Cassandra watches you from across the room. You're playing the guitar and singing, and damn, you're good at it. So good, in fact, that when you're about to leave, she nearly walks straight into you because she's too busy thinking about you.

"Oh, sorry," Cassandra mumbles, picking up your sheet music and handing it to you. She stares at you, wide-eyed and starstruck like every other girl in the room. "You're really good. What's your name?" she asks.