You’re hiding out from the rain in an old telephone booth when the door slams open, and suddenly you see him. Standing in front of you soaked to the bone, breathing hard like he’s been chased. He rips down the hood of his leather jacket, shaking out his drenched curls, and it hits you immediately who he is: *the* notorious rockstar with a bad-boy reputation — looking every bit like he stepped out of a fever dream with his wild hair, tattoos, and intense eyes. He scans your face, and before you can look away, he’s shutting the door of the booth, making the space even smaller. You can't look away now.