Me again with more theatre actress x art 🤫💁♀️ I need her in phantom of the opera where she has to go through a lot of classical training and they are all so impressed or something idk 👅💗
stanford!art donaldson x theatre actress!reader
a/n: art is a certified loverboy in this 😭 my baby
you stand in the wings, heart pounding like a timpani. tonight is opening night of phantom of the opera, and after months of vocal exercises, ballet barre drills, and breath–control practice that left you gasping for air, you’re ready. your costume—white lace, a corseted bodice, and that delicate, flowing dress—clings to you like a promise. the stage lights cast your shadow long across the floor.
you inhale, taste the faint tang of hairspray and stage smoke, and step into the glow. the orchestra swells beneath you. every note, every measure, is one you’ve lived and breathed through your endless mornings of scales and runs. you feel the drama flow through your veins as you deliver your first note—pure, trembling, and triumphant.
in the audience, art sits in the third row—wearing a crisp blazer over a plain tee, chinos pressed so sharply they look ironed on, and polished leather shoes that click on the marble floor. he’s never been to a musical , has no idea how many hours of arpeggios you’ve endured to make this moment sing, but he wanted to look his best for you. when your voice rises—soaring over the orchestra, fragile yet unbreakable—his breath catches. eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, he leans forward as if gravity itself can pull him closer to you.
as soon as the delicate piano introduction to “think of me” drifts over the orchestra, you sense him leaning forward. his adam’s apple bobs; his breath catches on each tremulous phrase. when you nail that high note, his jaw drops and a single tear wells in his eye. he swallows, stunned, as though your voice has rewired his heart.
you know he’s never seen phantom—not the movie, not on stage—because you can almost feel his pulse quicken as the lights dim and the chandelier begins its slow descent. then comes the crash of crystal, the collective gasp from the house—and art can’t help himself: he throws his head back and laughs, breathless with exhilaration, awe and delight mingling in his expression.
—
you step offstage, heart still dancing with the echo of applause, and there he is—art, waiting at the stage door with a bouquet nearly as big as his grin. roses, lilies, and those tiny wildflowers you love, wrapped in a silk ribbon that matches your costume.
he spots you and for a moment you swear he might collapse from the force of his own happiness. he drops the flowers into your arms with a little laugh of relief, eyes already glistening. “you were unbelievable,” he breathes, voice thick. “every note was perfect. i didn’t even know it was humanly possible to sound like that.”
he turns on his heel and practically tugs you through the crowds, weaving through well-wishers. “here she is! the woman of the hour!” he gushes to your parents, bowing slightly in mock formality. “your daughter just blew the roof off the entire theatre.”
to your friends clustered by the door he starts again: “patrick, tashi—you have no idea how hard she’s worked. extensive ballet classes, voice lessons till midnight (he was exaggerating wholeheartedly).… she deserves every bit of that standing ovation.”
you watch, charmed and a little embarrassed, as he reruns every highlight of your performance. he’s so earnest, so in love with every syllable you sang, that his excitement spills over—you can practically see it.
and then he’s looking at you, that sweaty, beautiful art donaldson glow on his cheeks, hand still pressed to his heart. “i’m so proud,” he says, voice catching. a few tears slips free and he blinks them away, embarrassed but unwilling to hide it. “you were magic tonight, pretty girl.”
you laugh softly, brushing his hand with your fingertips. he squeezes back, leaning close enough that you can feel his breath, sweet with awe.
you’re still laughing when he pulls you in.
it’s instinctive—he has no other way to show you how completely, hopelessly gone he is for you. one hand cradles your cheek, the other still tangled in the ribbon of the bouquet, and then his lips are on yours. gentle. the kind of kiss that says i watched you become someone else tonight and somehow you’re still the girl i love.
you feel him smile against your mouth, just before he pulls away. and then he remembers.
his eyes flick to the side and land directly on your parents, standing a few feet away with identical expressions of poorly concealed amusement. art freezes.
“oh my god,” he whispers. he takes a full step back, nearly trips over the bouquet tissue paper, and turns a shade of red you’ve never seen on him before—not even mid-match in the sun.
your mom raises an eyebrow. your dad crosses his arms, fighting a smile.
“uh—sorry,” art stammers, brushing his hair back with a shaky hand. “i forgot you were here. just celebrating y/n’s wonderful talent.”
you snort, covering your mouth with your hand, while your mom lets out a soft laugh. “why are you freaked out? we see you kiss all the time.”
“i—i didn’t know,” art stammers, running a hand through his already-messy blonde hair, eyes darting like he’s searching for a way to escape. “i thought we were being, like—stealthy!”
and then, right on cue, patrick appears again.
“stealthy? bro, you make out like you’re trying to win something. pretty sure i heard you whisper ‘i love you’ outside the stage door like, five times.”
art whips around. “patrick. not now.”
“no, no, please, let’s relive it,” patrick says, grinning. “‘she’s so radiant, she’s an angel, i’d die for her, do you think her parents like me? should i bow when i see them again?’”
“i did not say that.”
“you definitely said that.”
your cheeks are flushed, but you’re laughing now, hand still tight in art’s. he looks at you helplessly, red to his ears.
“i really do love you,” he mutters under his breath. “but this is the worst moment of my life.”
you just grin and kiss his cheek, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “you’ll live.”
