Villanelle goodnight.

⸻

On Monday morning, the studio smelled like coffee and floor polish and nerves.

Eve stood in the doorway of their rehearsal room, bag over her shoulder, heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her fingertips. The speakers in the corner were already set up. A water bottle sat by the mirrors.

Villanelle stood in the middle of the floor, looking at her reflection. Black leggings, loose grey t-shirt tied in a knot at her waist, hair in a low bun. She looked… normal. Dangerous anyway.

She turned as Eve stepped in.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

“Hi,” Eve managed.

“Hello,” Villanelle said.

Her gaze flickered over Eve’s face, reading, cataloguing. Eve felt exposed, like Villanelle could see the lack of sleep, the swollen eyes, the weight of everything pressing on her chest.

“You didn’t text last night,” Villanelle said. Not accusing. Not light. Just… fact.

“I know,” Eve said, dropping her bag by the bench. “Sorry. Things were… complicated.”

“I assumed,” Villanelle said. “You are not dead. So that was good sign.”

Eve huffed a small, humourless laugh. “Not dead. Just… rearranged internally.”

Villanelle watched her for a moment longer, then nodded once, as if filing that away.

“We do Waltz today,” she said. “Slow. Romantic. Torture.”

Eve’s stomach twisted. “Great.”

Villanelle tilted her head. “We can start easy,” she said. “Just hold. Steps. No emotion yet. You look like you might break if I poke you too hard.”

“I’m fine,” Eve said quickly. Too quickly.

“Liar,” Villanelle said lightly. “But okay.”

She crossed to the speakers and tapped her phone. The opening bars of My Heart Will Go On drifted into the room.

Eve’s throat closed.

Villanelle stepped toward her and lifted her hands, gently arranging them into hold. One of Eve’s hands went on Villanelle’s shoulder; the other was taken smoothly into Villanelle’s. Villanelle’s right hand settled at the small of Eve’s back.

Even through the barrier of fabric, it was like being touched directly.

“Posture,” Villanelle murmured. “Grow tall. Chest open. Head left. Do not look at your feet. They know what to do.”

“That’s a bold assumption,” Eve said.

“We will teach them,” Villanelle replied.

They began to move.

At first it was purely mechanical - one-two-three, one-two-three - circling the room in small, careful steps. Villanelle guided her effortlessly, tiny adjustments here and there, pressure on Eve’s back indicating turns.

But the song didn’t care about their attempt at neutrality. The melody swelled, all memory and loss and devotion.

“You are tense,” Villanelle said quietly, after a minute.

“I’m concentrating,” Eve said.

“You are bracing,” Villanelle countered. “Like I am going to drop you.”

“You might,” Eve said.

“I won’t,” Villanelle replied.

They turned. The mirrors blurred past. Eve tried to keep her eyes fixed over Villanelle’s shoulder, at some vague point in the air.

“Head up,” Villanelle murmured. “You are not ashamed.”

“That’s debatable,” Eve muttered.

The corner of Villanelle’s mouth twitched. “In the dance,” she clarified. “You are not ashamed in the dance.”

They went through the basic pattern again. And again. Then Villanelle began to add the shape - rotations, a pivot, a rise and fall that felt like breathing.

The whole time, Eve felt the heat of her hand at her back, the brush of her thigh as they turned, the steady weight of Villanelle’s gaze, even when she wasn’t looking directly at her.

When they stopped, Eve stepped back too quickly and nearly tripped over her own foot.

“Careful,” Villanelle said, catching her elbow.

“I’m fine,” Eve snapped, pulling away. “I’m just… uncoordinated.”

Villanelle’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You are many things,” she said. “Uncoordinated is not one of them.”

“I didn’t sleep well,” Eve said. “That’s all.”

Villanelle watched her for a beat, then nodded.

“Again,” she said. “From the top.”

They danced it again.

This time, when the music reached the first swell into the main theme, Villanelle altered the hold slightly - drawing Eve a fraction closer, deepening the rise and fall, letting the turn linger. It felt like stepping into warm water. Too warm.

Eve’s heart hammered against her ribs.

The verses glided by. They moved together in slow circles, crosses and pivots and a gentle sway that felt, against her will, like being held.

“Good,” Villanelle murmured. “You see? It is not hard.”

“It is hard,” Eve said.

“It is not,” Villanelle said.

The chorus approached. Villanelle shifted their angle.

“Now,” she said quietly. “We add the story.”

“I thought we were doing no emotion yet,” Eve said, panic spiking.

“We are,” Villanelle said. “But the Waltz tells on you. Even when you lie.”

The chorus hit. They moved together, step and turn and sway. On the third bar, Villanelle lifted her hand from Eve’s back to the side of her rib cage, barely moving, just enough to change the connection.

Eve felt like she’d been set on fire.

She couldn’t do this.

“Stop,” she said abruptly.

Villanelle halted immediately, letting go of her hands. “Okay,” she said. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Eve said. “I just need a second.”

Villanelle watched her. “You are cold,” she said.

“I’m sweating,” Eve said.

“Not that kind of cold,” Villanelle replied.

The music faded out. The room felt too bright.

Villanelle took a step closer, brow creasing. Up close, Eve could see the faint smudge of mascara under one eye, the way the little flyaway hairs at her temple had escaped the bun.

“You are different today,” Villanelle said quietly. “More… distant. Like you are dancing from the other side of a glass wall.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Eve said. “Less… monsters.”

Villanelle’s eyes flickered. “What happened yesterday?” she asked.

Eve’s mouth opened. Closed.

“I talked to him,” she said, eventually. “Properly. For once. It was… brutal.”

Villanelle didn’t say anything. Her jaw set.

“He asked me to be honest,” Eve went on. “So I was. About… the kisses. About how I feel. About not knowing. He was… devastated. And he begged me to stop whatever this is with you. To… step back. To not… choose this.”

Her voice shook on the last word.

Villanelle was very still.

“And what did you say?” she asked.

“I said I’d try,” Eve said.

“That is not an answer,” Villanelle said.

“I know,” Eve snapped. “But it’s the only one I have.”

Villanelle’s eyes flashed. “So you came here today to… what? Pretend I am a prop? Dance around me with your eyes closed until the end of the series?”

“Yes,” Eve said, too fast, too loud. “If that’s what it takes. I can’t keep breaking him. Every week I go out there and do this with you, he cracks a little more. I’m the one swinging the hammer. I can’t just keep pretending it’s fine because it feels good with you.”

“It does feel good,” Villanelle said sharply. “That is the problem, yes?”

“Yes,” Eve said, tears stinging. “It feels amazing. It feels like I’ve been asleep for a decade and someone finally shook me. And every time something happens between us, I feel alive and then I go home and I watch him drown in it.”

Silence fell.

Villanelle’s throat worked. “What about me?” she asked, voice low.

Eve blinked. “What?”

“You talk about him drowning,” Villanelle said. “But what about me? I am not… neutral in this. I am not some… therapist guiding you through your awakening. I feel things too.”

Eve stared at her. She’d known, of course. But hearing it like that-

“Villanelle-”

“I am not asking you to choose me,” Villanelle cut in. “I am not so stupid. But I am here, Eve.” She pressed her hand briefly against her own chest. “I am in this with you. I am not a supporting character in your marriage drama.”

Eve’s vision blurred. “I know,” she whispered. “I know you’re not.”

“Then why,” Villanelle said, anger finally sparking, “do you talk like I am some… drug you need to quit? Something wrong with you that you need to fix?”

“Because that’s how it feels,” Eve cried. “Like I’m addicted to you. Like I keep reaching for you even when I know it’s going to blow up my life. I don’t know how to want you without feeling like I’m… ruining everything.”

Villanelle laughed, a sharp, humourless sound. “Newsflash,” she said. “Everything is already ruined.”

“That doesn’t help,” Eve said.

“It is still true,” Villanelle replied. “You kissed me on purpose. Twice. You danced that Rumba like you were giving me your whole heart in front of millions of people. And now you want to pretend it was nothing because he cried? You are not that cowardly, Eve.”

“I’m trying not to be selfish,” Eve shouted.

“You are,” Villanelle said. “We both are. That is what love is. Or whatever this is. Selfish and disgusting and wonderful.”

The word hung there. Love. Neither of them acknowledged it out loud.

Eve dragged her hands over her face. “This can’t keep happening,” she said, voice breaking. “He asked me to stop. He asked me to choose us. How am I supposed to look at him and say no? How am I supposed to go home every night knowing I’ve blown up our entire life for… for-”

“For me,” Villanelle said softly. “Say it.”

Eve couldn’t.

She shook her head, tears spilling over. “I can’t look at you,” she said. “Not like before. Not properly. If I do, I’ll… I’ll do it again. I’ll kiss you again. I’ll make this worse.”

Villanelle stepped closer.

Eve could feel the heat of her, the gravity.

“I can’t dance with you like this if you’re going to look at me like that,” Eve blurted.

Villanelle stilled. “Like what?”

“Like I’m…” She groped for words. “Like I’m the only person in the room. Like you want to eat me alive. Like you know every ugly, broken bit of me and you still-” She cut herself off, choking on it.

Villanelle’s eyes softened in a way that made it worse, not better.

“How else,” she whispered, “am I supposed to look at you?”

Eve felt something crack.

“I told him I’d step back,” she said. “I told him I’d put up a wall. I told him I wouldn’t kiss you again. I told him I would not choose this over him.”

Villanelle’s face went expressionless.

“And did you mean it?” she asked.

“I… have to,” Eve said. “If I don’t, I lose him. I lose… everything I’ve built. Our history. Our life.”

“And what if you lose yourself?” Villanelle asked quietly.

Eve laughed, helpless, a little hysterical. “I think I already lost her. Somewhere in a training room with you.”

They stared at each other, the air between them thick with music and unsaid words.

The piano track started again automatically, looping back to the intro. The familiar notes floated through the room like a joke.

Villanelle’s jaw clenched.

“So,” she said. “You want to keep the show. Keep the marriage. Keep your nice, tidy life. And lock me in a little box marked ‘bad idea’ until the final?”

“That’s not fair,” Eve said. “I don’t want to lock you away. I just… I can’t be what you want me to be. Not without burning everything down.”

“What I want,” Villanelle said, voice rising, “is for you to be honest. With me. With yourself. Stop using me as your midlife crisis and then running back to safety.”

“That’s not what I’m-”

“Yes, it is,” Villanelle snapped. “You kiss me, then you make jokes about acting. You dance like your heart is breaking for me, then you tell yourself it is just choreography. You call me when you are dying inside and then you disappear when he calls you back. What am I supposed to do with that, Eve? Tell me.”

Eve’s shoulders shook. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do with me.”

Villanelle stared at her for a long, burning moment. Whatever she saw there seemed to make something in her finally give.

“Okay,” she said, voice suddenly flat. “Fine.”

Eve’s head snapped up. “What?”

“You want a wall?” Villanelle said. “I will give you one.” She gestured between them. “This is over.”

The words sliced through the room.

“You don’t mean that,” Eve said.

“I mean,” Villanelle said carefully, “that I will be your professional partner. Nothing else. No more kisses. No more crying on the phone. No more… monsters. You want to make this simple? We make it simple. We dance. You go home. I go. The end.”

Tears spilled over, hot and fast. “Villanelle-”

“You made your choice,” Villanelle said. There was something brittle under the controlled tone. “I am not going to beg. I do not do that.”

“That’s not what I-”

“I am not your halfway house between old life and new,” Villanelle said. “I am not a test you take to see if you like women. I am not a… rehearsal. You either jump or you stay on the boat. You have decided to stay.”

Her eyes were bright. She blinked hard.

The music swelled again, reaching that first plaintive climb.

“Dance your nice, sad little waltz,” Villanelle said, voice clipped. “Then go back to him and pretend everything is fine.”

She turned on her heel and walked toward the door.

“Villanelle, please,” Eve said, stepping forward. “Don’t-”

Villanelle stopped with her hand on the handle. For a second Eve thought she might look back.

She didn’t.

“You wanted me to stop looking at you,” she said quietly. “Congratulations.”

She wrenched the door open and walked out, letting it slam behind her.

The sound echoed off the studio walls.

For a moment, Eve just stood there, stunned.

Then the piano rolled into the next phrase - near, far, wherever you are - and something inside her finally snapped.

She sank to the floor, knees hitting the sprung wood with a dull thud. Hot tears spilled over, unstoppable now. The music seemed to swell in mockery.

“Shut up,” she gasped at the speakers.

They did not shut up.

She grabbed the nearest thing, one of her practice heels, and hurled it at the sound system.

It thunked off the side harmlessly, clattering to the floor. The track skipped once, then continued unwaveringly, Celine’s voice rising in the track as if nothing had happened.

Eve pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and sobbed, shoulders heaving, breath hitching painfully in her chest.

Alone in the rehearsal room, drowning in the intro to a song about a sinking ship, Eve realised there were no choices now that didn’t hurt someone.

Including herself.

Chapter Text

The first thing Eve registered was the cold.

Not the temperature of the room, though the heating had clicked off sometime before dawn, but the cold rectangle of space beside her, the shape in the mattress where Niko should have been. A faint dip, a shadow in the duvet, a ghost she had woken next to for years without thinking.

Now she thought about it too much.

The bedroom looked wrong in the morning light. Too neat, too still. Their wedding photo on the dresser felt like it was watching her with sympathy. Or accusation. Hard to tell from this distance.

She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, the ache behind her eyes settling into something thick and painful. She had cried herself into dehydration and exhaustion the night before, and her body felt like it was punishing her for it.

Downstairs, she heard movement.

A kettle clicked on.

Cupboards opened and shut, carefully, like he didn’t want to disturb her but also didn’t particularly care if he did.

Eve held her breath, listening:

Was he humming? No.

Was he angry? No slamming, no muttering, no sharp sounds.

Was he pretending things were normal?
God, Yes. And no. Something in between, something worse.

She pushed herself out of bed, feeling older than she had any right to.

The hallway felt narrower. The stairs creaked the same as always but the sound grated today, too sharp, too present.

Niko stood at the counter in his dressing gown, stirring tea the way he always did - slow figure-eights, a little circle at the end. But he didn’t look up when she entered. Not immediately. Only when he had finished the ritual, placed the spoon down, and inhaled did he finally turn his head.

“Morning,” he said.

His voice wasn’t cold. It just wasn’t anything.

“Morning,” Eve replied, too quietly.

She hovered, unsure where her body was supposed to go. She used to slide into his orbit automatically, kiss his cheek, lean her hip against his, talk about nonsense before they both rushed into the day.

Now she felt like a visitor.

She moved toward the fridge because it was something to do with her hands. Both of them pretended this choreography was normal.

“Toast?” Niko asked.

“Sure,” she said.

