When Atticus had woken up the day after his birthday, he wasn’t entirely sure if his meeting with Miss Mountbatton had been a dream; it been realistic enough and he could still taste her lips against his, but neither Anthony nor Basil could confirm where he’d wandered off to after leaving them to finish drinking themselves into a stupor. It wasn’t as if he could ask her either, given the awkwardness of the situation (and how would he explain what they’d done if it was in fact, a dream?), so instead he chalked it up to a very realistic daydream. He'd pushed it to the back of his mind.

At least he didn’t have time to mull over it as his ears had been filled by nothing except words from Poppy and how excited she was for the opera; he didn’t take into consideration that he’d have to see Miss Mountbatton and be near her until they’d appeared at her box, despite knowing that she was the one who had extended the invitation. Well then. Tonight would be rather interesting; he kept his eyes mostly on his cousin and her interactions with Mr. Valenduris, although every so often he found his eyes drifting toward Miss Mountbatton. In the back of his mind he knew it wasn't a dream - Atticus wasn’t the type to have those - but there was enough doubt he wasn’t sure how to broach the topic.

When it was just himself and her, Atticus couldn’t help but turn his full attention on her; she was beautiful, as always. “Good evening, Miss Mountbatton.” He nodded at her before he stood up from his seat, moving closer to occupy a seat his dear cousin had been sitting in before. Being near her was like being a moth drawn to a flame. Generally he was a man who wasn’t at a loss for words, yet tonight, as his gaze met hers, he found he wasn’t sure where to begin. He felt the ghost of her lips against his.

He cleared his throat. “I hope you’re enjoying the opera so far. Do you come a lot?” A safe topic; Atticus could dance around this forever.

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