If my dorm room had a personality, it would be "thirteen-year-old with a credit card and no supervision."
Every inch of the walls was covered in posters of Theo James — the world's hottest actor, lead singer of Bloodline, and the only reason I passed high school without committing academic suicide. His smirk looked down at me from above my desk, his eyes followed me from the ceiling, and even my alarm clock was set to play his voice announcing, "Wake up, beautiful."
Yeah, I was that kind of fangirl.
"Do you ever think this might be… unhealthy?" my roommate, Janelle, asked, chewing gum and scrolling on her phone from her bed. She always had something slick to say and today was no different.
"Unhealthy is eating Hot Cheetos for breakfast," I shot back, taping a new glossy magazine spread of Damon on my closet door. He was in a leather jacket, holding a guitar, looking like he was personally responsible for global warming.
"You've turned your side of the room into a shrine," Janelle pointed out. "I'm expecting you to start leaving blood sacrifices at his poster any day now."
"Don't tempt me," I said with a grin. "I'd donate my left kidney just for him to notice me."
Janelle rolled her eyes. "Girl, you'd donate both if he winked at you."
She wasn't wrong.
It wasn't just that Theo James was hot — although, objectively, he was hotter than sin on a summer afternoon. It was that he was untouchable. A celebrity. A legend. The kind of man girls like me screamed about in group chats but never, ever expected to meet in real life
That's why when our college announced he was coming to give a guest lecture for the film department; I almost had a cardiac arrest.
"You're joking." I blinked at the campus-wide email, rereading the words: SPECIAL GUEST SPEAKER: Theo James.
"Nope." Janelle popped her gum. "Apparently, he's taking a break from touring. Doing some, like, method acting thing? Wants to 'experience normal life.' I guess our college counts as normal."
I nearly dropped my phone. "He's—he's coming here? To our campus? Theo freaking James?!"
"Yes, Ruth," Janelle said patiently. "Your future husband is coming here. Try not to combust before then.
I did combust. Emotionally. Out loud. With screaming, flailing, and dramatic sobbing into my pillow.
The day of his arrival felt like waiting for Judgment Day, except instead of fearing eternal damnation, I was hoping to be noticed by a man who had 50 million Instagram followers and an ass that deserved its own Nobel Peace Prize.
The auditorium was packed — girls with homemade signs, boys pretending not to care, professors trying to act like this was just another academic event. Me? I was vibrating in my seat like an over-caffeinated chihuahua.
And then he walked in.
Theo James. In the flesh.
He was taller than I imagined, broader too, with hair that looked like it had been tousled by angels. He wore a simple black shirt and jeans, but somehow, he made it look like high fashion. And when he smiled at the crowd, a wave of screaming broke out so loud my ears rang.
"Hey," he said, voice low, smooth, with that hint of mischief he was famous for. "Thanks for having me. I'm Theo."
Like we didn't know. Like my entire soul hadn't been branded with his name since sophomore year of high school.
The lecture itself was a blur — something about his career, about acting, about art. I heard maybe ten percent of it because I was too busy staring, memorizing the way his lips moved, the way his fingers curled around the mic stand.
And then — it happened.
Our eyes met.
For one fleeting second, across a sea of screaming fans, Theo Cross looked right at me.
I swear my heart stopped. Like, flatlined. Someone calls campus security; Ruth just ascended to heaven.
He smiled. A small, knowing curve of his lips. And then he looked away.
But it was enough.
Janelle leaned over, whispering, "You're breathing like a dog in heat. Chill. "Shut. Up," I hissed back, clutching my chest.
By the time the lecture ended, my legs were jelly. People swarmed the front of the stage, shoving posters and notebooks at him for autographs. Janelle tugged my sleeve. "Go! This is your chance!"
And somehow, on shaky legs, I stumbled forward.
He was closer now, signing, smiling, making jokes with fans. When I reached the front, my brain short-circuited.
I held out the only thing I had... a crumpled biology notebook.
"Could you... sign this?" I squeaked.
He looked up. Straight at me.
And for a second, the smile faded. His eyes — impossibly dark, almost glowing — studied me with unnerving intensity.
The hairs on my arms rose.
Then, just as quickly, he smirked. "Sure, sweetheart."
His voice was like velvet dipped in sin. He took my notebook, brushed his fingers over mine — and I swear his skin was cold. Not just chilly. Cold, like marble under ice.
"You're shaking," he said softly, signing his name in big, dramatic letters.
"B-because you're—" I stammered. "You're you."
He chuckled, low and dangerous, handing the notebook back. "That's a new one."
When I looked down, I expected just a signature. But no. He'd written a message:
To Ruth. Don't stop staring.
I blinked. My name. He knew my name.
When I looked back up, he was already moving on to the next fan. But his smirk lingered in my mind, sharp and knowing, like he'd just let me in on a secret I wasn't supposed to know.
That night, I lay in bed, clutching the signed notebook to my chest while Janelle scrolled TikTok.
"You're smiling like an idiot," she said.
"I touched Theo James," I whispered dreamily.
"And?"
"And his hand was freezing cold," I added.
Janelle looked up. "Cold?"
"Like… corpse cold."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're not about to start some vampire theory, are you?"
I hugged the notebook tighter, thinking about his eyes, the way he stared at me like he could see through my soul.
"No," I lied.
But deep down, a wild, ridiculous thought was already forming.
What if Theo James wasn't just my celebrity crush?
What if he was something else entirely?
Something darker.
Something that might bite.