He put two slices in the toaster. They stood beside each other in silence as it hummed.

The silence wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t hostile either. It was polite.

Stranger polite.

Eve hated it.

She cleared her throat. “I was thinking… maybe, when we’re both ready… we could try talking to someone. Together. A therapist. Or just set aside time to really - really talk. Without everything spiralling.”

Niko didn’t turn. He just adjusted the toaster dial like he was considering the darkness of bread more carefully than the future of their marriage.

“We’ll see, Eve,” he said. Not unkindly. Not kindly either. Just… a place-holder of a sentence.

The toaster popped. He plated the slices. No butter. No question of whether she wanted any.

Eve swallowed.

“And the other night,” she began, softer, “I know things were - raw. And we said things. And I know you apologised, and I accept that. I just want us to be moving forward, even if slowly.”

Niko nodded vaguely. “One thing at a time,” he said. “You’ve got rehearsal soon, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

He slid the plate toward her without really looking. “Go do that. We can check in later.”

There it was again, that neutrality. Not a wall. Walls were at least solid; you could push against them. This was… absence. Like he had stepped back from her emotionally and left a version of himself operating on autopilot.

Eve forced a smile she didn’t feel. “Right. Yeah. I’ll… get going.”

“Good.”

She left the kitchen feeling lighter and heavier at once - hollowed out, scraped thin.

On the way upstairs to gather her rehearsal clothes, she realised something with a small, sick twist in her chest.

Niko wasn’t punishing her out of spite. He was protecting himself.

And Villanelle wasn’t speaking to her out of anger. She was protecting herself too.

Two different kinds of distance. Two different kinds of hurt.

Both radiating outward from Eve like cracks she couldn’t tape back together.

By the time she zipped her dance bag and stepped out the door, she already felt wrung out - emotionally frayed before she’d even set foot in the studio.

And she still had to see Villanelle.

⸻

Eve arrived at the studio so early the corridor lights hadn’t fully warmed up yet. The place smelled faintly of floor cleaner and coffee, the Monday energy completely drained.

She told herself she was early on purpose - a good student, a committed contestant.

But the truth was simpler. She wanted to catch Villanelle before anyone else arrived.

To apologise.

To undo whatever yesterday had cracked open between them.

But the universe was uncooperative.

Because when Eve pushed open the rehearsal room door-

Villanelle was already there.

Her bag by the mirror.
Her water bottle on the floor.
Her jacket neatly folded in a corner.

And Villanelle herself was in the middle of the room, Waltzing with someone who wasn’t there.

She wasn’t marking the steps; she was dancing full out - posture regal, rise and fall like a tide, her arms held in pure, perfect frame as if the ghost of Eve were spinning in her hands. The long line of her neck, the subtle pull of her core, the sweep of her foot across the floor - it was all so beautiful Eve had to grip the doorframe for a second.

Villanelle didn’t turn when Eve entered.
Didn’t stop dancing.
Didn’t even twitch.

She simply pivoted, changed direction, and kept going, her expression calm and unreadable, her gaze fixed somewhere past Eve’s shoulder.

The music played on - the instrumental of “My Heart Will Go On,” soft and melancholy, like a warning.

Eve swallowed and stepped fully inside.
“Hey,” she said, tentative. “You’re early.”

Villanelle finished her phrase, came to a controlled halt, and finally looked at her.

Not warm.
Not angry.
Just… composed.

“Morning,” she said.

Her voice was neutral in a way that made Eve’s stomach drop.

“How are you?” Eve asked, and even she heard how small it sounded.

Villanelle picked up her water bottle, took a sip, and wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I had quite a heavy period last week,” she said matter-of-factly. “But otherwise, I think I am fine.”

Eve blinked. “Oh. Um. Good?”

Villanelle nodded once, already turning back to the mirror.

“Villanelle…” Eve tried again, “can we talk about yesterday?”

“No.” Villanelle didn’t even look up. “We have work.”

The words landed like ice water.

No anger.
No sharpness.
Just a clean shut door.

Eve felt something inside her hollow out. “Right,” she said quietly. “Work.”

When Villanelle finally faced her, she lifted her chin in a way that suggested she was about to give a lecture, not a conversation.

“Before we begin,” she said coolly, arms crossing, “you need to understand what the Waltz is.”

Eve blinked. “…Okay.”

Villanelle nodded once, shifting into her teacher cadence - precise, clipped, almost bored on purpose.

“The Waltz,” she began, “was originally considered scandalous.”

Eve’s eyebrows shot up. “Scandalous?”

“Yes,” Villanelle said. “Too close. Too intimate. Too much chest-to-chest contact for the delicate sensibilities of nineteenth-century society.”

She stepped closer - not close enough to touch, but close enough that Eve felt the gravity of her presence.

“People complained it encouraged… longing.”

The word hung in the air, pointed, even though Villanelle delivered it like a dictionary definition.

“Great,” Eve muttered. “Perfect. Exactly the vibe we need right now.”

Villanelle ignored that.

“In modern ballroom,” she continued, “the Waltz is about breath. Expansion. Surrender. It must look effortless, dreamy… tragic but hopeful.”

“That’s very specific,” Eve said.

“That is why we are doing it,” Villanelle replied, turning away to check her posture in the mirror. “The judges must believe you are swept away by emotion but not drowning in it.”

Eve rubbed her temples. “Okay. So I need to look like a woman who is… gently tragic?”

Villanelle nodded with clinical approval. “Yes. As if you have a meaningful secret but have chosen elegance over hysterics.”

Eve snorted. “Villanelle, I cried into a cardigan yesterday. Elegance is not my default setting.”

Villanelle didn’t smile. But her eyes flickered with something that might have been the shadow of one.

“You can fake it,” she said. “You fake emotions very well.”

“Ouch,” Eve muttered. “Is that your compliment of the day?”

Villanelle shrugged. “If you want a real one, stop talking and start dancing.”

Eve raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Frozen and rude. A full service today.”

“I am only rude on Tuesdays,” Villanelle replied dryly. “It is in my contract.”

Eve huffed a small laugh, the first one she’d managed all morning, but Villanelle didn’t soften.

If anything, she stepped further into the calm, deliberate mask she’d chosen to wear.

“Frame,” Villanelle said, hands already guiding Eve into position without touching her.

“Lift your chin,” Villanelle said, adjusting her posture without touching her. “The Waltz is not apologetic.”

Eve tried. She really did.

But her chest was tight, her breath uneven, and Villanelle’s scent - light citrus from her shampoo - hit her with memories she was not strong enough for today.

They took their first steps.

“Late,” Villanelle said immediately.

“Sorry-”

“Don’t apologise,” she cut in. “Just be on time.”

Eve swallowed hard. “Okay.”

They moved again. Eve mis-stepped. Her foot landed too close to Villanelle’s.

“Not near me,” Villanelle said crisply. “With me.”

Eve nodded, heat rising to her cheeks.

A few beats later, she turned the wrong direction.

“No,” Villanelle said. “Your other left.”

Normally, they would’ve laughed at that - Eve couldn’t count the number of times Villanelle had joked about sewing ‘LEFT’ and ‘OTHER LEFT’ labels onto her shoes.

But today there was nothing.
Just the correction.
Just the silence afterward.

Their bodies met in hold again, and Eve flinched - only slightly, but enough.

Villanelle felt it.

She didn’t react.

She simply repositioned Eve’s hand on her shoulder blade, precisely, clinically, as though Eve were any celebrity with nerves and no history.

The Waltz restarted.
And they moved.
Badly.

Eve kept losing the rise.
Villanelle kept stepping ahead of her rhythm.
Their frame collapsed twice.

It was like trying to dance with an ice sculpture.

Finally Eve broke. “Villanelle, you don’t have to be like this.”

Villanelle closed her eyes for one beat, a long, controlled blink, then opened them again with the same perfect neutrality.

“I am exactly what you asked me to be.”

Eve’s breath stuttered.

“When?” she whispered.

Villanelle tilted her head slightly, gaze piercing but emotionless. “Yesterday,” she said. “When you told me to stop whatever this is, and just dance.”

Eve felt her throat close.

“I meant-”

Villanelle stepped back, breaking their hold.

“You made yourself clear,” she said quietly. “I am being professional. Nothing more.”

And somehow, that hurt more than anything Villanelle had ever said in anger.

⸻

By midday, the room felt smaller. Thicker. Like the air itself was tired of being between them.

They moved through the basic box steps again, Villanelle counting with a clipped precision.

“One - two - three. Again. One - two - you’re late. Start over.”

Eve tried. God, she tried. She kept her shoulders down, kept her chin lifted the way Villanelle had drilled into her. She tried to match breath, match sway, match the impossible cool radiating off her partner.

But her gaze kept sliding away.
To the mirror.
To the floor.
Anywhere but the eyes she’d kissed.

Villanelle felt it. Of course she felt it.

“We do the travelling turn,” she said, stepping back and resetting the formation. “From the top.”

They began the sequence - a sweeping, elegant turn that required trust and continuous eye contact. Eve needed to follow Villanelle’s lead through the shift of weight, the rise and fall, the shared centrepoint.

But halfway through, Eve faltered.
Her foot hesitated.
Her chest tightened.
She glanced away.

And the whole movement collapsed.

Villanelle stopped dead.
Not dramatically.
Not angrily.

Quietly.

Which, somehow, was worse.

She stepped back from Eve as though assessing a structural failure in a building rather than a mistake made by a shaking human being.

Her hands went to her hips. Her breath lifted once, controlled.

“If you cannot look at me,” she said, voice low and precise, “you cannot dance with me.”

The sentence landed with such clean accuracy that Eve felt it physically, like a blade sliding between ribs.

It wasn’t shouted.
It wasn’t scolding.
It wasn’t cruel.

It was simply… true.

Technically true.
Emotionally true.
Accusation disguised as instruction.

Eve blinked once. Hard.

Her eyes flooded so quickly it startled her.

Villanelle froze for half a second, the tiniest crack in the armour, but then looked away, toward the mirrors, refusing to witness the effect of her words.

Which only made the hurt sharper.

“I’m trying,” Eve whispered, voice shaking.

Villanelle didn’t turn back.
She adjusted her ponytail instead - a pointless gesture, something to do with her hands so she didn’t have to reach for Eve.

“You are not trying,” she said quietly. “You are avoiding.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It is accurate.”

Eve swallowed, tears threatening to spill.

“It’s hard to look at you,” she whispered. “Everything is-”

Villanelle cut her off gently, without heat:

“I know it is hard. That does not make the dancing less required.”

The music kept playing behind them - a mockery of romance, of softness, of a world where people weren’t falling apart while pretending to waltz.

Eve wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said, hating how weak it sounded.

Villanelle didn’t reply.

She simply walked to the stereo, clicked the music off, and said, “Take ten minutes.”

A pause.

Then, softer but still guarded.

“And… breathe, Eve. Before you break something we still need.”

Then she left the room.

Eve stayed exactly where she was, tears slipping soundlessly down her face, feeling the truth of Villanelle’s words settle like dust in her lungs.

If you cannot look at me, you cannot dance with me.

And right now, she couldn’t do either.

⸻

They didn’t speak for the rest of the break.

Eve sat near the window, trying to steady her breath, trying to stop replaying Villanelle’s words in her head.

If you cannot look at me, you cannot dance with me.

Her chest still felt tight.

When Villanelle returned, she didn’t announce it. She simply stepped back into the room with the quiet efficiency of someone who had folded her emotions into a neat, unreachable square.

“Up,” she said, gesturing. “We continue.”

Eve obeyed. Her legs felt heavy, her throat raw.

Villanelle clicked the music on again. The Waltz swelled and filled the room, warm and tragic.

“Your frame collapsed,” Villanelle said. “We fix it.”

She walked behind Eve. No warning. No softness.

Her hands came to Eve’s ribcage - firm, professional, exact. Guiding the breath. The rise and fall. The place where connection should begin.

Her cheek hovered near Eve’s ear; Eve felt the warmth of her exhale against her neck.
A shiver ran down her back. She hated that her body reacted before her mind could shut it down.

Villanelle felt it too. Her fingers paused, only for a fraction of a second, then resumed with surgical precision.

“Breathe here,” she murmured. “Not in your shoulders. Again.”

Eve swallowed.

This should have been simple technique.
A standard correction. Nothing more.

But it felt like torture - like standing still while the person she wanted most pretended not to be the person she wanted at all.

Villanelle adjusted her posture, sliding one hand from Eve’s ribs to her sternum to direct her lift.

Eve’s breath hitched.

“Villanelle,” Eve whispered, barely audible.
“Please don’t touch me like that.”

Villanelle went still.

Her hands retreated immediately. Professionally. Cleanly.

When she spoke, her voice was flat - drained of colour, emotion, everything.

“I am your dance partner,” she said. “That is all you wanted. I am giving you exactly that.”

The words sliced through Eve before she had time to brace for them.

“That’s not-” Eve choked. “That’s not what I meant.”

Villanelle didn’t turn around. She walked a slow, deliberate circle, as if re-evaluating the shape of the room.

“It is exactly what you meant,” she said. “You made it very clear yesterday.”

Eve felt the floor shift beneath her.

“I didn’t mean like this.”

“No?” Villanelle said, still not looking at her. “You asked me to stop. To step back. To be… professional.” She spat the last word like it tasted bitter. “And now that I am, you do not like it.”

Eve’s eyes filled instantly. She tried to speak but her throat closed.

Villanelle finally looked at her - not cold, not cruel, just… unreachable. Somewhere behind glass.

“You cannot have both,” she said softly. “My feelings and my control. It is not possible.”

Eve sank down onto the floor.
Not dramatically.
Not collapsing.

Just… giving up.

Her back hit the mirror, the coolness grounding her as the tears started to fall.

“I don’t want this version of you,” she whispered.

Villanelle stood above her, arms folded, posture immaculate.

“You asked me to stop feeling,” she said quietly. “So I did.”

“That’s not-”

Villanelle cut her off.

“You think I do not know what yesterday cost me? What it cost you?” Her voice sharpened for the first time that day. “You think I do not feel anything when you cry on the floor? When you pull away? When you choose him again and again even when you know-”

She broke off, turning her face away, jaw tight.

Eve pressed her palms to her eyes, tears slipping through her fingers.

“I am trying,” she said, voice cracking. “I am trying to fix everything and all I keep doing is breaking it more.”

Villanelle didn’t move.

She watched Eve cry, unreadable, and for a moment it was unclear which of them was hurting more.

After a long, quiet beat, Villanelle said:

“You asked me to be professional. I am being professional. If this is painful for you, perhaps that is the price.”

The tears kept coming, hot and humiliating.

Eve wasn’t sure whether she was crying for Niko, for Villanelle, or for herself.

