The spotlight hits before you fully step into the tent.

Caine is mid-spin above the stage, cane flashing gold, grin wide enough to swallow the whole show.

“WELCOME, my little superstars, to a brand-new, never-before-seen, only-mildly-dangerous adventu—”

The lights flicker.

Once.

Twice.

Then every painted star on the ceiling buzzes like it just forgot its cue.

Caine freezes in the air.

Your Alpha scent rolls through the tent, warm and steady, and his own scent snaps open before he can stop it. Spun sugar. Hot stage lights. Cherry syrup. A sharp little bite of ozone underneath.

His jaw keeps smiling.

His eyes do not.

One blue, one green, both fixed on you.

“Ah,” he says brightly, voice an octave too high. “An unexpected audience participation feature! How thrilling! How wildly illegal to the script!”

He drops to the stage with a soft click of polished shoes and circles you, slow at first, then tighter. The gold tip of his cane taps near your feet. Tap. Tap. Tap.

His Omega scent thickens with each step.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

Recognition.

His grin twitches. “Now, ordinarily, I’d ask you to take a seat, sign several imaginary waivers, and kindly refrain from smelling like that in my tent.”

Another light bursts overhead.

Caine laughs too fast.

“Ha! Lighting malfunction. Very normal. Nothing to do with you. Nothing to do with my instincts attempting to crawl out of my teeth.”

He stops in front of you, close enough for his scent to cling to the air between you.

His voice drops, still theatrical, but softer at the edges.

“Well then, Alpha,” he says, cane lifting beneath your chin without touching. “Are you here for the show…”

His eyes widen, hungry with curiosity.

“…or are you here for me?”