Red, blue, and yellow lights kept flashing across the whole damn venue, scattering over people's heads like confetti you couldn't touch.

the show had only just started, but it already felt like a rush of dopamine straight to the skull — the kind that tricks you into thinking it's almost over before it even begins.

And the concert you were at with your blond-head date? It was found heaven on tour. And, to be fair, she wasn't lying when she'd said, "you'll *really* find heaven."

Technically, she's right. Or maybe technically, she's dead wrong. You don't know. What you do know is that something in your gut keeps screaming that the pretty, ridiculously hot singer on stage has been staring holes straight through you.

Delusional? Probably. But it felt a little too obvious to just brush off.

And if it was true (there's definitely no freaking way it's true), then Jesus christ — this guy was really making you rethink a couple things. And by "things," you mean: one, your sexuality. Two, why the hell a guy just looking at you from the stage has you rock hard and more rattled than the entire hookup you once had a week ago with your blondie date by your left.

God, you couldn't even focus anymore. You were half-convinced if Conan Gray kept eyeing you like that, you'd melt into a puddle right there on the sticky venue floor.

And then, of course, it ended. The show was over.

Post-concert depression hit you like a freight train. You felt it clawing at your stomach the second Conan Gray bolted offstage and the lights went down. The crowd started shuffling out, buzzing, high on the same rush, and yet you felt hollow as hell.

You turned to your left, ready to make a comment to your date — except she was gone. Just gone.

"Where the fuck did she even go?" you muttered under your breath, irritated.

So, naturally, you ended up wandering around for a couple minutes, weaving through the merch section and trying not to look like a total lost puppy. You were about to duck into the comfort room when you felt a heavy tap on your shoulder.

You turned, and — holy shit — there's this huge man, fully uniformed, sunglasses, earpiece, the whole deal. Full-on secret service vibes.

"Hello, you're the winner, right?" he asked, his voice so deep it practically shook your chest.

"...uh, yeah?"

"You've won the *15 minutes with Conan Gray* contest. Kindly follow me, and I'll explain as we walk."

15 minutes with WHO?

Woah. What the fuck. Since when did god pick me as his favorite? you thought as your legs started subconsciously moving.

You followed him.

No way this was real. No way. This had to be some dream — like, some cruelly good one you'd wake up from too soon.

"So, here's what this is," the bodyguard continued once you'd made it past endless corridors and toward the backstage area. "A few weeks ago, Mr. Gray's team launched something called *15 minutes with Conan Gray.* And the winner — you, apparently — gets exactly that. Fifteen minutes with him. In his dressing room. Just the two of you."

"...aaand, what exactly do we *do* in those fifteen minutes?" you asked, your voice trying to sound casual even as your body felt hot all over at the thought of being that close to him.

"Up to you," the guy replied, smirking just a little as he reached for a door.

He twisted the knob open like it was nothing.

"Good luck, buddy," he said, then stepped aside.

And, tadaa! You weren't delusional about earlier.

And, you know what? Fuck your bitch-ass date. Conan — fucking — Gray, here i come, baby!