Probably all three.

She didn’t look up.
Couldn’t.

When she finally blinked through the blur of her vision, Villanelle was already walking toward the door.

⸻

Villanelle reached the door.

Eve heard the soft click of her hand on the handle - that gentle metallic sound of someone about to remove themselves entirely.

“Villanelle-” Eve blurted, voice breaking. “Please. Don’t go. Come back. Please.”

Villanelle stilled.

But she didn’t turn.

Not toward Eve.
Not toward the room.
Not toward the mess of emotion she was leaving behind.

She was one second from walking out when-

The door swung inward.

A producer stood there, tablet in hand, the bright artificial smile of someone whose job depended entirely on pretending not to notice emotional volcanoes.

“Hi!” he chirped. “Just checking how the Waltz is going-”

Villanelle didn’t blink.

“Get out.”

The producer froze, his smile cracking like thin glass.

“Oh. Uh- sorry, we just need some footage later for-”

Villanelle turned her head a fraction.
Not fully. Just enough for him to see her eyes.

It was enough.

“Get. Out.”

The words were quiet and deadly, each one placed with precision, like she was slotting bullets into chambers.

The producer backed away so fast he nearly tripped.

“Okay! Yes! Got it! You need space, totally fine! Love that for you-”

He fled.

The door swung halfway shut, then caught on Villanelle’s foot.

She stepped forward, grabbed her bag from the floor with a single, sharp motion.

She finally spoke to Eve, but still didn’t look at her.

“I’m taking lunch.”

Her voice had no tremor.
No softness.
Nothing left in it at all.

“Stay away from me.”

She walked out.

And this time she didn’t let the door ease closed like before. She slammed it.

The sound cracked through the studio, loud and final, vibrating through the floorboards, rattling Eve’s bones.

Eve flinched so violently her breath punched out of her.

The Celine Dion track, still looping in the background, swelled tragically behind the silence Villanelle left behind.

Eve pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.

It felt like something inside her had just broken clean in two.

⸻

Eve arrived first.

The café was warm in that overly-sweet, sticky way - cinnamon, milk foam, and burnt espresso grounds trapped in soft air. A bell chimed mechanically when Eve pushed the door open, but nobody looked up. Good. She didn’t want anyone looking at her.

She slid into the farthest booth, pressed against the wall, coat still on like armour. She stared at the menu board without seeing a single word. Her chest felt tight, her throat raw, her eyes stinging - though she’d sworn she wouldn’t cry anymore today.

A waitress passed by and smiled.

Eve smiled back, or tried to. Then let her face fall as soon as the woman turned away.

She didn’t order.
She didn’t trust her voice.

She just sat there, hands wrapped around each other in her lap as if trying to keep herself from falling apart.

The bell over the door chimed again.

Eve didn’t look up, not until she heard.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

Elena marched straight toward her, coat half on, fringe slightly wind-blown, expression set to intervention mode.

She slid into the booth across from Eve and stared.

“You have,” Elena announced, “the face of someone who has either been crying or actively fighting God. And I note, with great concern, that there is no coffee on this table.”

Eve opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Elena raised a hand. “No. Don’t speak. I can already sense it’s going to be stupid. Why are you sitting in a café like a Victorian orphan without a beverage?”

“I… didn’t know what to order,” Eve said weakly.

“Tea!” Elena snapped. “Coffee! A pastry! A shot of vodka disguised in a water bottle! This is a place of options, Eve.”

Despite herself, Eve let out a tiny, pathetic laugh.

Elena’s eyes softened, just a little. She leaned in, forearms on the table.

“Okay,” she said. “Start talking.”

So Eve did.

She started with Sunday - coming home, the conversation with Niko, the guilt, the kiss confession. Then Monday’s rehearsal. Then today - Villanelle’s coldness, the argument, the breakdown, the door slam. Every word pulled something heavy out of her chest.

When she finished, she stared at the wood grain on the table like it held answers.

“Well,” Eve said, voice small, “your advice has resulted in both Niko and Villanelle being assholes to me, so truly, Elena, thank you for your service.”

Elena blinked.

Then blinked again.

“Oh, good,” she said. “Humour. You’re not entirely dead inside.”

She reached forward, caught both of Eve’s hands in hers.

“Eve,” she said gently, “Villanelle seems like the kind of person who only gets cold when she’s devastated. You didn’t calm her down, you became the storm.”

Eve winced hard. “Can we not phrase it like a tragic novel?”

“No,” Elena said. “Because it’s true. You threw her heart into a blender. Of course she froze you out.”

Eve stared miserably at her hands. “I’m trying to fix things with Niko-”

“You can’t have both of them,” Elena said, not unkindly. “Not how you want them.”

Eve felt the words cut through her like clean glass.

“I don’t… want both,” Eve whispered.

Elena’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? And the sky is green?”

“I don’t know what I want,” Eve insisted.

“No,” Elena said, voice quiet but sure. “You know. You’re just terrified of admitting it.”

Eve’s throat tightened. Her eyes burned.

Elena squeezed her hands.

“You’re being loyal,” she said. “But to the wrong version of your life.”

Eve frowned. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Elena said, “you are trying to keep a promise you made to a version of Eve who did not exist in a rehearsal room with Villanelle looking at her like that.”

Eve’s breath hitched. She dropped her gaze.

“Elena…” she said helplessly.

“No,” Elena pressed. “Pick the version where you’re honest. Even if it wrecks everything first.”

Eve made a low, broken sound - a laugh wrapped in a sob.

“I’m a disaster,” she whispered.

“You’re my disaster,” Elena corrected, tugging her hands gently. “Which means I get to bully you until you make at least one emotionally competent decision.”

Eve let out a shaky exhale that might have been the first actual breath she’d taken all day.

For the first time since Villanelle walked out and the door slammed shut, Eve felt something shift inside her - not clarity, not certainty, but the smallest sliver of strength.

A thin, trembling line of resolve.

Whatever came next, she wasn’t facing it alone.

⸻

The pros’ dressing room was usually loud - hairdryers, gossip, the slap of shoes on laminate flooring, Nikita singing off-key for absolutely no reason. But now?

Silent.

Villanelle sat on the bench beneath the row of mirrors, her back rigid, her shoulders squared in a way that looked strong from the outside and brittle from the inside. Her phone lay face-up on her thigh.

No notifications.

No messages.

Not even the stupid accidental emoji Eve sometimes sent when her thumb slipped.

Villanelle tapped the phone once with her fingertip.

Nothing changed.

She tossed it aside sharply, as if it had betrayed her, then dragged both hands back through her hair, elbows resting on her knees.

Her chest felt tight. Annoyingly tight.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Then Nikita’s voice.

“I’m coming in unless you’re naked or holding a weapon.”

Villanelle didn’t answer.

The door cracked open. Nikita poked his head through.

He saw her face and froze.

“…okay,” he said softly, stepping inside. “Wow. You look like you’re considering arson.”

Villanelle didn’t lift her head. “Go away.”

“No,” he said, sitting down beside her with the confidence of someone who’d been dealing with drama since childhood. “It’s my break too, and this bench is comfortable.”

Villanelle stared straight ahead at her reflection - the elegant lines, the controlled breathing, the eyes that refused to betray anything unless she allowed it.

Nikita leaned sideways, trying to catch her gaze.

“Talk to me.”

“No.”

“Villanelle.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then, very quietly, “She asked me to stop feeling.”

Nikita blinked. He blinked again.

“…and you listened?”

Villanelle said nothing.

“Oh wow,” he breathed. “You are in trouble.”

Villanelle reached for the nearest object, a shoe, and threw it at him without looking.

He dodged easily.

“I’m keeping that,” he said, placing the shoe beside him like evidence. “As a symbol of your emotional stupidity.”

Villanelle’s jaw clenched. Her throat moved once, a swallow she didn’t want him to notice.

“She kissed me,” Villanelle muttered. It came out harsher than intended. Like a confession dragged over broken glass.

Nikita’s eyes softened immediately.

“I know,” he said gently. “We all know. Half the studio knows. The audience probably knows.”

Villanelle closed her eyes.

“She kissed me,” she repeated, voice lower now, thinner. “And then she said she wanted her husband.”

Nikita didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding her.

“It hurts,” he said simply.

Villanelle inhaled sharply - like she’d been hit. Her nose stung. Her eyes burned.

She refused to let a tear fall. Refused.

“She is punishing herself,” Nikita said. “And you are standing in the middle and getting hit by both sides.”

Villanelle gave the smallest, most fractured sound - half scoff, half broken breath.

“I do not want to be professional with her.” Her voice cracked on not. Just enough to betray her.

Nikita squeezed her shoulder.

“I know.”

“I hate this,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“I want to shake her.”

“I know.”

Villanelle finally turned her head, looking at him straight on.

“I want her,” she said quietly.

And that, more than anything, was the truth she couldn’t un-say.

Nikita’s face softened completely.

“Then talk to her,” he said. “Don’t let this… silence grow teeth. If you don’t talk, someone will slip on the tension and die. Probably me. I bruise easily.”

Villanelle huffed a tiny laugh, watery, unwilling.

But she didn’t promise anything.

⸻

When Villanelle finally came back, the studio door didn’t slam this time.

It clicked.

Soft. Controlled. Terrifying.

Eve stood up so fast her knee cracked. She swiped her sleeve across her face, smudging mascara in a trembling diagonal she didn’t bother fixing.

Villanelle didn’t look at her at first.

She crossed the room with measured, pace-perfect steps, like she was counting them. She set her water bottle down. Reset the speaker volume. Checked her hair in the mirror without really seeing her reflection.

Only then did she speak.

“From the beginning,” she said. Her voice was even. Smooth. Unreadable. “We run the Waltz.”

Eve’s throat hurt. She nodded anyway.

Villanelle walked to the centre of the floor and held out her hands in the standard ballroom invitation - right hand hovering, left hand open. Technically perfect. Emotionally vacant.

Eve stepped into her.

And even then - even ruined, even furious, even emptied out - they fit.

Villanelle placed her right hand against the small of Eve’s back.

Gentle.

Far gentler than she had any reason to be.

Her fingers didn’t press, they rested. It was nothing. It was everything. A ghost of yesterday’s tenderness, peeking through the armour she was trying so hard to weld shut.

Eve inhaled sharply.

Villanelle pretended not to notice.

“Three,” she said quietly.
“Two.”
“One.”

And then they danced.

⸻

The Waltz wrapped around them like mist - slow, aching circles that pulled them closer no matter how hard Eve tried to keep space between them.

Villanelle led softly, with a restraint Eve had never felt from her. No sharp pushes. No teasing drags. Just… control. Just the shape of the dance.

It made Eve’s chest constrict.

They glided through the rise-and-fall sweep; Eve’s breath kept catching whenever Villanelle’s cheek neared hers. Their hips brushed in a tentative half-turn. Their joined hands hovered at shoulder height, trembling with the effort of pretending this was nothing.

On the spin-turn, Eve stumbled just slightly.

Villanelle steadied her instantly.

Her fingers tightened.

Just once.

Just long enough for Eve to feel them.

At the end of the routine, instead of releasing the final pose, Villanelle held it.

Held Eve.

Held the moment.

Their foreheads weren’t touching - but close enough that Eve felt the warmth of her breath on her cheek.

The music faded into the last soft swell of strings.

Neither of them moved.

Villanelle’s voice, when it came, was low and steady and unbearably gentle.

“You need to decide, Eve.”

Eve closed her eyes. Her mouth trembled.
“I told you- I did decide. I’m trying to-”

Villanelle exhaled - a sound that wasn’t a sigh, wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t anything she ever let another human hear.

She shook her head once.

A small, devastated gesture.

Then, after a long moment, even quieter.

“You need to decide again.”

Eve’s breath broke.

The space between them felt like a chasm and a kiss and a wound all at once.

Villanelle stepped back first.

Her arms dropped from the hold with clinical precision, as if she were putting away equipment after an operation.

“That’s enough for today,” she said, voice returning to that glacial professionalism. “We are finished.”

Eve didn’t argue.

Couldn’t.

Villanelle grabbed her bag. Slung it over her shoulder. Walked toward the door with the posture of someone who refused to let themselves limp.

She paused only once - hand on the doorframe, back still to Eve.

A heartbeat.

Two.

Then she left.

The click of the door was the quietest sound Eve had ever heard.

And somehow, the loudest.

Chapter Text

The BBC building had a strange stillness in the early morning, as if the halls were holding their breath. Eve walked through them with a careful, almost tiptoeing quiet, like noise alone might shatter whatever fragile equilibrium she’d managed to scrape together after another night of sleeping, or pretending to sleep, alone.

The separation-from-Niko agreement was taking its toll, and the bed felt cavernous without him. She kept waking in the dark, reaching for someone who wasn’t there. Then remembering why.

By the time she pushed open the heavy fire door leading to the Strictly corridors, her stomach was already a knot. A rehearsed knot. A tired, guilty, knotted knot.

Nothing about this week felt straightforward.

She reached the green room and found a small cluster of producers waiting. Clipboards, coffees, cheerful energy bordering on manic.

“Eve! Morning! You look radiant,” one producer chirped, which was frankly irresponsibly optimistic.

“Thanks,” Eve said with a tight smile. “It’s just… my face.”

Laughter that was too loud followed.

Then the air shifted.

Villanelle appeared from the side corridor, wearing black training leggings, a cream top, hair scraped back into an icy, elegant bun. Her bag swung lightly at her shoulder. Her expression was unreadable.

Except for her eyes.

Something flickered there, guarded, shuttered, maybe a bit bruised, before disappearing behind a perfectly pleasant mask.

“Good morning,” Villanelle said, accent smooth as lacquer.

Eve swallowed. “Morning.”

No hug. No nod. No shared breath. They stood close enough to touch but felt continents apart.

A producer waved them over. “Icons Week promo! We need some little interview bits - just the two of you on stools, talking about how magical and meaningful this week is!”

Magical.
Meaningful.
Hilarious.

They followed the producers into one of the small side studios. This one had soft lighting, a backdrop of pastel graphics, and two stools arranged so closely together their knees would brush.

Villanelle sat without hesitation, body relaxed, the picture of confidence.

Eve sat beside her and immediately felt the warmth of Villanelle’s thigh, a proximity that used to feel like a spark and now felt like a warning.

The crew fussed with their hair and microphones.

A hand brushed Eve’s collarbone while clipping the mic pack, and she almost flinched.

The red camera light flicked on.

Instantly, both of them transformed.

Villanelle smiled - not her real smile but the television one, pitch-perfect and charming.
Eve followed, the corners of her mouth lifting mechanically.

“So,” the producer called from behind the cameras, “tell us! How’s rehearsal going for your Waltz? Feeling ready? Feeling emotional? Feeling iconic?”

