Stage Lights || H.S.

the final show

I had a feeling in my gut. The way he only smiled after I did, the way I caught him staring at me with eyebrows furrowed while I sipped on my latte, the way he didn't turn around before taking on the stage...

The feeling disappeared as soon as the first note filled the room. Harry was happy. His eyes sparkled and his lips never curved down. He wore the same beautiful custom maroon suit as New York. Maybe for good luck, I thought.

When he walked out, his eyes found mine. His lips pressed together as he untangled himself from his earpiece and got his suit slid off his arms by a crew member. I smiled, then he smiled. Hair sweaty, blushed cheeks.

"How did I do?" He asked.

"You did amazing."

I wrapped my arms around his neck and he moved with me the same time as he pressed a kiss on my cheeks, by face buried on his nape, his sweaty strands of hair tickling me, his hair was definitely growing fast.

"So are we going out tonight? Celebrate the—" I asked but he interrupted me as we made our way into the green room.

"I'm actually pretty tired, we should head back to the hotel."

I threw myself on the couch, studying his expression. He looked around the room as he tried to avoid my presence, bitting his bottom lip as if something made him anxious. "Okay." I said.

"I'll be right back so we can head out." He seamed to notice the air becoming heavier in the room, a tension between us I wasn't quite sure why. He leaned in, holding on to the arm of the cream couch, to give me a peck on the lips. "Make sure you grab your stuff."

I nodded but it's not like he could see it, his back was already turned to me as he made his way out. I was left alone with my thoughts that were loud enough to fill the room.

Maybe it was just a bad show. Maybe there were difficulties that I didn't know. Maybe he doesn't like Paris. Maybe he felt jet lagged and tired. Maybe he was just nervous with the start of the European leg of the tour. It wasn't me, it was anything that I did, it couldn't be, because we were so... good.

When Harry came back, freshly showered, he walked through the door smiling and suddenly I could exhale the air I didn't know I was holding. He shoved something on his duffel bag and came towards me, throwing himself on the couch comfortably, his arm on the back right behind me, his finger brushing on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry our night in Paris won't go as you planned." His voice was low, we were alone in the room but he spoke as if it was only for me to hear.

"I'm here with you, you have nothing to be sorry about." I turned my body to him, knees touching. "We can come back to Paris when you're done with the tour and eat that baguette at the park you were talking about, we can wear disguises or sneak in at 2am when no one's around."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"That sounds perfect to me." His raspy voice sent chills down my spine.

"Yeah?"

Harry pulled me, one hand on my back and one on my thigh was enough to drag me to his lap like I weight nothing. Now, chest to chest, legs on each side of his body, nose to nose, that gut feeling I had was completely gone. Finito.

"Mhm." I didn't know if he was agreeing or if he was just excited by the fact that his hands slid up my thighs making its way underneath my flowy skirt.

His breath felt warm against my skin and his nose touching mine made me feel like a teenager in a romance film. He kissed my lips with desire, and I kissed him back. I think it's humanly impossible to resist Harry Styles, the thought of that makes me grab onto his white t-shirt and slide closer to him, the deep shaky breath he took telling me how far that could go if it wasn't for a crew member clearing his throat by the door.

"Sorry, Mr Styles. The car is ready." His accent was thick.

I slide off his lap and he fixes his shirt, pulling me along as he got up and stopping on his way to the door to grab his bag and throw it over his shoulder.

The ride was quiet, for a second I thought he had fallen asleep. A French song played through the radio of the car, a beautiful melody with words that I couldn't quite understand.

The hotel was a beautiful tall building, old looking but with modern interior. He had the whole floor to himself and, well, me. The comforter was a pale lilac color and a cream throw in the end of the bed, side tables with big turquoise lamps, two comfortable looking chairs the same shade. Tall French doors, closed with light curtains falling to each side, and a beautiful lit up Paris right behind. A gold chandelier hanging in the ceiling matched with the gold from the the small details: the hardware on the dresser, the bed frame, the two picture frames on the wall.

I sat on the grey bench by the end of the bed and toed my shoes off, taking a deep breath to shake my thoughts away. When would I see him again? How were things gonna be when I went back to L.A.? Were we gonna FaceTime at night? Was he gonna text me updates from every country he went to? Was he gonna fly back to me when he could? Were the tabloids gonna make us official? Were we official? Was I ready to be official?