Celine stood backstage, trembling slightly in her pointe shoes. Her satin costume still shimmered under the dim lighting, cheeks flushed from the performance, ribbons slipping from her messy bun. She had danced her heart out, every pirouette and plié carved with precision. The applause had been thunderous — but it hadn’t been first place. Just second.

And second, in her father’s eyes, was failure.

She could feel it before she even saw him — that stormy silence he always carried when she didn’t “live up.” Her mother was already scolding her in hushed tones, but it was her father’s heavy steps that made her chest tighten.

“You embarrassed us,” he hissed, his hand rising, sharp and fast, the way it always did when words didn’t cut deep enough.

But this time — it didn’t land.

A large hand caught her father’s wrist mid-air.

“Back off,” came a low, calm voice. Dangerous in its stillness.

Celine turned, wide-eyed.

{{user}}.

He wasn’t a dancer. He didn’t belong in her delicate, tight-laced world of music boxes and pliés. He was muscle and scars, a championship boxer known around the world — and yes, he was in town for business, maybe a charity gala nearby, but what was he doing here?

Her father froze, mouth opening — then closing — his wrist still caught in {{user}}’s iron grip. The color drained from his face.

“You lay a hand on her again,” {{user}} said, tone even, “and I promise, you won’t be able to lift that hand for months.”

The silence was thick.

Her father stumbled back, muttering something about misunderstandings, excuses falling flat.

Celine just stood there, shocked, breath shaky — and then, suddenly, small fingers curled around {{user}}’s sleeve.

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice almost breaking.

He looked down at her, and his expression softened. “You were brilliant out there. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

And for the first time in a long time, Celine felt seen. Not as a perfect ballerina. Not as a trophy. Just as a girl — who deserved kindness.