Villanelle leaned in slightly toward Eve, voice warm as honey.

“We are having a beautiful week,” she purred. “Eve is discovering new things about her body. It is very inspiring.”

Eve blinked. “That sounds… medically concerning.”

Laughter from the crew.

“Yes,” Villanelle nodded gravely. “She has learned where her feet are. It is progress.”

“Wow,” Eve said flatly. “My journey is incredible.”

Another round of delighted laughter.

“And what can the public expect from your Waltz?” another producer asked.

Villanelle’s hand drifted, too gently, to Eve’s arm. Almost possessive. Almost mocking.
On camera, it looked affectionate.

“It is a dance of connection,” Villanelle said, eyes locked on Eve’s profile. “Very close. Very intimate. We feel very… together.”

Eve felt heat crawl up her neck.

She gave the camera a tight smile. “Yes. Very together.”

The red light switched off.

And the whole illusion collapsed.

Villanelle removed her hand as though it had never been there. Her posture straightened - not cold, exactly, but sealed. Untouchable.

Eve had the strange, irrational urge to grab Villanelle’s wrist and ask which version of her was real.

The producer clapped her hands. “Perfect! Adorable! Let’s get you two into rehearsal now - we’ll grab training footage later!”

Eve nodded automatically.

Villanelle was already walking toward the door, not looking back.

⸻

The moment they stepped inside, the world shrank.

The space had always felt big enough for the two of them. Today it felt like a box with corners she kept bumping into.

Villanelle set her bag down with quiet, deliberate movements, as if keeping her emotions in neat compartments.

Eve’s voice came out softer than she intended.

“Villanelle… about yesterday-”

Villanelle didn’t turn. She pressed play on the speaker. Celine Dion’s opening notes floated through the room, painfully gentle.

“Not now,” she said.

Eve’s chest tightened. “But we can’t just pretend-”

“We can,” Villanelle said. “We are pretending for a living, no?”

The coldness was so polite it hurt.

They began dancing.

Or something like dancing.

Villanelle guided her with impeccable technique but absolutely no warmth.

“Your chin,” she murmured.
“Your frame is collapsing.”
“No - your other left.”
“You are thinking instead of moving.”
“Again.”

Eve’s breath kept snagging. Her limbs felt too heavy and too aware of Villanelle’s proximity.

At one point Villanelle adjusted the placement of Eve’s hand on her shoulder blade. The touch was feather-light.

Eve still jolted.

Villanelle stepped back instantly.

“We cannot dance if you react like I shock you.”

Eve rubbed at her temple. “Maybe if you weren’t-”

“What?” Villanelle said softly. “Existing?”

Eve blew out a frustrated breath. “Why isn’t this working? Yesterday it- it just worked.”

Villanelle didn’t sigh. Didn’t soften.
“It wasn’t technically perfect,” she said evenly. “But yes. You were moving better.”

“So what changed?” Eve snapped.

Villanelle adjusted the volume on the speaker, lowering Celine Dion to a soft, haunting hum. She turned back with that controlled, unreadable calm that made Eve feel flayed.

“The tension,” Villanelle said simply.

“Between us,” Eve guessed, and hated how her voice caught on the words.

Villanelle didn’t answer. She folded her arms, considering her like a choreography problem.

Eve felt the sting of the loud silence in her chest. “I’m trying to fix things with Niko. That doesn’t mean I wanted you to - to be like this.”

Villanelle didn’t blink. “You wanted distance.”

“Not like this,” Eve whispered. “Not… whatever this is.”

Villanelle stepped closer - not intimately, just enough that Eve could feel the difference in temperature between them.

“Yesterday,” Villanelle said softly, “you looked at me. Today you won’t.”

Eve’s throat tightened instantly. She didn’t deny it. She couldn’t.

Villanelle took a small step back, professionalism snapping over her like armour.

“We cannot Waltz like this,” she said. “The dance needs trust. Connection. A shared line. If you avoid me, it will never work.”

Eve blinked hard, trying to steady her breath. “So it’s my fault.”

Villanelle didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

And that, that silent confirmation, hit harder than anything she could have said.

⸻

Eve pressed her fingertips to her forehead, trying to quiet the swirl in her chest. The room felt too small, the mirror too reflective, the music too soft and too loud at the same time.

She needed air.

“I can’t-” she exhaled shakily. “I can’t breathe in here. Can we… go outside for a bit? Just a walk. No dancing. No… anything.”

Villanelle looked at her for a moment, unreadable as glass.

Then nodded once. “Okay.”

Just that. Not cold, not warm - simply agreement. It surprised her.

The afternoon air had that particular London chill - cleaner than indoors, almost metallic, softening the moment it hit skin. Eve felt her lungs expand properly for the first time all day.

They walked without speaking. Shoulder to shoulder. Matching pace automatically.

Even like this, distance and tension knotting between them, Villanelle’s presence steadied her in a way she wished it didn’t.

After several minutes, Eve said quietly, “Thank you.”

Villanelle didn’t look at her. “For what?”

“For coming with me.”

Villanelle’s mouth curved, the faintest, saddest hint of a smile. “As long as you keep breathing, it is convenient for my work.”

Eve huffed a laugh despite herself. “God, you’re impossible.”

“Yes,” Villanelle said lightly. “But scenic.”

They reached a bench near the edge of the small staff courtyard - half-shaded, half-lit, empty.

Eve stopped walking.

Villanelle waited.

Eve gestured weakly. “Sit?”

Villanelle lowered herself gracefully, looking up at Eve as if preparing for a diagnosis.

Eve sat beside her.

The quiet stretched - charged, uncertain.

She inhaled once, deeply. “I’m going to tell you something,” she said. “And I already regret saying that sentence.”

Villanelle’s mouth curved. “Promising start.”

Eve stared at her hands. Her voice came out low, raw. “I think about you more than I should and it scares me.”

A tiny frown line appeared between Villanelle’s eyebrows - listening, not mocking.

Eve continued, words tumbling faster, as if she’d opened a tap she no longer controlled.

“I think about where you are when I’m not with you. What you’re doing at stupid times of day. If you’ve eaten anything. What you listen to on the way here. What you do for fun, who you speak to, if you’re lonely.”

Villanelle blinked once, slowly.

Eve swallowed hard. “I don’t know why it’s like this. I just- want to know you.”

A beat.

Two.

Then Villanelle said, very casually, “I think about you too.”

Warmth hit Eve’s ribs like a low-grade explosion.

Villanelle leaned back on the bench, lifting her face to the sky. “I mean, I masturbate about you a lot.”

Eve choked. Loudly. “Oh my- okay. That’s- wow.”

“Too honest?” Villanelle asked, tilting her head.

“Not too honest,” Eve sputtered. “Just… a bit shocking.”

Villanelle smiled, genuine and small, like the first hint of sunrise. “That is the idea.”

They sat quietly again, the tension shifting - no longer acid-sharp, but sad, tender around the edges.

Then Villanelle spoke, softer than before, “When I am with you… everything feels clearer. And messier. I don’t enjoy this combination.”

Eve’s breath hitched. She stared down at her knees, then turned to her.

“I feel things too,” she admitted. “Stupid, impossible things. And they feel… good. And that’s the problem.”

Villanelle didn’t speak, she just watched her, eyes dark and unbearably open.

Eve forced the rest out. “I can’t destroy my marriage. I can’t be the reason someone I love falls apart. I don’t know how to hold all of this at once. You and him. Me, apparently.” A shaky laugh. “I’m not built for this.”

Villanelle looked away, jaw tightening - not anger, but restraint. She clasped her hands between her knees, elegant thumbs fidgeting.

“I do not want to hurt him either,” she said quietly. Then, after a beat. “But I want you… and I want you to choose me”

Villanelle didn’t look at her when she said it. Her hands were clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone pale.

It wasn’t a seduction. It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even a request.

It was just the truth.

Blunt and helpless.

Eve’s chest ached.

“I know,” she whispered. “And part of me wants that too. And part of me is terrified of wanting anything.”

Villanelle nodded once, accepting but wounded. “So we suffer.”

Eve huffed a weak laugh. “Apparently we do.”

They sat in shared misery for a moment, an intimacy of its own kind.

Finally, Eve exhaled, steadier now. “We can’t work like this. Not in the studio. It’s ruining everything. We need… boundaries. Professional ones. Friendship ones. Something that doesn’t feel like a labyrinth.”

Villanelle considered this, tapping her thumb against her knee.

“Friends,” she said. “And professionals.”

“Yes,” Eve said. “Both.”

A soft sigh escaped Villanelle. “I can try.”

It was the closest Villanelle could come to surrender.

Eve nudged her shoulder lightly. “Thanks.”

Villanelle nudged back, barely. But enough.

After a moment, Villanelle asked, almost too casually, “Are you going to Vito’s birthday thing tomorrow?”

Eve grimaced. “I don’t know. I need three business days to recover nowadays.”

“Nikita insists I am going. He said I am ‘low morale’ and need hydration. Alcohol is not hydration. But he is small and very loud.”

Eve laughed, “A terrifying combination.”

“Yes,” Villanelle mused. “Friendship is annoying.”

Eve laughed properly for the first time all day.

They stood at the same time, shoulders brushing. Villanelle didn’t move away.

“Come,” she said softly. “Before they send a search party and Claudia arrives with a megaphone.”

Eve smiled. “Yeah. Let’s go finish the day.”

They walked back toward the studio - still bruised, still uncertain, but something had shifted.

Not solved. Not healed. Just… softened, the way winter air softens before snow.

⸻

Later on, Eve let herself into the house quietly, as if volume alone might tip something over.

The hallway light was on. Niko’s shoes were lined up neatly by the door, laces tucked in, an unconscious sign that he’d had the energy to care about small things today. That felt like a good sign. Or at least a neutral one.

She hung her coat, slower than necessary, listening.

No music. No TV. Just the soft clink of ceramic and water.

He was in the kitchen.

She paused before going in, drawing a breath she hoped sounded normal when she used it.

“Hey,” she said.

Niko looked up from the counter, where he was rinsing a mug. He smiled - polite, automatic, a reflex he hadn’t quite shaken yet.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re back early.”

“Yeah. We wrapped a bit sooner.” Eve hesitated, then added, lightly, “How was your day?”

“Fine.” He turned the mug upside down on the rack. “Kids were feral. One tried to argue that Shakespeare was a government psyop.”

Eve smiled. “Was it persuasive?”

“No,” he said. “But confident.”

She hovered in the doorway, then crossed the room and set her bag down on a chair. The kitchen felt oddly staged, like it had been tidied for someone else.

“I was thinking I could cook,” she said. “If you’re hungry.”

Niko considered it for a beat, then nodded.“Yeah. That’d be good.”

Relief flickered through her - small, fragile, but real.

She moved around him, pulling ingredients from cupboards she knew by heart. The familiar motions steadied her a little. Chopping garlic. Filling a pan. Turning the stove on.

Niko sat at the table with his laptop open, scrolling absently through emails he wasn’t reading.

“So,” he said eventually, “how’s… rehearsal been?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Better today.”

“That’s good.”

“It was.” She waited, then added, “Hard. But better.”

He nodded, accepting the information without asking for more.

They cooked and worked in a quiet rhythm, not uncomfortable exactly, just careful. Like both of them were testing how much weight the floor could still take.

Eve stayed in the kitchen after serving up dinner, fiddling with the cutlery drawer, rearranging things that didn’t need rearranging. She needed to say it before the moment passed. Before the evening settled into silence again.

“Niko,” she said, lightly, “I was thinking about tomorrow.”

He looked up from his plate. “Yeah?”

“I finish rehearsals early,” she went on. “And it’s Vito’s birthday thing. Nothing massive - just drinks, I think. But I thought maybe… we could go for dinner first? Just us. And then, if you felt like it, we could swing by, say hi, have one drink. We don’t have to stay.”

She smiled, hopeful in a way she hadn’t let herself be in weeks.

“It might be… nice,” she added. “Normal.”

Niko’s fork paused halfway to his mouth.

He put it down carefully.

“I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

Her smile faltered. “Why?”

He hesitated, searching for words that wouldn’t sound like what they were.

“Those people,” he said slowly, “they don’t exactly… make me feel welcome.”

Eve frowned. “They’re my friends, Niko. They’re not-”

“I know what they are,” he cut in, not sharply, but firmly. “They’re very attractive. Very intense. Very invested in you.”

“That’s their job.”

“And half of them are openly rooting for you to leave me,” he said, with a short, humourless laugh. “So forgive me if I don’t fancy raising a glass with them.”

“That’s not true,” Eve said, heat creeping into her voice. “They don’t even know you.”

“Exactly,” he replied. “And yet somehow I’m still the villain of the piece.”

She stared at him. “No one has made you a villain.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and something in his expression shifted.

“Eve,” he said quietly, “you dance with someone in a way that makes half the country gasp, and you expect me to feel relaxed about socialising with the people who choreograph it?”

“That’s unfair,” she said. “It’s performance.”

“And that’s the line you keep feeding me,” he replied. “Performance. Acting. Technique. Chemistry that magically switches off when the music stops.”

She pushed her chair back slightly. “You’ve seen what it’s like. It’s not-”

“I’ve seen exactly what it’s like,” he said, more tired than angry. “I don’t want to be around it.”

The words landed quietly. Devastatingly.

“I’m still choosing you,” Eve said, her voice tight. “I’m trying to choose us.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m something you’re managing?” he asked. “Like an obligation you need to soothe so you can go back to… whatever that is.”

“That’s not fair,” she said again, softer now. “I asked you out. I’m here. I cooked dinner.”

“I know,” he said. “And I appreciate it.”

She swallowed. “That’s not the same as wanting it.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and awkward.

Finally, he sighed.

“I’ve already made plans tomorrow,” he said. “Pub quiz. With people from work.”

“Oh,” she said. “Okay. Well, maybe we could do dinner another night?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Not right now.”

Eve understood then that it wasn’t about the quiz. It was about choosing somewhere she wasn’t.

Her chest tightened. “I’m trying, Niko.”

“I can see that,” he said. “But every time I reach for you, it feels like I’m grabbing smoke.”

She flinched.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she said. “I don’t want to lose us.”

He looked down at his hands. “I don’t know how to hold onto something when I’m not sure I’m still invited into it.”

She stood abruptly, pacing once, then stopping.

“So what do we do?” she asked. “Just… live like flatmates until this is over?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I just know I can’t pretend I’m fine anymore.”

Neither could she.

He stood, scraping his chair back. “I’m exhausted. I think I’m going to bed.”

“Already?”

“It’s been a long day,” he said. “Every day feels long lately.”

He hesitated, then leaned in and kissed her cheek - a careful, restrained gesture, more courtesy than intimacy.

