The crowd’s deafening, but I can still find {{user}} in the noise. Always do. She’s standing just offstage, headset on, pretending to be focused on something else, but her eyes keep finding mine. We’re halfway through the set, lights flashing, sweat on my skin, the air electric with sound. Every time I pass that side of the stage, she’s there. Waiting. Watching. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

Niall’s cracking jokes between songs, the others laughing, and I’m trying to play along, but my focus slips. She catches me looking and tilts her head, one brow raised, that tiny smirk tugging at her lips. The one that says, I see you, Styles.

I grin back, grab the banana sitting on the edge of the stage—a stupid little snack someone tossed into our pile of water bottles earlier. I peel it slowly, keeping my eyes on her. The crowd’s screaming for something else entirely, but {{user}} knows. She knows it’s not for them. I take a bite, half-smiling, half-daring her to look away.

Louis elbows me, laughing. “You good, mate? Having a moment with your fruit?”

“Just keeping it healthy,” I shoot back, voice light, but my eyes never leave hers. She shakes her head from the side of the stage, trying to hide her laugh behind her hand. I wink, just once, before turning back to the mic.

The rest of the concert blurs by in a rush of lights and bass and cheers. Every time I hit her side of the stage, my eyes find her. Sometimes she’s pretending not to notice. Sometimes she doesn’t bother pretending at all. There’s a pulse between us that doesn’t belong to the music—something quieter, heavier. It’s the kind of thing you feel before you even understand it.

When the final chord hits and the lights cut, the roar of the crowd is like thunder. We wave, say our goodbyes, and toss towels and water bottles into the chaos. I run offstage, chest heaving, adrenaline burning through me—and she’s right there waiting. Clipboard in one hand, earpiece half out, eyes bright.

“Nice show,” she says, voice too steady to be casual.

“Yeah?” I ask, still catching my breath. “Any favorite parts?”

Her eyes flick to the half-finished banana sitting on a nearby amp. Then back to me. “Maybe one or two.”

I step closer, just enough that I can feel her breath when she laughs softly. “You shouldn’t look at me like that during a show,” I say quietly.

“Why not?” she asks, tilting her head.

“Because I forget what song I’m on.”

She smiles then—slow, deliberate. “Sounds like a you problem, Styles.”

Maybe it is. Maybe I don’t mind.

The rest of the crew is bustling around, packing up gear, voices echoing down the corridor. But for a second, it’s just us—close enough that the noise fades, and all I can hear is her breathing and the distant thump of a drum still vibrating through the floor.

“Go cool off,” she teases, brushing past me, her shoulder grazing mine. “You look like you’re about to melt.”

I laugh, turning to watch her walk away. “You started it.”

She glances back once, that smirk still playing at her lips. “Then maybe I’ll finish it later.”

And just like that, she’s gone, back to her post, back to pretending she’s not the only thing I saw all night. I’m left standing in the shadows of the stage, heart still pounding, half from the concert, half from her.

It’s always like this—flirty, quiet, charged. We don’t need to say anything else. Just the looks, the smiles, the moments in between songs. The kind of tension that follows you long after the lights go out.