There was always a moment before the music began when Ari forgot how to breathe.
A breath suspended in velvet air. A hush before the storm. He stood behind the wings, wrapped in silence, skin prickling with nerves as the stage lights bled warmth into the darkness. The curtain was a barrier between him and the world, between the person he was and the creature he became when the music played.
The orchestra lifted their bows.
And Ari stepped out.
Everything else evaporated.
The lights hit him—golden, hot, unforgiving. The crowd disappeared, swallowed by shadows, save for the occasional shimmer of jewelry and the restless shifting of expensive shoes. He was trained not to look at them. Not to think of who was seated where. He wasn't supposed to care.
But tonight, something was off.
The music surged like a rising tide, and Ari moved with it, his body curving and slicing through air like silk on wind. His movements were fluid, but sharp where they needed to be—calculated, precise. Years of bloodied toes and aching muscles made sure of that. Every extension, every leap, every pirouette sang with control.
And yet—he couldn't shake it.
There it was. That feeling.
Like a needle threading down his spine. Like eyes, burning through him. Not the usual attention. This wasn't applause, or admiration, or even lust. This was something colder. Hungrier.
Predatory.
His pulse fluttered. He missed a breath.
Ari didn't dare look toward the audience, but he felt it. Felt him. Somewhere out there, hidden in the blur of suits and glitter, someone was locked on him. Watching him not as a performer—but as a possession.
His muscles clenched, but he kept dancing.
He had to.
The music demanded it.
He spun harder, arms outstretched, toes slicing through air like knives. The theater spun with him, and still—that stare. It followed every step, every breath, as if marking him. As if memorizing his body like a map.
The air felt thicker. Charged. Like something ancient had awakened and now couldn't be put back to sleep.
When the music reached its final note, Ari dropped into his finishing pose—one leg extended, arms curved above his head, sweat gleaming like stardust on his neck.
Silence, for a second. Then—
Thunderous applause.
He held his position. Just long enough to make sure his knees wouldn't buckle. Then the curtain dropped.
And he inhaled like he'd been drowning.
Backstage chaos erupted instantly. Dancers embraced, costumers flitted around with pins and fabrics, instructors barked praise and corrections. But Ari stood frozen.
That feeling hadn't left.
It was still on him, crawling under his skin like invisible fingerprints.
He shook it off—tried to. Told himself he was being dramatic. Sleep-deprived. Maybe hungry. Definitely not being hunted from the shadows by some unseen alpha male with a god complex. That would be insane.
But then the flowers arrived.
They found him as he sat in the dim hallway outside the dressing room, nursing a bruised ankle and trying to steady his breath. A stagehand came up—young, sweaty, breathless—and handed him a bouquet wrapped in deep red silk.
It wasn't the flowers that made his breath catch.
It was the note.
There was no sender. No fan name. No cheesy compliment or joke.
Just a single line, written in perfect, sharp handwriting:
"I see you. And now I can't unsee you."
Ari stared at the paper. The edges trembled slightly between his fingers.
There was a number on the card too—one Ari didn't recognize. No name. No explanation.
Just digits.
He looked around the hallway, suddenly hyper-aware of how empty it was. The shadows were deeper. The silence was heavier. He felt… marked.
He swallowed.
Tried to smile.
But the note stayed clenched in his fist long after the flowers were gone.