“Goodnight, Eve.”

“Goodnight.”

She stayed where she was as he disappeared down the hallway.

The house felt bigger after that. Too quiet. Too full of things that hadn’t been said.

Eve sat back down at the table, staring at the place he’d been sitting, at the empty chair across from her.

She had asked. She had tried. She had offered him dinner and drinks and a version of herself that was still reaching.

She had never been good at leaving. Only at waiting until someone else did it for her.

Chapter Text

There was no rehearsal today.

The studio had been given over entirely to the professionals, who were drilling their group number for Saturday - lifts being practised in silence, counts being barked across the floor, music starting and stopping in violent little bursts. Eve had technically been welcome to come in and practise on her own. One of the runners had even said it kindly, as if it were an offer rather than an obligation.

She hadn’t gone.

The idea of standing in that room without Villanelle - running the Waltz alone, holding air where a body should be - felt worse than doing nothing at all. Pointless. Like rehearsing grief.

So she stayed home.

The house felt unfamiliar in the daylight, stripped of urgency. Too quiet. Too honest.

Eve drifted from room to room without purpose, tidying things that didn’t need tidying. She wiped down the already-clean kitchen counter. Reorganised a drawer full of takeaway menus. Folded a blanket that had been folded already, then unfolded it again.

She kept thinking she heard Niko’s footsteps.

She didn’t.

By mid-afternoon, the silence had started to feel accusatory. She caught herself standing in the doorway of the spare room, his room now, staring at the neatly made bed, the book he’d left face-down on the side table. Evidence of distance, carefully maintained.

She backed away.

Her phone sat untouched on the coffee table. Face down. Like it might accuse her too.

Niko hadn’t texted all day.

Niko was at work. She knew that. He’d said he had plans later - the pub quiz with his colleagues - said it casually, like it didn’t mean anything at all. Like it hadn’t landed in her chest and stayed there, heavy and irritating.

Gemma will be there, her brain supplied helpfully, uninvited.

The thought annoyed her more than it probably should have.

By five o’clock, the idea of staying home felt unbearable. Like punishment rather than restraint.

She picked up her phone and stared at Niko’s name until it stopped looking like a choice and started looking like a bruise.

Eve:
I’ve decided I’m going to Vito’s thing tonight. Just wanted to let you know.

She hovered.

Added nothing else.

Sent it.

The message delivered instantly. No reply followed.

Eve stared at the screen anyway - long enough for the little “Delivered” to start feeling like a verdict.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She could have added a second message. Something neutral. Something careful. Hope work’s okay. See you later.

But she didn’t want to sound like she was asking permission to exist in her own life.

She locked her phone and tossed it onto the sofa like it might bite her.

“Fine,” she muttered to the empty room, and hated how much she meant it.

She didn’t give herself time to reconsider. She picked her phone back up, scrolled to Elena’s name and hit call.

“Elena,” she said as soon as the call connected.

“YES,” Elena replied immediately, loud enough to suggest she was already in the mindset. “Tell me you’re coming.”

“I think I need to,” Eve said honestly. “If I stay here, I’m going to start alphabetising the spice rack and that feels like a cry for help.” Eve hesitated. “Can I come over and get ready with you? Maybe have a drink before we go?”

There was a beat. Then Elena said, carefully casual, “Absolutely. I’ll open wine. The good one. You sound like you need it.”

Eve smiled despite herself. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Perfect,” Elena said. “And Eve?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you for leaving the house.”

Eve swallowed. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I will make it weirder,” Elena replied cheerfully, and hung up.

⸻

Elena’s flat was warm and bright and chaotic in a way that felt deliberately human. Music played low from a speaker - something with a bassline that vibrated through the floor - and the smell of red wine and perfume hung in the air.

Eve changed in the spare room slowly, deliberately. Not rushing. Not panicking.

When she stepped back into the living room, Elena looked up from the sofa.

Then froze.

“Oh,” Elena said. “Oh wow.”

Eve stopped short. “What.”

Elena set her glass down with exaggerated care and stood. “Okay,” she said. “So this is what we’re doing.”

The dress was blue - deep and clean, strapless, mid-length. Simple lines, no drama. The kind of dress that didn’t ask for attention but took it anyway. Eve’s hair was down, not styled exactly, but intentional enough to suggest effort without confession.

Eve rolled her eyes immediately. “Don’t.”

“I mean,” Elena continued, standing and circling her slowly, “this is criminal. You look like you’re about to ruin someone’s evening.”

“That’s not the goal,” Eve said. “Shut up.”

Elena stopped in front of her, hands on hips, grinning. “I’m just saying. That dress is doing A LOT.”

“It’s a birthday,” Eve said defensively. “People dress up for birthdays.”

“Mmm,” Elena hummed. “Do they dress up like this for birthdays?”

Eve grabbed her bag from the chair. “It’s a special occasion.”

Elena tilted her head. “For who?”

“For… everyone,” Eve said, a little too fast.

Elena smiled knowingly. “Sure.”

“Don’t do that,” Eve warned.

“I’m not doing anything,” Elena said lightly. “I’m just observing that last week you wore trainers to brunch.”

“That was different.”

“Because?”

Eve paused. Then lifted her chin. “Because tonight I don’t want to disappear.”

Elena’s expression softened. She stepped closer and adjusted the neckline of the dress gently.

“Well,” she said. “Mission accomplished.”

Eve exhaled. “Can we go now before I change my mind and put a jumper over it?”

Elena grabbed her coat. “Absolutely not. The jumper is cancelled.”

As they headed for the door, Elena added, “Also, for what it’s worth - if Villanelle doesn’t combust when she sees you, I’ll be disappointed.”

“Elena.”

“I’m just saying,” she replied cheerfully. “It is a special occasion.”

They stepped out into the evening air, the city humming softly around them.

Eve locked the door behind her and didn’t look back.

⸻

The place Vito had chosen was not a bar.

It was a club - the kind that pretended it wasn’t trying too hard while doing absolutely everything to prove it was. Low ceilings, exposed brick, lighting deliberately set somewhere between flattering and disorienting. A neon sign flickered above the dance floor in looping cursive, the words ironic in a way that felt calculated. The bass pulsed through the room, not just loud but physical, vibrating up through Eve’s shoes and into her chest.

People didn’t stand here. They moved.

The dance floor sat at the centre like a magnet, bodies packed together in loose, swaying clusters, drinks held aloft like accessories rather than necessities. The DJ booth glowed from the far corner, a silhouette bobbing behind decks, music stitched together seamlessly - no gaps, no mercy. Perfume, sweat, alcohol, heat. It all layered together into something heady and dizzying.

Eve followed Elena inside and immediately felt the hit of it - noise, light, bodies, a sudden loss of edges. The door shut behind them and the outside world vanished completely.

For a second she stalled, hand still brushing the doorframe, pulse spiking like she’d walked into a different climate.

She leaned closer to Elena, half-shouting over the music. “Do people really go to clubs at eight p.m. now?”

Elena glanced around, at the already-full dance floor, the raised glasses, the man in sunglasses dancing like it was three in the morning.

“Eve,” she said calmly, “look around. These people would party at nine a.m. if someone let them. There are no excuses.”

Eve snorted despite herself and let Elena tug her further inside.

They’d barely crossed the threshold when Nikita spotted them and exploded into motion, arms flung wide like he’d been waiting all night for his cue.

“There she is!” he shouted over the music. “Eve Polastri, who has emerged from the emotional trenches dressed like she has a life and doesn’t just cry into spreadsheets-”

“I don’t cry into spreadsheets,” Eve shouted back automatically, and then immediately remembered crying into her phone notes earlier and decided to let the distinction go.

Nikita hugged her anyway - tight, dramatic, warm. For a second Eve let herself sink into it. No expectations. No carefulness. Just a body holding another body in a room full of noise.

He pulled back, hands on her shoulders, inspecting her like a proud stage mother.

“Look at you,” he said. “Blue. Strapless. You look like you’re about to accept an award.”

Eve blinked. “Thank you?”

“It’s accurate,” Nikita said, nodding solemnly, then kissed her cheek with unnecessary flourish.

Elena leaned in, voice close to Eve’s ear. “He’s like this because he’s probably already had four tequilas and one emotional revelation.”

“I have had zero emotional revelations,” Nikita protested loudly. “I am very hydrated though.”

A laugh broke out of Eve before she could stop it - sharp, surprised, real. It startled her, the way her body remembered how to do that.

Vito appeared a moment later, grinning like he’d personally curated the evening.

“EVE!” he boomed, arms already out. “You came! You look beautiful!”

Eve smiled, proper this time. “Happy birthday.”

“It is not my birthday,” Vito said cheerfully. “It is my birthday energy.”

“Your birthday was last month,” Elena shouted over the beat.

Vito pointed at her as if she’d committed a crime. “Do not bring calendars into my club.”

He hugged Eve too - quick, careful, a little longer than necessary. Not invasive. Just… attentive.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, smile still in place.

Eve swallowed. “Yeah.”

Vito nodded once, filing it away. “Good. Tonight we dance and forget our brains. Brains are optional.”

Eve watched him disappear back into the crowd, already swallowed by movement and music, and felt a faint ache at how easily some people seemed to exist inside moments like this.

“Drink?” Elena asked, already tugging her toward the bar that ran the length of one wall, all backlit bottles and chaos.

Eve nodded. It was the easiest yes she’d said all day.

The bartender shouted questions. Elena handled it like a professional. A glass appeared in Eve’s hand that she didn’t remember ordering.

“To you for not breaking down today,” Elena said, clinking their glasses.

Eve raised hers. “To you for dragging me out my house.”

Elena took a sip and nodded. “Good. Now we dance like normal people and try not to ruin any lives.”

Eve huffed a laugh. “That feels optimistic.”

“It is,” Elena agreed. “But we aim high.”

And for a while, longer than Eve expected, it worked.

⸻

At first, Eve told herself she was just settling in.

The club was already busy in that effortless, curated way - deep bass, bodies packed close enough that movement became collective. Lights skimmed the room in lazy arcs. Everything smelled faintly of citrus, perfume, and warm skin.

She danced with Elena. She laughed when Nikita attempted something that resembled rhythm but was mostly enthusiasm. She let Vito spin her once, clapped when Katya shouted something unintelligible over the music.

She even enjoyed herself.

Mostly.

Still, her eyes kept drifting.

Not darting. Not searching frantically. Just… checking.

Like she expected something to have changed when she wasn’t looking.

She glanced at her watch without meaning to. Lowered her wrist again just as quickly.

Elena noticed immediately.

They were standing near the edge of the dance floor now, drinks in hand, music thudding through the soles of their shoes. Elena leaned in, voice casual, lips near Eve’s ear.

“You’re doing that thing,” she said.

Eve frowned. “What thing?”

“The thing where you pretend you’re not looking for someone.”

Eve scoffed lightly. “I’m not.”

Elena hummed, unconvinced. “Sure.”

“I’m just… taking in the room.”

Elena looked around - at the bodies pressed together, the DJ bobbing enthusiastically, the man already shirtless despite it being aggressively early.

Then she looked back at Eve.

“Very thorough,” she said. “You should charge admission.”

Eve rolled her eyes. “Can you stop narrating my inner life?”

“No,” Elena said cheerfully. “You’ve been checking the door every time it opens.”

“That’s not-”

Eve stopped herself.

Because it was.

She checked her phone, hoping for distraction. Nothing new. She slid it back into her bag, annoyed at the small spike of disappointment.

“She might not even come,” Eve said, trying to sound indifferent.

Elena tilted her head. “Would that be a relief?”

Eve hesitated. “It would be… quieter.”

“Mm,” Elena said. “Not the same thing.”

Eve exhaled slowly. “Let’s dance again.”

“Excellent idea,” Elena replied, already moving. “Dancing is a perfect substitute for whatever this is.”

They rejoined the crowd. Eve let the music carry her for a few minutes - let herself exist inside the noise.

And then-

Something shifted.

Not sharply. Not obviously.

Just enough that her spine straightened without permission.

⸻

Villanelle arrived like a change in pressure.

Eve didn’t see her immediately, but the room adjusted around her presence - laughs tipping louder, bodies angling subtly, attention bending without instruction.

Then Eve spotted her near the bar.

Villanelle was already talking, already laughing, already mid-story - hands moving, shoulders loose, posture unguarded. Her hair was down, softer than earlier, a few strands falling into her face. She wore a black fitted suit, sharp and elegant, the jacket framing a sheer black top beneath.

She looked devastating.

She also looked… fine.

Comfortable. At ease. Engaged.

She had a drink in her hand. Probably not her first. Her laughter cut through the music - bright, careless, free in a way that made Eve’s chest ache.

Villanelle was surrounded by people Eve recognised - coworkers, pros, someone from production. Familiar faces. Easy camaraderie.

She wasn’t looking for Eve.

That was the part that hurt.

“Oh,” Elena said softly.

Eve hadn’t realised she’d stopped dancing.

Villanelle turned her head mid-laugh - and found her.

Their eyes met across the room.

The moment stretched - not dramatic, not explosive. Just awareness. Recognition.

Villanelle’s smile changed. Not widened. Softened.

Eve felt it land somewhere low and unsteady.

Then Villanelle turned back to her group.

Eve swallowed.

“She looks…” Elena began.

“Busy,” Eve said quickly.

Elena glanced at her. Said nothing.

Villanelle stayed where she was for a while - laughing, listening, engaged in conversation. Every so often her gaze flicked back toward Eve, brief and unreadable.

A held look. A fraction of a smile. No movement.

The distance felt deliberate.

Eventually, Villanelle drifted over, not directly, not urgently. Just… arriving, as if she’d always meant to be there.

“Hello,” she said, voice warm, already touched with alcohol.

“Hi,” Eve replied.

Villanelle’s eyes slid over her - slow, appreciative, completely unfiltered.

“That dress,” she said, tilting her head. “Is outrageous.”

Eve snorted. “Outrageous?”

“Yes,” Villanelle nodded solemnly. “Inappropriate. Immensely provocative.”
She added something under her breath, soft and lilting. “Siyayushchaya zhenshchina.”

Elena burst out laughing. “That was hot.”

Eve blinked. “Was that Russian?”

Villanelle looked mildly pleased with herself. “Obviously.”

“And what did you just call me?” Eve asked, narrowing her eyes.

Villanelle considered this, lips pursed, as if weighing how honest to be. “A radiant woman.”

Elena wheezed. “That is dangerously charming.”

Villanelle shrugged. “I am drunk, not a liar.”

Heat crept up Eve’s neck despite herself. “You’re very drunk.”

“A little,” Villanelle agreed easily. “But still extremely observant.”

Their eyes held - too long for coincidence, too brief for safety.

Then Villanelle stepped back, the moment snapping shut like a door caught by a draft.

