I should've been in my dorm, face-planting into a textbook like a responsible college student. Instead, I was pacing outside the backstage door of the Crimson Haze concert like a criminal about to commit grand theft celebrity.
But come on—Theo James just touched me.
Theo freaking James. Lead singer of Crimson Haze. Rockstar. Heartthrob. Internet's most viral "bite me, daddy" fantasy. The man was basically the fangirl version of a loaded gun, and I'd just been shot point-blank.
My hand still tingled from where his fingers had brushed mine during the autograph signing. And don't even get me started on his eyes—those sharp, molten-dark eyes that had burned straight through me. Everyone said celebrities had an aura. Theo's aura? Felt like standing too close to the sun and realizing you liked being burned.
So yeah. Normal girls would've gone home. But I was not normal. I was Ruth: certified fangirl, Tumblr veteran, owner of three Theo James fan accounts, and current patient of acute post-concert thirst.
A security guard walked by, eyeing me like I was about to make a run for it. Which, okay, fair. I was mentally rehearsing my line: "Excuse me, officer, but this is destiny, not stalking."
Spoiler: destiny apparently looks a lot like loitering.
I tried to distract myself by scrolling Twitter. The #TheoJames tag was already unhinged:
"Nobody moves their hips like that unless they sold their soul to Satan."
"If Theo James looked at me like that, I'd sign my body over as a blood bank."
"He's not even real. That jawline is Photoshop."
I snorted too loudly at that last one. If only they knew.
The backstage door creaked open, and my entire body short-circuited.
It wasn't Theo. Just some stagehand carrying water bottles. But for a split second, my soul had left my body like, "Goodbye, Ruth, you lived well."
I pressed a hand to my chest, breathing like I'd just run a marathon. Okay. Chill. This was insane. I wasn't actually going to see him again. My big fangirl moment had happened, it was over, it was time to—
The door opened again.
This time it was him.
Theo James.
Black shirt clinging to his chest like it hated me personally. Hair messy in that "just ruined lives on stage" way. His skin glistened with the kind of sweat that should be bottled and sold at Sephora.
And those eyes. Those impossible, predatory eyes locked right on me.
"Still here?" His voice was low, smooth, with that teasing lilt rockstars get after years of seducing stadiums.
My tongue forgot English. "I—I was just… waiting. For the bus."
The bus. Out of all possible words, my brain chose bus. Kill me now.
He tilted his head, lips quirking like he was in on a joke only he understood. "Backstage. At midnight. For public transport."
I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. "The vibes are better here?" I squeaked.
Vibes. That was my defense. Please bury me six feet under with a copy of Cosmo.
He stepped closer, close enough that his cologne—dark, expensive, dangerous—wrapped around me. Close enough that his shoulder brushed mine.
"You're… different," he said finally.
I froze. "Different… good or… should I call campus security?"
That earned me a laugh. Low, sinful, the kind of sound that curled its fingers around my spine.
"Good," he murmured. Then softer, almost a whisper: "Very good."
My knees nearly collapsed.
He brushed past me, his arm grazing mine, and paused at the door. With that wicked grin, he added, "Don't miss your bus, Ruth."
My brain exploded.
He knew my name.
I never told him my name.
By the time I remembered how to breathe, he was gone, swallowed by shadows. And I stood there, trembling, realizing something terrifying and delicious all at once:
Theo James wasn't just a fantasy. He was a problem.
A big, beautiful, bite-me-now problem.