The noise from the crowd hits me like a wave — deafening, electric, the kind of sound that crawls under your skin and stays there. I’ve been on this stage a thousand times, but tonight feels different. My eyes keep finding her. She’s standing just past the side curtain, trying to look like she’s focused on the performance, but I can tell she’s watching me. Always does.

We’re halfway through the set when the lights flash bright and the fans scream louder than ever. I grin, mic in hand, feeling that familiar spark of adrenaline. Liam’s talking to the crowd, cracking jokes, but my mind’s already spinning somewhere else. I catch her gaze — she looks up, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. That’s all the encouragement I need.

I start to move a little closer to the edge of the stage, playing up the swagger for the crowd. It’s all part of the show, of course, but there’s something extra in it tonight. A private kind of performance, just for her. I can see her shaking her head, trying not to laugh, and that only makes me push it further. Every little smirk, every teasing move — I can see it’s getting to her.

The boys glance at me, probably wondering what’s got me acting like such a show-off. I can’t even explain it myself. Maybe it’s the thrill, maybe it’s her, maybe it’s knowing that somewhere in this sea of noise, she’s the only one who actually sees me — not the singer, not the headlines, just me.

When the set ends and we head backstage, my pulse is still racing. I towel off the sweat, still grinning like an idiot, when I hear her voice behind me.

“Really?” she says, crossing her arms. “You just had to do that in front of everyone?”

I turn around, trying — and failing — to look innocent. “Do what?”

“You know exactly what,” she says, stepping closer, her expression a mix of irritation and amusement. “Half the arena probably caught that little act.”

I shrug. “Can’t help it if I get carried away. The energy’s contagious.”

She gives me a look that’s supposed to be stern, but her lips are twitching like she’s trying not to smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” I admit, lowering my voice, “but you were watching, weren’t you?”

That makes her pause. Her cheeks flush, and for a second, she looks like she’s debating whether to walk away or stay and argue. She stays.

“Someone has to keep you in line,” she mutters.

I grin. “You sure that’s what you’re doing?”

Her sigh turns into a small laugh. “You really think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Only when you’re here to see it.”

She rolls her eyes, but the fight’s already gone. It always is. There’s a moment of quiet, the kind that feels heavier than the noise outside. I can still hear the echo of the crowd fading somewhere down the corridor, but all I’m focused on is her — the way her hair’s fallen loose from behind her ear, the way she’s pretending not to smile.

I take a slow step closer, close enough to see the spark in her eyes. “You know, you pretending to be mad doesn’t really work,” I say softly.

“Oh, it works,” she counters, trying to sound confident. “You just don’t take it seriously.”

“Maybe I would,” I say, “if you didn’t look so cute doing it.”

That earns me another sigh, but this time it’s softer. She shakes her head, finally letting the smile show.

“You’re lucky I like you, Styles.”

“I’m counting on it,” I reply.

There’s laughter somewhere down the hallway — the boys, probably. But for a few seconds, it’s like we’re in our own world again. The stage lights might be off, but the spark’s still there, glowing between us like something neither of us can quite put out.

I can’t help but smile to myself. Maybe I went a little too far out there tonight. Maybe she’ll remind me of it for days. But as she turns to walk with me toward the dressing room, still shaking her head, I know I’ll probably do it again anyway.

After all, some trouble’s just too fun to avoid.