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

Chapter 71*

HARRY STYLES

By the time the sun began its slow descent behind the jagged silhouette of the New York skyline, Elle finally pieced together why I'd been so annoyingly smug all day. I'd spent hours critiquing her venues. Pointing out too small, too crowded, bad acoustics, terrible location, lack of space, the set up of sinks or whatever else I could come up with. Each complaint was deliberate, as I would scoff, wrinkle my nose, and sigh just loud enough for her to hear. I wanted her to grow quietly unimpressed with every option we saw. I needed her expectations low, her opinions flexible. Because none of those places mattered, or at least I hoped not once she saw what I really had in mind.

We wandered the winding paths of Central Park as the city began to soften, evening light pouring through the thinning leaves. My fingers were laced loosely with hers, swinging slightly between us as we walked. She kept sneaking glances at me, waiting for a clue, a slip, anything that might give away where we were headed.

I didn't say where we were headed, just that it was better. The only hint I gave was the grin that tugged at the corners of my mouth, and the way I held her hand just a little tighter when she started asking too many questions.

We had a decision to make about the best way to get there, the choice of subway or car. Elle raised a brow when I cringed at the mention of the train. It wasn't that I thought I was above it; I admired the idea of public transportation, in theory. But the reality, the people and crowd. I didn't want anything chaotic interrupting what was about to happen. So I called for a car, and we agreed to meet it on the far side of the park.

Even as we slid into the backseat, her curiosity kept full attention. She kept glancing over, noticing how often I checked my phone, how I tapped out a rhythm against my knee, humming some half-familiar tune under my breath. She didn't push hard, but the questions came quietly:

Where are we going?
What are we doing?
Why are you smiling like that?

And then we arrived.

The car slowed, pulling into a drop-off just a block away. Elle's brows furrowed as she looked out the window, lips parted slightly in confusion. She tilted her head and squinted like she was trying to read a sign she couldn't quite see. "Here?" she asked, skepticism curling around the word.

I reached across her, fingers brushing her knee as I leaned to open the door. I turned to her with a quiet, steady nod. "Here."

She slid out of the car, shoes hitting the pavement with a soft thud. The air was cooler now, dusk swirling at the edges of the city. She followed me around the front of the car, eyes scanning the space around us.

I stopped, just at the corner, and gently tugged her hand to turn her body toward it.

Madison Square Garden.

She blinked. For a moment, she didn't say a word, just stared. Her breath caught somewhere in her throat as a signage flickered to life against the coming night. I watched her reaction closely: the slow widening of her eyes, the way her lips parted just a fraction, stunned. She looked up at the sheer scale of the venue. Her gaze swept over the entrance, posters for upcoming events, names of artists that soon will perform already lit up.

"One night, and one night only, at Madison Square Garden, the one, the only, Eloise DuPont." My voice was quiet, and I'd never been to MSG with such silence. It's bigger than I thought. Even when I've arrived before the shows, there was always a bustle about things. Fans lined up outside, who knows how long they had been there. Tech crew members moving about at a rapid pace with little to no care who you are, only making it seem like you were in the way. The stage testing lights in a peculiar fashion while the sounds of testing instruments rumble through every speaker possible. The space never seemed to slow down or pause, except for now.