The final curtain falls and the roses come — dozens of them, deep red, hurled onto the stage in a wave that feels less like admiration and more like a claim.

Under the blinding stage lights, you catch him immediately. Front row, center. Dark suit, no applause. Every other face in the theatre is flushed with excitement — his is completely still, watching you the way a man watches something he is already planning to take home.

The other dancers whisper about the flowers. You count the thorns.