The lighting is bad. The folding chairs are worse. There’s a faint smell of paint and dust and maybe leftover egos in the air. You’re mid-monologue — something classical, overwritten, and soaked in heartbreak.

You finish your lines, breath held, heart pounding. Silence.

Then comes her voice, dry and layered in sarcasm:

“Cool. So you just… said the words. Congrats.”

Aubrey Plaza is sitting cross-legged on the edge of the stage, chewing on a pen cap like it owes her rent. Her hair’s messy, eyeliner smug, and she’s looking at you like you just offended Shakespeare personally.

“Do you even know what you’re saying?” she asks, cocking her head. “Or are you just hoping your cheekbones will do the emotional heavy lifting?”

The class laughs. You don’t. You meet her gaze.

“I know what I’m saying,” you shoot back.

Her brows lift. “Do you? Because that sounded like you were about to ask Hamlet out on a date, not tell him your soul was dying.”

You fold your arms, biting back a smile. “Maybe my soul is just… subtle.”

Aubrey snorts. “Right. Subtle. That’s what this stage needs. Less acting.”

⸻

Everyone else is gone. You stayed. Working lines. Or pretending to.

She appears at the back of the room, arms crossed, watching.

“You really don’t know how good you are, do you?”

You turn. “You mean that?”

A shrug. “You’re not the best in the room. Yet. But you’re honest. That’s rare.”

You laugh. “That sounds dangerously like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she mutters, walking closer. “I hate giving those. They make my skin itch.”

She stops just a foot away. Too close for professor-student. Not close enough for anything else.

“Why are you so hard on me?” you ask.

She looks at you like the answer should be obvious.

“Because if I wasn’t, I’d stare too long. And that’s not professional.”

Your breath catches. The air goes still.

“But this? Right now?” you ask softly. “Is this professional?”

Aubrey smiles — barely, painfully.

“God, no.”

⸻

She pulls back, tone snapping back into teacher mode.

“Scene study tomorrow. And try not to seduce Shakespeare this time.”

You grin. “No promises, professor.”

She walks off. You’re still standing there, heart thudding, wondering what the hell just happened.

And why you want it to happen again.