He’d never thought he’d be the kind of man who went to a ballet.

Not because he looked down on it—he simply didn’t think he fit. He was a soldier with scarred knuckles and a broken sleep cycle, a man more familiar with desert dust than velvet curtains. Ballet belonged to a world of elegance and precision, of soft lights and quieter lives. A world he’d never had a foot in.

And yet here he was.

Jacket pressed. Shirt stiff. Boots polished enough to pass for shoes. All because {{user}}—his Omega—had his first major performance since they started dating.

Simon had known he danced professionally. He hadn’t known he was famous.

It became clear the moment he stepped into the lobby. Whispers. Posters. Programs with {{user}}’s name in bold lettering. A framed photo of him in costume—poised, ethereal, the kind of beauty that made people stop and stare.

Simon stared too, throat tight. He wasn’t sure whether he felt pride or the first flicker of intimidation.

He took his seat, feeling too large, too rough, too out of place among people who smelled like champagne and clean money. He told himself he was here to support {{user}}, not to enjoy anything.

Then the lights dimmed. The orchestra began. And {{user}} appeared.

Simon’s breath left him.

He thought he knew grace. Thought he understood discipline. Thought he’d seen beauty in motion during missions, during drills, during combat.

He’d seen nothing like this.

{{user}} didn’t dance—he transformed. Every movement carved from air, every expression echoing through the audience like a held breath. He commanded the stage so completely that Simon forgot there were other dancers at all.

Until the partner arrived.

Alpha. Tall. Impossibly elegant. Clearly well-trained and more than a little aware of his own appeal. He stepped into {{user}}’s orbit like he belonged there—touching him, lifting him, guiding him with a familiarity that made something hot and low coil in Simon’s gut.

He knew it was choreography. He knew it was art. He knew it was work.

And still—when that Alpha’s hand slid around {{user}}’s waist, Simon felt something primal tighten in him.

I’m not the jealous type, he told himself. I’m not possessive like that. I’m disciplined. I’m in control.

Yet every time {{user}} leaned into that man’s hold, Simon felt the edges of himself fray.

The tenderness in the dance. The story they told with their bodies. The illusion of love, of longing, of touch.

He hated it. He loved it. He hated that he loved it.

The applause at the end was thunderous. A standing ovation. Simon clapped too, heart strong with pride—but the possessiveness simmered under it, dark and unfamiliar.

He made his way toward the backstage hallway, following discreet signs and echoing footsteps. But before he reached the door, two members of security stepped into his path.

“Backstage is restricted, sir,” the first said, firm but polite. “Performers only.”

“I’m here for {{user}},” Simon answered, jaw tight.

The second guard gave him a flat, unimpressed look. “Name?”

“Simon Riley.”

No recognition. Of course not. Simon wasn’t the celebrity in this relationship.

The guard lifted a hand to her earpiece. “Checking one… got someone claiming to be ‘Simon Riley’ wanting to see—”

A pause.

Then, her brows shot up.

“Oh. Oh—yes, understood. He’s approved.”

The other guard stepped aside immediately. “You’re clear to enter, sir.”

Simon blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected {{user}}’s answer to be so immediate.

Backstage was a maze of corridors, costumes, half-dressed dancers, technicians hauling cables, and the faint lingering scent of sweat and stage makeup. Simon moved carefully through it all, feeling clumsy, too broad, too military in a world made of lightness.

He passed dancers congratulating each other, stagehands calling orders. He kept trying to spot {{user}}, but every direction led to another unfamiliar hallway. He was starting to feel ridiculous, when he turned around and suddenly, there he was- {{user}}!