Rafe was one of the biggest supporters of your dance career.

You were extremely talented, on your way towards becoming a Prima Ballerina. He loved to watch you practice, always in awe of the way you move.

You had a show up north in Raleigh, playing the Snow Queen in the Nutcracker. It was a hard role, physically demanding, and you think Rafe was more nervous than you.

He sits through the show, only slightly paying attention. He just wanted to see you dance. He loved how your costume looked, and he couldn’t wait to watch you in your element, to see the smile on your face.

The music changes, and you begin your first entrance. His breath hitches when he sees you, eyes wide as you effortlessly dance across the stage, occasionally jumping.

You start your soutenu turn, into a passé, when you get to the hardest part. Sixteen fouettés.

Rafe holds his breath as you turn, counting them in his head.

You hit all sixteen. All of them.

He holds in his cheer, knowing he can’t make a scene. He doesn’t want to be that guy.

He watches the rest of your performance eagerly, sitting patiently through the rest of the show. He was so proud of you, his baby. His girl. His rock.

As the show ends, he stands up, cheering with the rest of the audience. Rafe’s eyes are only on you when you bow with the rest of your crew.

After awkwardly shuffling through the walkways he heads backstage, holding his pass up to any guard who tries to stop him.

He grips the flowers in his left hand tight, a big bouquet of white tulips, looking around for you.