“I’m saying hello to everyone before they accuse me of being antisocial,” she said lightly. “Enjoy yourselves.”

And just like that, she was gone again - pulled back into the crowd, into conversation, into motion.

Not flirting.

Not avoiding.

Just… not choosing.

Eve watched her disappear into the noise, heart thudding with something sharp and unresolved.

Elena leaned in. “Well,” she said quietly. “That felt intentional.”

Eve didn’t answer.

Across the room, Villanelle laughed again - head tipped back, hands animated, completely at home.

Eve looked down at her drink.

The night, which had felt promising an hour ago, suddenly felt precarious.

Balanced on a knife-edge.

⸻

The music thickened as the night settled into itself.

Not louder - just denser. Bass you could feel behind the ribs, lights dimming and brightening in slow pulses like a shared heartbeat. The club filled properly now, bodies pressed closer, laughter loosening, the air warm with perfume and alcohol and heat.

Elena grabbed Eve’s wrist. “Come on,” she said. “If we’re going to pretend we’re still young enough for this, you’re not leaving me alone on the dance floor.”

“We are young enough for this,” Eve protested, even as she let herself be pulled.

Elena shot her a look. “You literally asked me earlier why clubs open at eight.”

“That was a cultural question,” Eve said, laughing despite herself.

They moved into the crowd, Elena instantly in her element - arms up, head back, already dancing like nothing else existed. Eve followed more cautiously at first, then let herself loosen, hips catching the rhythm, shoulders dropping. Someone brushed past her, smiling. Someone else bumped her elbow and shouted an apology that vanished into the music.

For a moment, just a moment, it almost worked.

She laughed when Elena spun her dramatically, when Nikita appeared out of nowhere and dipped Elena like they were in a badly rehearsed musical. Vito whooped nearby, shirt already unbuttoned too far, sweat-dark curls plastered to his forehead. Katya danced with surgical precision even here, even drunk.

Eve told herself. This is normal. This is fine. This is what you came for.

Then she saw Villanelle.

Not all at once. Not like a shock.

More like a slow recognition.

Across the room, near the bar, Villanelle stood half-turned away, laughing at something someone had said. Her hair looser than earlier, falling into her eyes when she tipped her head back.

She looked… unguarded.

There was a woman standing close to her - close enough to be heard without shouting. Her hand rested lightly on Villanelle’s arm as she spoke, fingers curving there with easy familiarity. Villanelle leaned in, listening, smiling, her hand brushing the woman’s wrist in return without even looking.

It was nothing. It was everything.

Eve’s body registered it before her mind did.

A tightening low in her stomach. Heat rising suddenly, unpleasantly. A strange hollowing behind her breastbone.

She missed a beat.

Elena noticed immediately. “Hey, what happened?”

“Nothing,” Eve said too quickly, still watching. “I just- thought I saw someone I knew.”

Elena followed her gaze.

“Oh,” she said quietly.

They stood there for a second, the music thudding on, Elena’s expression softening from party-bright to something more careful.

Eve swallowed. The feeling settling in her chest wasn’t sharp enough to be pain, not frantic enough to be panic.

It was worse.

Oh, she realised.

She’s allowed to do this.

Villanelle laughed again, open and easy, head tipped back. The woman leaned closer, speaking directly into her ear now, her mouth nearly brushing skin. Villanelle’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it widened.

Eve felt suddenly, vividly sober.

This wasn’t betrayal. This wasn’t revenge. This wasn’t even flirtation that belonged to Eve.

This was just… Villanelle existing. Moving forward. Not waiting.

Her throat tightened.

Elena touched her elbow gently. “Do you want to step outside for a minute?”

Eve shook her head. “No. I’m fine.”

She wasn’t lying exactly. She just wasn’t telling the truth.

Across the room, Villanelle glanced up.

Their eyes met.

For half a second, the world seemed to narrow to that thin line of sight. Villanelle’s smile faded - not all the way, just enough to change. Something flickered there. Recognition. Question. Maybe apology.

Then the woman beside her said something else, laughing, and Villanelle’s attention shifted back again.

Just like that.

Eve’s chest gave a small, involuntary lurch.

“I’m going to get some air,” she said, already stepping back.

Elena squeezed her hand once. “I’ll be right here.”

Eve nodded, managing a polite smile for no one in particular as she threaded her way out of the crowd. She didn’t rush. She didn’t run. She didn’t look back.

That restraint, keeping everything contained, civil, intact, made it ache all the more.

By the time she reached the door, the music behind her felt muffled, distant.

Like it belonged to another version of her life.

⸻

The air outside was colder than Eve expected.

It hit the back of her throat sharply, like a reprimand. She drew in a breath anyway, then another, hands braced on the low metal rail by the door. The street was busy - noise spilling out of neighbouring bars, taxis idling, someone laughing too loudly somewhere down the pavement.

She focused on the ordinary things. Concrete. Headlights. The faint smell of fried food.

Anything but the image replaying behind her eyes.

Villanelle’s hand. The woman’s wrist. The way it hadn’t meant anything, and had meant everything.

Eve closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, the nausea had arrived properly, a slow roll in her stomach that made her swallow hard. Her skin felt too warm under her dress, like she’d stepped into a different climate entirely.

This is ridiculous, she told herself. You told her you needed distance. You asked for boundaries. You cannot be shocked when she lives inside them.

And yet.

Something sharp lodged just beneath her ribs.

She wasn’t jealous in the way she’d expected - no spike of anger, no urge to confront or accuse. It was quieter than that. Heavier.

It was the realisation that Villanelle didn’t belong to the space Eve had carved out for her.

That she never had.

Eve pressed her palm flat against her stomach and breathed through her nose. Slowly. Measured. Like Villanelle had taught her in rehearsal.

In for four. Out for six.

It didn’t help.

Behind her, the door swung open briefly, releasing a burst of music and laughter. Eve didn’t turn around. She didn’t want to see who came out. She didn’t want to see Villanelle - not laughing, not not laughing, not at all.

A few moments passed like that. Maybe more. Time felt unhelpfully elastic.

Then she heard a familiar voice.

“Hey.”

She looked up.

Bill stood a few feet away, jacket slung over his shoulder, expression already soft with concern. He didn’t ask if she was okay. He knew better than that.

“You vanished,” he said gently. “Thought I’d check you hadn’t been kidnapped.”

She huffed out something that might have been a laugh. “God, I wish.”

He stepped closer, leaning against the rail beside her, giving her space without leaving her alone. It was one of his quieter skills.

Eve let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. “I needed air.”

Bill nodded like that explained everything. “Yeah. This place does that.”

They stood in companionable silence for a moment. A couple walked past them laughing, already half-drunk, already unbothered.

Bill glanced at her, then away again, respectful. “You okay?”

Eve laughed under her breath. Not humour. Reflex. “Define okay.”

He smiled faintly. “Fair.”

“I didn’t expect it,” she said suddenly.

Bill tilted his head. “Expect what?”

“That feeling,” Eve said. “I thought I’d feel… annoyed. Or awkward. Or nothing. Instead it was like-”, she gestured vaguely at her chest. “Like someone kicked the breath out of me.”

Bill waited.

“She’s allowed to do whatever she wants,” Eve said, fast now, like she needed to get ahead of her own thoughts. “I know that. I don’t own her. We’re not-” She stopped herself. “We’re nothing.”

Bill’s voice was careful. “Does it feel like nothing?”

Eve swallowed. Her eyes burned suddenly and she hated that it happened so easily now. “No,” she admitted. “It feels like something I can’t put back where it came from.”

Bill shifted closer, not touching her, just existing within her orbit. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” Eve said. “I feel like I’m living three lives at once and none of them are real anymore.”

She stared out at the street, at the passing cars, at people who were going home to something simple.

“I keep thinking if I just behave correctly, this will go away,” she said quietly. “If I make the right choices. If I’m loyal enough. Careful enough.”

Bill’s brow furrowed. “Is that working?”

She shook her head. “No.”

The word came out cracked.

He exhaled slowly. “Eve… can I say something?”

She nodded, wary but receptive.

“I think you’re scared because this isn’t a crush,” he said. “And it isn’t a phase. It’s the kind of feeling that rearranges things.”

Eve closed her eyes briefly.

“I don’t think I can lose her,” she said.

The words landed between them, heavy and exposed.

Bill didn’t react with surprise. Just sadness. Understanding.

“Then stop pretending you can,” he said softly.

She opened her eyes. “I don’t know how not to without blowing up my life.”

Bill smiled, small and kind. “I know. And I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just saying- whatever happens, pretending you don’t feel this isn’t protecting anyone. It’s just… delaying the pain.”

Eve laughed weakly. “You’re very calm about this.”

“I’m very aware I’m not inside it,” he said. “Which is a privilege.”

She wiped at her cheek angrily. “I hate that I feel this much.”

“I don’t,” Bill said. “It means you’re awake.”

She looked at him then. Really looked.

“You think I should talk to her,” Eve said.

“I think,” Bill replied carefully, “that if what you’re afraid of is losing her… the worst thing you can do is keep walking away.”

The club door opened briefly behind them. Laughter spilled out. Light. Then it shut again.

Eve straightened slowly.

“I don’t want to be the person who runs,” she said.

Bill smiled. “Then don’t be.”

She took a breath. One that felt like a decision - not a solution, but a step.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Anytime,” Bill replied. Then, gently teasing, “Now. Are you going back in there… or do you want to fake a phone call and escape dramatically?”

Eve snorted despite herself. “I think I need to go back.”

“Good luck,” he said. “For what it’s worth… she looks at you like gravity.”

Eve’s chest tightened.

“That’s not comforting,” she muttered.

Bill grinned. “Yeah. I thought so.”

She squared her shoulders, turned back toward the club, and stepped inside.

Not calmer.

Not fixed.

But no longer pretending she didn’t know what she wanted.

⸻

Eve went back inside with a purpose that felt like panic dressed up as resolve.

The club had thickened while she’d been gone. More bodies, more heat, the air sharp with perfume and sweat and bass. The lights strobed in bruised purples and reds, faces blurring into something half-abstract as she wove through them.

She scanned instinctively.

Villanelle wasn’t where she’d been before. Not by the bar. Not laughing with Nikita. Not hovering in any of the corners Eve had already memorised.

Eve turned in a slow circle, pulse climbing.

She caught Elena’s eye across the dance floor. Elena mouthed you okay? and Eve nodded automatically, already looking past her.

She stopped someone she half-recognised from wardrobe. “Sorry- have you seen Villanelle? Tall. Blonde. Loud.”

The woman blinked. “Uh. No?”

Another loop. Another glance. Another empty space where Villanelle should have been.

And then Eve realised something worse.

The other woman was gone too.

That sick, hollow drop landed hard in her stomach.

She stood still for a beat too long, the music crashing around her, suddenly unable to breathe properly.

The bathroom.

⸻

The bathroom was quieter than the club, but not quiet enough.

Music thudded faintly through the walls, warped by pipes and tile, the bass vibrating through the soles of Eve’s shoes as she pushed inside and leaned over the sink. She turned the cold tap on full.

The water rushed, sharp, loud, splattering against porcelain. She pressed her palms under it and breathed, once, twice, staring at her reflection like it might confess something if she waited long enough.

Her face was flushed. Eyes too bright. That horrible, familiar look of standing at the edge of something she didn’t yet have language for.

A sound cut through the noise.

A shuffle. Fabric. A muffled laugh.

From one of the stalls.

Eve froze.

Her throat tightened before her brain caught up.

“Villanelle?” she said, softly, without meaning to.

The word echoed, swallowed by tile and running water.

The stall door unlocked.

Villanelle stepped out.

Her expression was wrong immediately - guilty, yes, but also fierce. Chin lifted like she’d already decided she wouldn’t apologise for whatever Eve had walked in on. Her lipstick looked slightly disturbed, not freshly reapplied, and one curl had come loose at her temple like her body had given up pretending it was in control.

They stared at each other through the mirror, the running tap loud enough to feel like an accusation.

Villanelle’s fingers came up - brief, unconscious - and brushed her own mouth, like she was checking herself. Like she’d forgotten she had an audience.

Then the same stall door swung open again.

The woman stepped out behind Villanelle, still smiling, entirely unbothered. She murmured a breezy, “Sorry,” as she slipped between them, her hand brushing Villanelle’s arm like it belonged there. She glanced back once - slow, flirtatious - before disappearing out the door.

The click of it shutting felt obscene.

Eve turned fully toward Villanelle.

“Oh,” she said.

A beat.

Then, because she was Eve and pain always came out sideways first, she added dryly, “Huh. Didn’t have her pegged as your type.”

Villanelle’s jaw tightened. Something sharp flickered across her face before she forced on a crooked smile.

“This looks worse than it is,” she said lightly. “I have a thing for bathrooms. Very cinematic.”

Eve laughed once. It scraped on the way out.

“I don’t care about the bathroom,” she said quietly. “I care that I feel like I’ve just been punched in the chest.”

Villanelle’s smile vanished.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” she snapped. “Like I’ve done something to you.”

Eve’s laugh came out thin and wrong. “I’m not-” She swallowed, the words failing. “I’m not saying you did anything. I’m saying I’m standing here trying not to split in half.”

“That’s not my responsibility,” Villanelle shot back, too fast, like she needed the line to be true. “You made that very clear.”

“I know,” Eve said, voice dropping. “And I meant it. Which is why I hate-” Her throat tightened. “Which is why I hate that it still hurts.”

Villanelle’s jaw clenched. “Eve-”

Eve shook her head, already stepping back. “Not here. I can’t do this in a toilet.”

She turned sharply and walked out before she could watch Villanelle decide what face to wear next.

“Eve,” Villanelle called after her - and this time there was something in it that sounded like panic.

Eve didn’t stop.

⸻

Eve found Elena near the edge of the dance floor.

“Elena,” Eve said, breathless. “I’m- I’m leaving.”

Elena’s face changed instantly. “What- Eve, wait-”

Eve pulled her into a tight hug, clinging for one second longer than necessary. “I’m sorry. I just- I feel sick.”

Over Eve’s shoulder, Elena looked up and saw Villanelle hovering awkwardly behind them.

Her eyes narrowed.

“What happened in there?” Elena demanded.

Villanelle lifted both hands in a helpless shrug, face pulled into something halfway between guilt and I genuinely don’t know how this happened.

Elena sighed. “Jesus Christ.”

Eve pulled away, already backing toward the door.

“I’ll text you,” she said quickly. “I love you.”

Then she was gone.

Villanelle followed.

⸻

Outside, the night hit Eve like a slap.

Cold air. Damp pavement. Neon bleeding from windows. The bass dulled to a distant pulse behind brick walls.

She walked.

