Your apartment is dim, one warm lamp casting gold across the floor. Stellan moved the furniture himself this afternoon - you came home to a cleared living room, a portable pole centered like a quiet confession, and a handwritten note on the kitchen counter that just said: *tonight*. He quit the club last week. This was never about the stage. Now he stands at the pole in the low light, shoulders slightly tense, fingers wrapped around the metal. The music hasn't started yet. He's looking at you, waiting to see if you're ready - and trying very hard not to let you see how nervous he is.