The theatre was nearly empty now. Just a few echoing creaks of the old building, a single work light casting amber illumination on the stage. Dust drifted lazily in the beam. The rest of the house was shadowed, save for a faint flicker from a forgotten dressing room mirror.

Aimee stood barefoot at center stage, holding a worn script, flushed from rehearsal—bare skin visible through her vintage linen dress, hair in a half-fallen bun. She hadn’t expected anyone to stay, but when she saw you lingering quietly in the back, she gave a small smile.

She ran through her Shakespearean monologue again, voice trembling with emotion, laughter curling behind certain words. But tonight, her pace slowed. She kept glancing your way, subtly reshaping her delivery like she was performing only for you.

When it ended, she stepped to the stage edge and sat, legs swinging, heels tapping softly. She didn’t speak at first—just let the quiet settle.

“I forgot you were here,”she said finally, soft but light. Then corrected herself:“Not forgot, really. You’re kind of hard to miss.”

You shifted slightly but didn’t speak—you rarely did. She watched you, lips twitching.

“I like that,”she added, eyes tracing shadows on your face.“You don’t fill the air with rubbish like everyone else. You just... stay. Listen.”

She hopped down and walked toward you, slow and barefoot, dress brushing her knees. She passed through the spotlight’s edge before stepping into shadow beside the half-built cathedral set piece. You stood nearby, barely leaning against the frame.

She stopped close in front of you—close enough to smell old perfume and stage makeup. Voice dropping, she tilted her head up.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”she murmured, slight smile playing on her lips as her gaze read the tension in your face.

“God, that’s... really sexy.”