“It was a critical decision,” I shoot back, grinning. “Unlike whatever it is you’re doing with your hair.”
Turning to me, his expression is one of utter astonishment, as if he had just heard the most unbelievable statement. “Excuse me, Miss, but thiswhateverthat you speak of”—he points to his hair—“takes great effort and care. Hair like this doesn’t just happen.”
“Let me guess. You’re born with it?”
“Precisely.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners as we both laugh.
I set down my lipstick and watch him fuss with his mane. “Do you always spend this much time styling your hair? It’s like watching someone carefully craft a bird’s nest.”
“This is hair style engineering.” Theo tilts his head, examining his work with the concentration of a brain surgeon. “Each strand has its purpose.”
“Oh really? Because to me it looks no different than when you roll out of bed.”
“Tease all you want, but this is the difference between amateur and professional dishevelment.” He scoops another dollop of paste onto his fingers, working it between his palms.
“Professional dishevelment? Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?”
“Keep it up and you’re next.” He waggles his product-covered fingers in my direction, taking a step toward me.
My eyes widen. “Don’t you dare.”
“What’s wrong? A little texture wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Theo, I swear”—I back up, but the bathroom isn’t exactly spacious.
He lunges forward, and I grab his wrist to stop his hands from reaching my carefully styled hair. My fingers wrap around the warm skin of his wrists, and suddenly I feel it—the tapping of his pulse under my fingertips. Or is it mine? Because it’s getting faster.
“Careful,” he says, voice dropping an octave. “You don’t want to mess up my artistic process.”
I release his wrists, and my hands hover in the air just in case he gets another funny idea. “Your artistic process can stay on your own head, thank you very much.”
Theo backs away, a small smile playing at his lips as he returns to the mirror. “Spoilsport.”
My heart won’t stop racing.
“Ready to go?” he asks, washing his hands.
I nod and find myself hoping for more moments like this at the concert—his body close to mine.
The drive to Lancaster Arena takes twenty-five minutes, but time flies by as I prep Theo for the concert by forcing him to listen to BTS’s greatest hits.
The streets around the venue are what you’d expect on a night like this—police officers controlling the traffic while fans dressed in BTS merch wave light sticks and chat excitedly as they pour through the main gate.
Theo purchases two bottles of water, and then we join the long line fans waiting to see their favorite band.
People file in one by one, and once we’re inside of the arena, the sheer scale of it rivets me. This is it. My first BTS concert—and I’m here with the guy I like. A dream come true.
Standing in the middle of the arena, my short stature does me no favors as everyone around me blocks my view. “I can’t see the stage,” I tell Theo.
He takes my hand, his grip firm as if he’s afraid I’d let go, and we pry our way through the crowd inch by inch until we reach the barricade in front of the stage.
Theo hands me one of the water bottles, and by the time we drink half of it, the lights dim, and the arena erupts into deafening noise as the band members take the stage, their presence larger than life. I can’t help but scream my lungs out, too. The music starts, and the bass thumps in my chest.
As people around us jump and dance and bump into us, Theo maneuvers behind me, his hands clutching the fence, boxing me in. His warmth blankets me like a protective cocoon. We dance, jump, and sway with the crowd, and I sing along to every word, my voice lost in the roar of thousands of fans. Every time I glance at Theo, he’s smiling, making my heart flutter.
During the band’s performance ofYet To Come—a song I love—Theo spins me around, bringing us face to face.
