It was after a gala performance for some occasion or another that they first met. His younger brother had just left for a year at sea, and she had managed to shake off the younger members of the corps de ballet for a few moments. He had been casually strolling down a hallway. At the same moment she was emerging from her dressing room—a picture of mundane opulence—in slightly more comfortable attire. They did not see each other, and as they ran upon each other with an ungraceful oof! she suddenly felt rather embarrassed. Spewing apologies, they helped each other to their feet. He held her arm to make sure she was steady, and frowned deeply.

"Do excuse me, mademoiselle, but I did not realise there was somebody here."

She frowned. "Perhaps you should have your eyesight checked, monsieur." she shot back haughtily.

Raising his eyebrows in indignation, he gave a bow. "I do not believe I have had the pleasure—I am Philippe, the Comte de Chagny, since the passing of my late father."

Infinitesimally her eyes widened. "And I am La Sorelli. A pleasure, were you not so oafish."

Were she not so pretty, he would be inclined to strongly dislike this woman. Instead he found himself fighting rather a large grin. She raised her chin defiantly.

"Well, defiant mademoiselle, may I ask you to join me for a glass of champagne?"

It was the first of many glasses, and they found themselves laughing the night away among the crowds. And later, at around two o'clock, they discovered they had returned to the place of their meeting, a deserted corridor. The wine had thickened his vision and he saw stars in the red gaslight reflected off the walls. And she was a sight. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine, and those lovely eyes had not left his.

He took a step forward and she backed against the wall. There was a devilish gleam to the lovely green eyes now, and he tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder. There was no resistance, no protest, not even an amusing snide comment. Her lips parted.

Neither of them ever quite figured out who had initiated that first kiss.

But the second was certainly him.

When he drew away from her, his hands had—rather of their own accord—been placed on her cheeks, and she simply looked up at him, with that delightful sparkle still glimmering in her eyes. As if realising the position he had put himself in, the Comte sprang away from the dancer, straightening his jacket as he did so. "I should like to thank you, mademoiselle – "

"Sorelli." she insisted, lowering her eyes.

He cleared his throat. "Ah, Sorelli… for rather a… a compelling evening. Fascinating…" he glanced at the smiling lips. "Fascinating discourse. We must… do it again sometime."

"We must." she assented, this time meeting his eyes with a mischievous grin. "Until then, however, Monsieur le Comte, I shall bid you goodnight."

The third kiss she initiated; it was long and luxurious and ended rather slowly. He found himself entranced by the smoothness of her skin and the softness of her skin.

But he shook it off as he composed himself yet again, taking a necessary step backwards to avoid the temptation to kiss her again.

"Goodnight indeed." he said, and, bowing, withdrew. She smiled as he walked away.

That night Philippe de Chagny fell asleep with thoughts of the divine, the beautiful, the wonderful Sorelli dancing about his brain.