Taste (H.S. / A.U.)

Chapter 65

DOUBLE UPDATE: Chapter 64-65

HARRY STYLES

I never expected to see her here tonight.

The moment my eyes landed on Elle, a spark of electricity shot through me. Even though I wasn't on stage yet, just lingering backstage, watching the live feed of the opening act on a monitor, I felt an undeniable pull toward her. She had no idea I had already spotted her, that I was standing here, heart pounding, utterly mesmerized.

Excitement bubbled up, so intense it was nearly impossible to contain. The kind of giddiness that made my hands twitch, my mind race, my heart flutter. 

A bolt of inspiration striking at the perfect moment, an idea formed. It was so brilliant, so perfectly fitting, I knew exactly who to turn to.

I found Mitch near the back of the room, casually refilling his water bottle, looking every bit like a man running on fumes but too stubborn to slow down. We were all usually like this as we reached the last show, allowing all of it to catch up to us finally how much being on the road was tolling. For Mitch this year I knew it was harder than most, he wanted to be home with his wife and kid, but refused to let the opportunity of tour and things slip by him. I needed to send him and Sarah some gifts when this is all over as a giant thank you for being so great of people and in my life.

As I approached, he barely glanced up, likely expecting some run-of-the-mill pre-show check-in.

"Wanna make a setlist change tonight?" I asked, my voice laced with barely contained excitement.

Mitch froze mid-sip, his brows knitting together. "This late in the game? H, we go on in like forty minutes." His tone carried the weight of a man who had seen enough last-minute chaos to know better, he knew I was not going to change my mind once it was made up like this.

I grinned, the kind of grin that meant trouble. "Then we better tell everyone fast, shouldn't we?"

The energy thrummed in my veins. Unipol Forum was packed. Sold out, brimming with bodies and voices, the roar of the crowd already deafening, even from backstage.

The last stop of tour.

The final show.

I could feel it in my chest, the weight of every city, every mile traveled, every night spent under stage lights leading up to this moment.

Lloyd and Harper moved through the chaos with cameras in hand, capturing it all. The tangled mess of cables, the crew making last-minute adjustments, the band huddling for pre-show rituals, ice baths, popcorn fights, outfit checks, bonding, all of it. 

Every flash, every shutter click, immortalized the night before it had even begun. The posts were already flooding Instagram. Polaroids stuck to dressing room mirrors, shaky videos of the packed arena from behind the curtain, stories tagged with "LAST NIGHT OF TOUR" in bold white letters.

My name trended before I even stepped on stage.

I knew the next step was the stereotypical one: the box.

I climbed inside, heart pounding, the familiar enclosed space wrapping around me like a secret. It smelled of fresh paint and plywood, the same as it always did. A ridiculous yet brilliant contraption, this box had carried me across stages worldwide, an unassuming vessel for something bigger than me. The lid shut, and I crouched in the darkness, listening. Footsteps. Shouts. The distant hum of the intro music creeping in. Then, movement. The box rocked as the crew wheeled me into position.

The lights went out.

The arena erupted.

A heartbeat of silence, then the first notes hit, booming, shaking the floor beneath me. I barely registered the moment the box lid lifted because, suddenly, I was running, no sprinting, through the tunnel of blinding white lights. The thick air made breathing tough, it didn't matter how in shape I was, this was different. My lungs burning, the sound of thousands of voices crashing over me like a tidal wave.