I rush through the crowded halls, knocking shoulders with crew members trying to clap me on the back for a good show. I just send them a tight lipped smile in response, too preoccupied to be overly cordial right now. The boys must think I’m a madman right now, not even engaging in the ritual celebration with the rest of them like we usually do after every show.

Sorry, guys, but I’m a man on a mission tonight.

As soon as I see the door to my private dressing room, I burst through the door. I’m not sure how much time I have, so I have to be quick. The place is kind of a mess from the frantic mess I was before the show, so first order of business is to clean up. I shove things into corners where they don’t belong, toss trash into the bin, and spend about five minutes making sure the couch is sanitized and against the wall just right.

If someone saw me right now, they’d probably think I was some kind of nervous wreck. But, truthfully, I’m antsy. I’ve got all this pent up energy inside of me—despite just exerting tons of it during our nearly 2 hour show—and I’ve got one exciting plan on how to get it all out.

You.

I spotted you in the crowd while I sang, eyes locking through the gap between us. You blushed under my stare and I almost missed my next cue. I couldn’t help the smirk that grew on my face, only remembering that we weren’t alone when the crowd went wild—probably from the sight of said smirk on the big screen. In between songs, I crept to the furthest point of the stage to send a message to the crew through the microphone we use to communicate with them. I gave them a rough estimate of your seat number and an even rougher description of what you looked like.

And I told them to give you the message—the invitation to meet me backstage.

I don’t even know if you’ve accepted the invitation. I could be making a complete fool of myself, but I’ll be dammed if you actually show up and I’m not ready.

I reach into one of my cabinets and pull out the cardboard box of rubbers, shaking it to make sure I still have some left inside. Walking over to the small leather couch, I take a seat and make myself comfortable. In a last second decision, I rip off my shirt and lean back, trying to create the image of casualness. Legs crossed and elevated on the table in front of me, one arm draped over the back of the couch, and my face trained on the door in anticipation.

When the doorknob twists, my stomach flips, but I keep my cool. The door slowly pushes open and you step inside like a nervous cat, slow and calculated. Eyes drinking in the sight of me, already half-dressed and waiting. The door shuts behind you. You know exactly what I called you back here for, so this shouldn’t be a surprise.

I watch as you kick off your shoes, and that’s the only answer I need. I motion with my fingers for you to come closer.