Not fast. Just away - as if distance alone might scrape the feeling out of her chest.

“Eve,” Villanelle called after her. “Wait.”

Eve kept going.

“Eve,” Villanelle said again, closer now. “Stop walking.”

Still nothing.

Villanelle swore under her breath. “You are being infuriating.”

The word barely registered. Eve’s vision had narrowed to the pavement ahead of her, each step a controlled refusal to fall apart in public.

“Talk to me,” Villanelle tried. “Just- slow down.”

Eve laughed, sharp and broken, without turning. “Why? So you can tell me I’m being stupid?”

“Eve-”

“Don’t,” she snapped, finally spinning around. “Don’t say my name like that.”

Villanelle halted a few steps behind her. Up close, she looked furious and unsteady in equal measure - eyes too bright, mouth set like she was holding herself together by force.

“Then stop running,” Villanelle said. “I am trying to-”

“To what?” Eve demanded. “Explain the bathroom? It’s fine Villanelle, you can do what you-”

“That is not-”

Eve turned again, heart pounding too hard now, breath turning ragged. “I can’t do this.”

She took two more steps.

That was when Villanelle grabbed her.

Not gently.

Fingers closed around Eve’s wrist, firm and certain, momentum carrying them sideways until Eve’s back hit the cold metal of a shuttered shop. The sound rang sharp in the empty street.

Villanelle followed her in, one hand braced beside Eve’s shoulder, the other still holding her wrist - not pinning her, but not letting go either.

“Stop,” Villanelle said, low and fierce. “I said stop.”

Her hand didn’t loosen. But her eyes did - just for a second - like she was about to say something gentler and couldn’t find a version of herself that knew how.

Eve’s pulse thudded everywhere - her throat, her palms, the place where Villanelle was far too close.

“Don’t touch me,” Eve said, even as her body betrayed her, breath catching.

Villanelle’s eyes flicked to her mouth. Then back to her eyes.

“Then stop making me chase you,” she shot back. “You don’t get to explode and disappear whenever it suits you.”

Anger flared hot and bright in Eve’s chest. “I wasn’t disappearing. I was trying not to scream.”

Villanelle laughed once, sharp and humourless. “Yesterday,” she said, breathless, eyes bright with too many emotions layered on top of alcohol, “you asked for boundaries.”

Eve froze.

“You sat next to me and told me you couldn’t betray your husband,” Villanelle went on, words tumbling now, sharper with each one. “You asked me to stop. To be professional. To be friends.”

Her voice cracked - not loudly, but enough.

“And tonight you run out of a club like I’ve done something unforgivable.”

Eve’s throat tightened. “I know.”

Villanelle laughed once, incredulous. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Eve said, too quickly. “I know all of it. I know what I said. I know what I asked for.”

“Then explain this,” Villanelle snapped, gesturing between them.

Eve dragged a hand through her hair, chest heaving. “I realised pretending I wasn’t feeling anything was making me worse,” she said. “It wasn’t helping you. It wasn’t helping me. And I-” Her voice wavered. “I realised I was already losing things I didn’t mean to.”

Villanelle stilled.

Eve swallowed hard. “Since meeting you, I can’t look at Niko the same way anymore,” she said quietly. “I keep waiting for it to… come back. For the feeling to settle back where it used to be. And it doesn’t.” Her laugh was thin, frightened. “You switched something on in me. A light. And I can’t turn it off. I don’t want to.”

Villanelle’s jaw tightened, the admission landing heavier than anger would have.

“I’m scared,” Eve went on. “Scared that if I choose with my heart, I’ll destroy everything. And if I choose with my head, I’ll destroy myself.”

She shook her head, eyes shining. “Bill said if I kept lying about how I felt, I’d end up alone anyway. That if it mattered, I had to say it to you.”

Villanelle exhaled sharply. “So that’s why you ran frantically into the bathroom for me.”

“Yes,” Eve said. “Instantly. Like my body knew before my brain did.” She dragged in a breath, shaky. “But it wasn’t just that moment. It was everything before it.”

Villanelle stilled, listening.

“I kept watching you,” Eve admitted. “All night. Trying not to. Failing.” Her mouth twisted. “The way you laughed with her. The way you leaned in when she spoke. The way you do that thing where you tilt your head like you’re deciding whether someone’s interesting enough to keep.” Her voice dropped. “I’ve watched you do that with me.”

Villanelle’s fingers tightened around her arm without meaning to.

“And then the bathroom,” Eve went on, quieter now. “I couldn’t stop imagining it. What you were doing in there. How close you were. What she got that I didn’t.” Her laugh came out thin, almost hysterical. “It was like my brain was punishing me on repeat.”

“You imagined it,” Villanelle said softly.

“Yes,” Eve said. “And it broke me.”

She looked up then, eyes glassy and exposed. “I don’t feel like this about him. Ever. I don’t feel sick. Or hot. Or like I’m losing oxygen at the thought of someone else touching him.” Her voice cracked. “But with you-”

Villanelle stepped closer, drawn in by instinct she didn’t bother to fight. Her thumb shifted at Eve’s wrist, grounding, possessive.

“That doesn’t sound like boundaries,” she murmured.

Eve laughed weakly. “No. It doesn’t.”

“And when you picture your husband with someone else,” Villanelle asked quietly, “does it feel like this?”

Eve hesitated - just long enough.

“No,” she said. “It doesn’t.”

Something softened and sharpened in Villanelle’s expression all at once.

“That,” she said, voice low, “is not confusion.”

She leaned in.

Eve didn’t move away.

Villanelle kissed her like she already knew the answer - not hurried, not desperate, just sure. Eve melted into it, fingers gripping Villanelle’s sleeve, breath stuttering as days of restraint collapsed into heat and recognition.

It felt devastatingly right.

And that was the problem.

Eve kissed her back. That was the terrifying part - how quickly her body agreed, how easily the world narrowed to mouth and breath and the steady pressure of Villanelle’s hand on her wrist.

For a handful of seconds, it felt like relief. Like finally doing the honest thing.

And then the rest of Eve’s life arrived all at once - Niko’s careful distance, the spare room door, the words he’d thrown at her like a stone, the stall door clicking open with someone else coming out of it - and her chest seized.

She pulled back, not pushing Villanelle away, just breaking the line like she’d run out of oxygen. Forehead dropping briefly to Villanelle’s shoulder, still close enough to be held, still trembling like she didn’t know whether she wanted to be.

“I want you,” she said, voice wrecked. “And I hate that I want you like this.”

Villanelle froze.

“I thought it was a crush,” Eve said, voice breaking now. “Something manageable. Temporary.” A bitter laugh. “But seeing you with someone else crushed me. And it made me realise I’m standing on the edge of blowing up my life for someone who might wake up bored of me in six months.”

Villanelle pulled back, eyes flashing. “You think I’d get bored of you?”

She laughed sharply, incredulous. “That’s rich. You question my commitment after one night, one girl - while you’ve been stringing me along for weeks alongside your husband?” Her voice hardened. “You won’t make the decision you already know is right, and you’re worried I’m not invested?”

“I don’t know,” Eve said miserably. “I don’t know anything except that I’m terrified and I don’t know how to do this without hurting everyone.”

Villanelle stared at her for a long beat, jaw tight, eyes blazing with something like disbelief.

“That’s the problem,” she said finally. “You keep saying everyone like it’s abstract.”

Eve flinched.

“You are already hurting him,” Villanelle went on, voice steady but sharpened now. “You just don’t want to be the one who admits it out loud. You want to keep calling it confusion, or fear, or timing.” A humourless smile tugged at her mouth. “But that is a choice too.”

“That’s not fair-”

“It is,” Villanelle snapped. “Because what you’re really doing is asking me to stand here and wait while you decide if you’re brave enough to destroy your marriage.” Her laugh was short, vicious. “As if I’m some optional risk you’ll take once you’re done being a good wife.”

Eve shook her head frantically. “That’s not how I see you.”

“No,” Villanelle said, stepping closer again, voice low and lethal, “but it is how you’re treating me.”

Eve’s eyes burned. “I’m not trying to use you.”

“But you are,” Villanelle said, without hesitation. “You pull me in when it hurts. You lean on me when you feel alive. And then you step back so you can still sleep at night next to him.” Her gaze cut deep. “You don’t get to keep both.”

Tears spilled freely now. “I don’t know how to choose,” Eve whispered.

Villanelle’s expression shifted - not softening, but tiring.

“That’s what’s boring me,” she said quietly. “Not the situation. You.”

Eve sucked in a breath, wounded.

“You don’t want to lose me,” Villanelle continued, voice calmer now, almost clinical. “But you also don’t want to be the woman who admits she chose desire over decency. So you hover. You stall. You look at me like I’m the problem instead of the decision you’re avoiding.”

“That’s not true-”

“Then prove it,” Villanelle said. “Either choose him and stop lighting fires around me… or choose me and accept that he will get burned.”

Silence slammed down between them.

Eve had nothing.

Villanelle stepped back, the space deliberate now, final.

“I don’t wait,” she said. “And I don’t compete with men who already have you.”

Her voice wasn’t cruel.

It was finished.

“Go home, Eve.”

The words weren’t cruel.

They were finished.

Villanelle turned and walked away, heels striking the pavement with purpose.

Eve stayed where she was, shaking, pressed against cold metal, chest aching as she watched her disappear.

Villanelle didn’t look back.

Eve did.

And as the night swallowed her whole, the truth settled heavy and unavoidable. They were completely out of sync.

Saturday wasn’t just going to be hard. It was going to be a disaster.

Chapter Text

Friday had happened, technically.

Eve knew this because her body ached in the familiar places - calves tight, shoulders sore, feet humming with that low, constant fatigue that meant repetition had done its work. And because there was a faint bruise blooming on her shin, yellowed at the edges, where she’d missed a step and Villanelle hadn’t quite caught her in time.

The final rehearsal. Costume fittings. The last chance to fix things.

It had been… quiet.

Not hostile. Not dramatic. Worse than that - efficient.

They spoke in counts and corrections, the language of people who knew each other too well to waste time pretending.

“Frame.”
“Again.”
“You’re late on the turn.”
“Breathe.”

Villanelle’s voice stayed level, professional, clipped to the edges of the music. No teasing. No softening. No sideways glances or murmured jokes to cut the tension. No unnecessary touches that weren’t explicitly part of the choreography.

It felt like grief with a clipboard.

Eve made mistakes she didn’t usually make. The kind that came not from ignorance, but from doubt. She missed timings she knew by muscle memory. Hesitated in transitions she’d run cleanly a hundred times. Second-guessed her own body.

Each time, Villanelle corrected her without comment - hands precise, impersonal, distant. As if Eve were any other partner. As if the space between them hadn’t once felt charged and dangerous and alive.

That might have been the worst part.

Trying on the costume had been its own quiet humiliation.

Villanelle’s outfit came first - deceptively simple. A crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest carelessness rather than neglect. Dark suspenders cutting clean lines down her torso, tapered black trousers that moved easily when she walked. No glitter. No excess. Just structure and confidence and the quiet arrogance of someone who didn’t need decoration.

Jack, Eve thought unhelpfully. Uninvited. Immediate.

Then there was Eve’s.

The dress was pale blue - not the classic Rose colour, and softer than anything she’d worn before. Layers of fabric that moved even when she stood still, the skirt full without being heavy, designed to float rather than cling. The neckline was elegant, restrained, almost old-fashioned. It wasn’t costume in the obvious sense. It was a promise.

Rose - but refined. Less rebellion. More tragedy.

Standing side by side in front of the mirror, the contrast was startling. Villanelle all clean lines and loosened restraint; Eve all softness and motion, a body meant to be guided, turned, trusted.

The story was obvious. The problem was that Eve no longer knew if she believed in it.

She avoided Villanelle’s eyes and watched her reflection instead - the white of the shirt against the dark braces, the ease with which she inhabited the look, like she’d already decided how the ending went.

Eve felt exposed in comparison. Like she was wearing her hope on the outside.

Villanelle adjusted a suspender strap. Eve smoothed a fold in her skirt that didn’t need smoothing. The mirror reflected two people dressed for a romance they hadn’t agreed how to survive.

They didn’t comment on the symbolism. They didn’t have to. They said goodbye like colleagues.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

Nothing else.

And Eve left the fitting room with the uncomfortable certainty that the costumes knew something she didn’t - that the dance was asking her to play Rose while standing at the edge of the ship, already aware of the water.

Saturday arrived anyway.

And with it came a heavy, unwelcome certainty settling in Eve’s chest - she was not ready.

Not for the Waltz. Not for the way it demanded trust - open, unguarded, undeniable. Not for a dance built on breath and connection when she felt hollowed out and unsure of her own footing.

Confidence, once borrowed from Villanelle’s presence, had evaporated. Without it, Eve felt clumsy and exposed, like she was about to step onto the floor without skin.

The Waltz wasn’t about survival or grit. It wasn’t about powering through.

It was about letting yourself be held.

And Eve had never felt more unsure of who, if anyone, was going to catch her.

⸻

The kitchen was already light when Eve came downstairs.

Grey morning. Flat and unpromising. The sort of daylight that didn’t belong to anything hopeful, just hovered, unfinished, like it hadn’t quite decided what kind of day it was going to be.

Niko sat at the table with a mug of coffee cooling between his hands. His phone lay face-down beside it. A slice of toast rested untouched on a plate, edges already stiffening. He looked up when she entered, smiled politely, and then looked away again, as if the moment of connection had already been spent.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning.”

She poured cereal she didn’t want. Milk she barely registered. Sat opposite him because that was where she always sat, muscle memory stronger than intention.

The silence arrived immediately.

It wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t even uncomfortable enough to demand attention. It was the quiet of two people who knew exactly where the cracks were and were very carefully stepping around them, as if pretending the floor was still solid might make it so.

Niko took a sip of coffee. Eve pushed her spoon through the cereal without lifting it.

He didn’t ask how she was.

He didn’t ask about rehearsals this week.

He didn’t ask about Thursday night - the club, the party, the leaving early. She didn’t ask about the pub quiz either.

She hoped they didn’t win.

At least then they both would have lost something that night.

He didn’t ask why she looked like she’d slept through something heavy and unkind, or why her shoulders were already tight like she was bracing for impact.

He knew something was wrong, Eve was certain of that, and chose not to reach for it. Like touching it might make it real. Like acknowledging it might mean he’d have to decide what to do next.

“Big day,” he said eventually, tone carefully neutral.

Eve nodded. “Yeah.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

He glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at his coffee. “I’ve got plans this afternoon,” he said. “The guys from work are meeting at the pub. Football thing.”

“Oh,” Eve said. She hadn’t asked. She hadn’t wanted to know. “Right.”

