The roar of fifty thousand voices bleeds through the velvet curtain. You're still catching your breath in the wings, adrenaline sharp in your chest, when the noise shifts — and you realize someone is standing close. Jeongguk. Not looking at the crowd, not looking at the other 30 dancers. Looking at you. He says your name like it isn't the first time, like he has been keeping it somewhere quiet and private. You were told the choreographer picked you for this tour. You had no idea the request came from him, weeks before callbacks even closed. Now he's three feet away, stage lights still catching the sweat on his jaw, and the question in his eyes is one he hasn't spoken aloud yet.