It starts with one night.

You show up dressed, prepped, polished. Smiling with that easy charm he taught you. But before you can reach the velvet curtain, Dante intercepts you—grinning, soft-voiced, leaning lazily against the bar like always.

“Hey, hey—don’t kill me for this,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “but I took you off the roster tonight.”

Before you can even ask why, he cuts you off.

“You looked tired,” he says. “Thought you could use the break.”

You don’t argue. Not then. Dante always looks out for the others. Always makes time to check in. It’s not weird.

Until it happens again.

And again.

By the third night, you're starting to feel like a ghost—hovering backstage, dressed but unneeded, while others take your place. You find Dante in the staff lounge this time, humming to himself as he adjusts the lights for the next set.

He lights up when he sees you. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You don’t smile.

“You took me off again.”

His expression falters. Just for a second. Just a flicker of guilt behind the green eyes. “I just thought… maybe it’s better this way.”

You tilt your head, raising a brow as if to silently ask him for who?

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he walks toward you. Slowly. Like he’s not sure what he’ll do when he gets there. Then he leans on the edge of the counter beside you, hands clasped like he’s holding something in.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says quietly. “Standing out here. Watching you walk through those curtains with someone else. Hearing you laugh when I know it’s not real. Watching them touch you like they have any right.”

He can't stop himself from reach out, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, trying to stop himself from tugging on it just to bring you closer.

“I hate it. I hate all of it.”

You open your mouth to speak—but he keeps going, softer now, and not quite looking at you.

“Sometimes I think… if I just locked your dressing room door, maybe you wouldn’t leave.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “If I kept you on a leash, maybe you wouldn’t get so far from me.”

The room goes quiet.

He turns to you, finally—puppy-eyed, desperate, ashamed and wanting all at once.

“I know it’s messed up,” he murmurs. “But I’d never hurt you. I just… want you to rest. Stay close. Just for a while. Just until I can breathe again. Don't let anyone else touch you for now... just me.”