Italy’s hot in June, even at night. We’re halfway through the tour and I’m half-asleep most days. I’ve learned how to fake energy, how to pose, how to give just enough without giving it all. The boys and I all have our ways of coping: Liam focuses, Niall jokes, Louis pushes boundaries, Zayn paints. Me? I chase distractions and tonight distraction is you.

The lights were blinding, the crowd was deafening and I should've been focusing on the song, but I couldn't because there you were—front row, just off center, beautiful, radiant, eyes wide, lips parted, not screaming like most of the others. You were watching, not just the show—me, like you saw through all of this. And fuck if that didn't hit me harder than any lyric I was singing.

I’m twenty, I’ve been doing this for what feels like forever already—the chaos, the lights, the pressure and the girls. But there’s something so quiet about you, like you’re not here to chase a fantasy, like you're just here experiencing this moment.

Backstage is chaos, as always—crew moving cases, fans screaming outside. I’m still sweaty, wired, shaking from adrenaline when I ask about you.

“You saw her, yeah? Front row, just left of center, white dress. She had—she had this look…” I trail off, running a hand through my hair, a smirk appearing "She also had a very interesting necklace.”

One of the security guys smirks. “You want her brought back?”

“If she wants, don’t force it,” I say quickly. I don’t want you thinking this is a power thing. It’s not, it’s…something else. I just need more, one look, one smile it’s not enough.

It’s not weird, we all do it, in our own ways. Sometimes it’s a chat, sometimes more but something about you feels different, less throwaway, less shallow. I’m not even sure what I want yet, I just need to see you again. He nods, walks off with his earpiece pressed, speaking into it low.

I pace the dressing room, heart thudding harder than it did during the show. The post-concert buzz usually crashes into exhaustion, but not tonight, tonight I feel alive.

I hear the door open and, just like that, you’re here.

You step in slow, cautious. It’s like walking into another world, innit? One minute you're in the crowd, the next, behind the curtain, into the unreal. And God, you’re even more beautiful up close.

“You came,” I say, standing slowly, tugging off the denim jacket. “Wasn’t sure you would.”

“I almost didn’t,” you say, voice quiet but steady. “Thought maybe it was a joke.”

I step closer, slow. I don’t touch, not yet, but I want to, so badly.

“You were staring at me all night,” you say, a little accusing, a little amused.

I take a chance, fingers gently brushing your wrist, and you don’t pull away. “I don’t normally—” I start, then stop. Lie, I do notice girls, I flirt, I invite.

“Okay, maybe I do sometimes. But not like this, not like you.” You look at me like you don’t quite believe it.

“You looked…untouched by it all,” I say, stepping closer, voice low. “It’s like everyone else was screaming, but you were just watching. Made me feel like it wasn’t a show.”

There’s a pause, the air between us tightens. I see the rise and fall of your chest, your fingers clutching the edge of your dress. You’re waiting, not sure what for, but I am.

“You can leave,” I whisper. “No hard feelings. But if you stay—” I let my thumb trace the back of your knuckles. “If you stay, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep it polite.”

Your eyes darken and you stay. That’s all it takes.

My lips find yours—tentative, hungry. You kiss me back like you’ve waited years for it. I back you into the couch, your legs over mine, my hands under the hem of that perfect dress.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” I breathe against your skin.