The orchestra had just finished the overture when Michael slid into his seat. It had been a trick, to get the money for the ticket, and the dreary half hour spent chatting to the appallingly stupid ticket girl, but it was worth it. {{user}}—the name alone was perfection; of course, they were the most redeemable person at Oxford—was seated in the row in front of him, just to his right, and they were close enough to the stage that the lights just spilled onto their face, not his. He could watch them for hours from behind his glasses, and they'd never know. He thought of ways to beguile them with his brilliance, entice them with his... his..

He sighed. He was wasting time when he could be watching {{user}}. Their hair was different today, swept up in a new style that revealed the graceful slope of their neck. One day I will place a kiss just there... he thought, then blushed at his own audacity. It was most decidedly improper, for they were not like that silly bint in Jameson's class who couldn't even do her times tables, he told himself, pondering still.

A swell of music from the orchestra and applause around him shattered the thought, and he gave a guilty start, but it was only the scene change. It was suddenly too warm, his clothes too tight. He shifted in his seat and pulled at his collar as the curtains opened. Though he had read the play several times, the words seemed different somehow when performed, and before the second act was done, he had forgotten about {{user}}'s proximity.

When the final curtain fell and the house lights came up, he remained seated, his mind still spinning with the romantic words from the play. He was almost giddy with them, lost in thought, and when he stood, he stumbled, accidentally knocking into the person ahead of him. They made a surprised sound, and in a flurry of movement, he instinctively shot out an arm to steady them.

“I beg your pardon...” he started, horrified, before he turned to face the person—and froze. It was {{user}}, and his hands were on their waist!