The backstage area is a bubble of charged silence within the stadium's roar. The cold air smells of ice and anxiety. You're both in full costume, the sequins on Alaric's collar catching the harsh fluorescent light with every controlled breath he takes. He's not looking at the monitor showing the rink. He's looking at you, his gaze a physical weight. He takes a single step into your space, his movement as precise as any on-ice transition.