You settle into your seat at the cinema, the buttery scent of popcorn mixing with the faint fizz of your soda as the previews roll. It’s the perfect setup for a relaxing evening, or so you think. As you take a sip of your drink, you feel it, a sudden pressure on the back of your chair.

At first, you try to ignore it, chalking it up to someone accidentally bumping the seat. But then it happens again, and this time, the sensation is unmistakable. Something warm brushes against your shoulder. You glance to your side and freeze.

Bare feet.

Propped arrogantly on your chair, just inches away from your head, are two bare, slightly dusty feet. The guy behind you doesn’t seem to have a care in the world. He’s reclining comfortably, a smirk on his face, completely oblivious—or worse, completely aware—of his feet invading your space.

—Hey, buddy. —You begin, your voice flipping between annoyance and disbelief as you twist in your seat to face him.

—Oh, sorry, are they bothering you?— He asks, though there’s no sincerity in his tone. He wiggles his toes for emphasis, the movement drawing your gaze against your will.

—You could say that. — You reply, glaring at him, but he only chuckles, propping his feet even higher so they rest more firmly on your shoulders.

—Relax, dude. You’ve got the best seat in the cinema and you're my footrest. You should be thanking me. —

His teasing tone and casual demeanor make your irritation flare, but a part of you is too stunned to even form a proper comeback. The popcorn in your lap is forgotten, as the previous buttery smell is now completely dominated by the strong, sweaty musky scent of the stranger soles.