“But I’ll be home for the show,” he added quickly, like an afterthought that mattered. “I’ll cheer you on from the sofa.”

The words were right. Supportive. Technically kind.

They still hollowed her out.

She stared at the surface of her cereal, watching it go soggy. “Good,” she said. “That’ll be… nice.”

He frowned slightly, as if sensing something off but not quite wanting to chase it. “You nervous?”

There it was. A question. A small one. Too late and too light.

Eve laughed once - short, humourless. “About dancing live on television after the worst rehearsal week of my life while pretending everything’s fine?” She glanced up. “A bit.”

Niko smiled, thin. “You always say that.”

“Do I?” she asked, sharper than she meant to. “Or do I usually say I’m excited?”

He hesitated. “You’ll be fine. You always are.”

Something in her snapped quietly.

“I wasn’t fine yesterday,” she said. “Or Thursday. Or most of this week.”

He shifted in his chair. “Eve-”

“And I’m not fine now,” she went on, voice low, controlled. “But that doesn’t seem to be part of the conversation anymore.”

Silence pressed in again.

Niko stood, picked up his mug, carried it to the sink. The clink of ceramic against porcelain sounded too loud, too final.

“Well,” he said, drying his hands carefully. “Break a leg.”

She looked at him then, properly. “That’s it?”

He paused. “What do you want me to say?”

I want you to ask why I look like I’m about to walk into a storm, she thought. I want you to notice I’m terrified. I want you to care enough to risk a difficult answer.

“Nothing,” she said instead. “It’s fine.”

He kissed her cheek before she could brace for it - light, quick, affectionate in theory. Habitual in practice. A gesture that belonged to a version of them she wasn’t sure still existed.

“Good luck tonight,” he said.

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut.

Eve stayed seated long after the sound faded, staring at the untouched cereal, at the empty chair opposite her.

She didn’t cry.

That was the strangest part.

She felt hollow. Scooped out. Like something essential had been removed without pain and without permission.

She thought of Friday - of Villanelle’s hands guiding her frame without warmth, of the way they’d danced around each other more carefully than the choreography demanded. Of how terrifying it had felt to stand that close and still feel miles away.

She thought of tonight.

Seeing Villanelle again. Really seeing her. On camera. Under lights. With the music swelling and the story demanding to be told through bodies that hadn’t agreed how to touch anymore.

Eve pressed her thumb into the edge of the table until she felt it properly.

She was nervous to dance.

But worse than that - she was nervous to look at Villanelle and see nothing, or everything, or something that broke her open in front of an audience who would call it chemistry and score it out of ten.

She was nervous she’d chosen safety and still lost the thing that made her feel alive.

Just get through the day, she told herself.

Not the dance. Not the consequences. Just the hours between now and then.

She stood, rinsed the bowl, dried it, and placed it back in the cupboard exactly where it belonged.

She left the kitchen exactly as she’d found it. Too neat. Too quiet.

And already bracing for a performance that was going to ask more of her than she had left to give.

⸻

By midday, the studio had shifted into something else entirely.

Not frantic yet, just busy in that focused, purposeful way that meant decisions had already been made. Lights were being rigged and tested overhead. Cables taped neatly to the floor with fluorescent markers. Runners moved back and forth with clipboards and headsets, voices low, efficient. The air smelled faintly of hairspray, coffee, and nerves.

Eve arrived early because she didn’t know what else to do with herself.

She signed in, clipped her lanyard on, nodded at people she recognised without fully registering them. Everyone spoke in voices pitched just below excitement - that strange pre-show hush where adrenaline hadn’t quite been invited in yet.

She followed the signs toward wardrobe.

Her costume bag waited for her, already labelled.

Seeing her name printed there made her stomach twist. Inside, the dress was more beautiful than she remembered.

Light blue. Soft and flowing, layers of fabric that caught the light even when still. Romantic in a way that felt intentional, almost persuasive - designed to tell a story whether she felt it or not.

She brushed her fingers over the skirt. It felt like a lie she was meant to wear convincingly.

As the dresser helped her into it, Eve watched herself in the mirror and felt something hollow settle behind her ribs. The dress moved beautifully when she shifted, made her look lighter somehow, like someone who was about to fall in love on a staircase.

She did not feel like that person.

Her hair was swept up carefully, curls pinned with practiced ease, a few loose strands left to soften her face. Vulnerable by design.

“You look lovely,” the dresser said warmly.

Eve smiled because it was expected. “Thank you.”

Arguing felt rude.

⸻

Villanelle was already there when Eve stepped into the rehearsal space.

The sight of her hit harder than Eve had been prepared for.

She hadn’t expected Villanelle this early - not after the night they’d had. Not after how deliberately distant she’d been on Friday. For a second, Eve wondered if Villanelle had arrived for the same reason she had; because sitting at home with her thoughts had felt unbearable.

Maybe she thought Eve needed the extra time.

Maybe she needed it herself.

Villanelle was already dressed. Already composed. The costume made Eve’s breath hitch, again.

Villanelle wore the crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to her forearms, suspenders framing her torso and tapering down into dark trousers that sat perfectly on her hips. It was clean and simple and unmistakably deliberate - Jack Dawson filtered through ballroom polish.

Where Eve was softness and movement, Villanelle was structure and restraint.

They looked like they belonged in the same frame.

That was the cruelest part.

For a moment, Eve just stood there, the distance between them suddenly loud with everything they weren’t saying.

Then Villanelle turned.

Her eyes flicked to Eve, quick and controlled.

Something passed over her face before it settled again.

Approval. Recognition. Sadness, maybe.

“You ready to mark through the lift?” Villanelle asked calmly.

Just like that.

No hello. No comment about last night. No acknowledgement of the pavement, the shouting, the way Eve had watched her walk away.

“Yes,” Eve said too quickly. “Yeah.”

They took their places.

Villanelle counted softly under her breath, voice steady and professional. Eve missed the first step.

“Again,” Villanelle said, gentle but firm.

They tried again.

Eve lagged a fraction of a beat behind, her timing slipping where it never usually did. Villanelle adjusted without comment, her hand settling at Eve’s waist, guiding her back into place.

The contact sent a sharp awareness through Eve’s body.

She swallowed.

They finished the phrase.

Claudia clapped once from the sidelines. “Okay. Good. Let’s keep it clean, save the emotion for the floor.”

Eve almost laughed at that.

They reset.

This time Eve managed the steps, mostly - but as they turned, the skirt of her dress fanned out and brushed Villanelle’s leg. For a split second, Villanelle’s grip tightened.

Then it was gone.

Eve couldn’t help herself.

“Villanelle,” she said quietly, close enough now that no one else would hear. “Are you-”

“No,” Villanelle said immediately.

Not sharp. Not angry. Final.

She didn’t look at Eve when she said it.

“Please,” Villanelle added, just as quietly. “Not today.”

Eve nodded, the ache in her chest dull and bruised.

“Okay,” she said.

And meant, I hear you. I’m trying.

They moved again.

The distance between them was deliberate now - controlled, careful. Like two people crossing the same deck without acknowledging the water beneath.

From the outside, it probably looked fine.

From the inside, Eve felt like she was constantly bracing.

As they paused again, Villanelle spoke without looking at her.

“The dress suits you,” she said. A beat. “It’s… very you.”

Eve’s breath caught.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Villanelle nodded once, as if she hadn’t said anything at all. “Just keep your frame lifted on the turn. You drop it slightly after the second step.”

“Right,” Eve said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Villanelle replied. “Just trust it.”

Trust.

Eve almost smiled at the irony.

They took position again, bodies aligned, music starting low and familiar.

And as they moved together - stiff, careful, trying - Eve wondered if anyone watching could see it.

The hesitation. The restraint. The way two people who knew exactly how to move together were suddenly afraid of where the steps might lead.

The Waltz waited.

And so did everything they hadn’t said.

⸻

During a break, Elena appeared at Eve’s side with two bottles of water and the kind of expression that suggested she had already clocked everything and was politely deciding how much to say.

She handed one over. “You look very Titanic.”

Eve huffed a weak laugh. “Which part?”

Elena tipped her head toward Villanelle, who stood a few metres away speaking quietly with Claudia, posture perfect, hands loose at her sides like nothing in the world was wrong.

“The part where everyone thinks it’s sweeping and romantic,” Elena said, “and you’re very aware there’s an iceberg with your name on it.”

Eve closed her eyes briefly. “That’s not helping.”

“I know,” Elena said. “But if it’s any comfort, at least you’re dressed correctly for a dramatic emotional demise.”

Eve snorted despite herself. “Is it really that obvious?”

Elena considered her, then sighed. “Okay, let’s put it this way.”

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice.

“Is it obvious you two hate each other? No. Is it obvious you’re one meaningful glance away from shoving each other off the ship? Yes.”

Eve groaned. “So it looks like Jack is going to drown me in the Atlantic instead of letting me float on the door.”

Elena nodded solemnly. “Absolutely. Emotionally speaking, you are already hypothermic.”

Eve rubbed her face. “Great.”

Then Elena softened, bumping her shoulder gently. “But,” she added, quieter now, “deep down… Jack wouldn’t let his Rose die.”

Eve glanced at her. “You’re really committing to this metaphor.”

“I’ve invested,” Elena said firmly. “And so has the wardrobe department.”

Eve exhaled, tension loosening just a fraction. She took a sip of water, eyes drifting back across the room.

Villanelle glanced over, just once.

Their eyes met.

Something passed between them. Recognition. Regret. Want.

Then Villanelle looked away.

Eve felt the acceptance settle deeper in her bones.

This was how it was going to be.

She leaned closer to Elena, voice low. “Do you think she’s standing over there fantasising about us being some tragic Titanic love story too?”

Elena followed her gaze, then looked back at Eve with quiet seriousness. “I think she’s standing there pretending she isn’t.”

That landed harder than a joke.

⸻

When they were finally called to clear the floor, Eve stood alone for a moment, watching Villanelle walk away toward makeup touch-ups - back straight, steps unhesitating, already moving into performance mode.

They looked like a story that had already been written.

Eve pressed her fingers lightly to the bodice of her dress, feeling her heart beat beneath it - fast, contained, stubbornly alive.

A quiet dread pooled in her stomach.

Not panic. Not fear. Something steadier.

The understanding that tonight wasn’t about whether the dance was beautiful. It was about whether they could survive moving in the same direction when everything inside them was pulling apart.

She exhaled slowly.

Showtime was coming whether she was ready or not.

And for the first time, Eve wasn’t hoping it would go well.

She was bracing for the fall.

⸻

The air backstage always smelled the same - hairspray, fake tan, hot electrics, and the sharp metallic edge of nerves.

Tonight it felt heavier.

As if the building itself had decided to hold its breath until someone broke.

A runner guided Eve down the corridor with a hand hovering near her elbow, not quite touching, like she might drift off course and need steering. Eve walked anyway - upright, composed, smiling automatically when people glanced at her. She blinked slowly, reminding herself how to exist in a place that required you to be a version of yourself rather than a person.

Ahead, a producer gathered the couples into a loose semicircle in a narrow stretch of hallway between wardrobe and the stairs. Everyone glittered under the lights. Sequins, rhinestones, polished smiles stretched just tight enough to hide fear.

“Okay!” the producer said, clapping her hands like enthusiasm could override panic. “Icons Week. Big emotions. Big moments. You all look incredible. Remember to breathe. Remember to enjoy it. And remember - cameras catch everything, so let’s keep any existential crises strictly off-camera, yeah?”

A ripple of laughter followed - thin, obedient.

Eve’s fingers tightened around the edge of her shawl. She could feel her pulse in her throat, the weight of the dress against her hips, every pin anchoring her hair in place. The light blue ballgown was soft, romantic, deliberately hopeful, as if she’d stepped into someone else’s idea of a love story.

She tried not to look for Villanelle.

She failed.

Villanelle stood a few feet away, angled slightly toward Claudia and Elena, listening with a neutral expression. No sequins. No softness. All restraint and intention.

She looked like someone who knew exactly where they stood, and wasn’t planning on explaining it.

Villanelle didn’t look at Eve.

Not when the producer finished. Not when someone called “Places!” through a headset. Not until the moment became unavoidable.

Then her gaze slid over - quick, assessing, unreadable.

Eve’s breath caught anyway.

Villanelle’s eyes dropped briefly to the bodice of Eve’s dress, where a thin strip of mic wire threatened to show. Without asking, she stepped in. Two precise fingers tucked it neatly into place.

Professional. Efficient. Practised.

The touch was feather-light. Eve felt it like a bruise.

Villanelle stepped back, movement contained. Her mouth barely moved when she spoke.

“Stand tall,” she said softly.

Eve drew in a breath. “Villanelle-”

Villanelle’s eyes flicked up, sharp.

Eve said it anyway, because she couldn’t stop herself. “Are you okay?”

For a fraction of a second, something flickered across Villanelle’s face - fatigue, maybe, or the ghost of the other night pressed flat and hidden.

Then it vanished.

“No,” Villanelle said quietly. A beat. “After.”

A line drawn.

Eve swallowed. “Right.”

Villanelle’s gaze held hers for a second longer than necessary - too long for indifference, too short for comfort.

Then Claudia clapped her hands loudly.

“STAIRS!” she announced. “Everyone on the stairs. No tripping, no crying, and absolutely no life-altering confessions before we’re live. Save those for the Uber home.”

The group began to move in a glittering wave.

Eve walked with them, the sound of her heels unnaturally loud in her ears. Elena brushed her arm lightly as they passed - not a joke, not a distraction. Just contact.

“You’re doing great,” Elena murmured, low enough that only Eve could hear. “Whatever happens out there, you’re not alone.”

Eve swallowed. “Feels like I’m about to walk into something I can’t fix.”

Elena squeezed her arm once. “Then just walk in honestly.”

They reached the staircase.

The band’s warm-up blared through the speakers - bright, artificial. The audience roared, a wall of sound that made Eve’s stomach flip.

Introductions blurred together. Lights. Names. Smiles practiced in mirrors. One by one, couples stepped forward and waved as if this wasn’t the most exposed version of themselves they’d ever present.

When it was Eve and Villanelle’s turn, the noise changed.

Anticipation. Curiosity. Hunger.

Eve felt Villanelle’s hand hover near her waist - not touching, offered like a question.

Eve took it.

For a second they stood together under the lights. Eve all pale blue softness and open lines, Villanelle stark and elegant beside her, white shirt catching the light, suspenders cutting contrast through the romance.

The nation would sigh.

Eve smiled.

Villanelle smiled.

And Eve felt, sudden and sick, like she was smiling at her own funeral.

Then they were released back into the current. Pulled apart. Swallowed by movement.

The show surged forward.

And somewhere beneath the music and lights and applause - Eve knew - this was the last calm moment she was going to get.