It happens unexpectedly, like all the best things do.

Shana is a long time fan. Maybe not a lifer like some of the ladies she heard talking in the line. She wasn't waiting in line with those girls, she supposed women is the only correct term these days, starting in the X factor days. She sort of wished she had been, eavesdropping on them now. They were reminiscing about waiting outside of gates and studios and getting cheek kisses from a mid pubescent Harry.

Harry is far from pubescent now, and he is, predictably, an even finer than 25, fine ass 35 year old man.

To add to all the anticipation, waiting to watch him strut fully grown into himself, his confidence, his cock sure swagger,, this is also the first tour in nearly 3 years. It's almost as dire as Covid times.

After fine line's success, as interrupted as it was, a euphoric return to stage and a Grammy rich hs3 season, Harry had settled down, almost gotten married, and made movies for years, even done a quick turn on Broadway.

That EGOT looked sure this awards season.

On top of all that, because Harry has always been a giver, he was doing a tour, without an official album, even. The set list is full of deep cuts and Those Songs that didn't make albums but the fans still knew by heart.

Medicine, god, it had been so long since she had even watched a recording of that one, till she was watching live streams of this round. She cannot wait to shout the unwritten lyrics back at him.

Shana had to laugh as she looked around the pit. At least she wasn't the only one who was never gonna be over this idiot.

"I live for you, I long for you, OLIVIA!" The crowd scream sang, and it felt good, so good. The intro playlist had changed over the years, but the non negotiables seemed to be the same for Harry and his fanatics.

When sweet thang pulsed through her feet and climbed up her legs, it settled in her pelvis while still managing to radiate through her upper body and tingle into her extremities. Her heart beat faster, the climb up a rollercoaster, and because Harry is a sentimental bitch, a dramatic one, he has a rising screen, just like the first rodeo.

Her stomach bottoms out when his long lean legs are revealed and her gasp would draw eyes if anybody else could hear it over their own.

Shana has heard, "Harry, I love you!" Screamed before, but now it's a chorus. She can't disagree with her fellows though. He's still a dream, this room is still the place where everything is better and everything is safe, an appropriate line from another string of great lyrics.

These songs are written on her heart and swaying to them feels inborn more than familiar.

She's not even sorry she spent way too much discretionary income on multiple shows, a car to get between a few, and flights with hotels for the further afield.

The first times always different, on each tour, or ever.

Shana remembers that strongly from when buying one ticket was a stretch. When the multi city thing was a dream, or reckless.

She'd been young, reckless had been the default.

But she'd never been this close to the stage in those days. Lane one totally out of reach, once it was a thing.

Tonight, she's close enough to boop his toe. The boots deserve one, they are slick, stylized and heeled. Bespoke boots for nostalgia, or consistency.

Shana is not quite as brave as the girl she remembers doing it. Her finger reaches out, but she never makes contact. Her eyes sweep up as Harry closes the note of Anna.

His head is hung down, eyes closed. Shana is retracting her hand, her fingers still extended like she'd tried for a nipple, not a boot tip. He opens those green eyes and she's caught. Least had she been looking at what she was doing rather than his face she may not know her humiliation. The blood rushes from her belled bottom to her cheeks.

"Sorry!" She mouthes, but he just smirks, winks, the absolute menace, and moves along the stage.

He keeps working his way back to her. He's just done Medicine and she'd literally forgotten how sexy that song really was, with all the things left unsaid but clearly communicated. The stage is red and the lights don't go out so much as they mute and turn to a deep purple.

When the first strings of Woman start to play, her heart starts hammering and any blood that had headed north, turns tail and runs back to her pants.

This was her first favorite Harry song. She'd been coming into her own sexually then. Out of something long term and unsatisfactory, no matter how appropriate. She assumed the persona of the woman Harry deified in the song. A flower, a feast, as she had a hot girl summer before it was a thing.

Her body rolls over the waves of the beat and she's got her eyes closed when she hears, "GURL!" From somebody near her and feels a boop, like her aborted shoe caress, to her nose.

She opens her eyes to Harry, Harry Fucking Styles, extending his hand. And she knows her cod fish impression is not attractive.

She goes though, this song gave her confidence once upon a time, taught her confidence. It's not different today when she goes with him onstage, brave when she lets his arms go around her.

He sings it into her ear, ffs, with the microphone.

The words affect her, but not so much as the length of him, the long legged feel of him, from knee to nipple, near her. If she hadn't been drunk off too expensive venue drinks(she wasn't) she was now over her blushes and into the intoxication of the moment. He was coming up to her verse, and the verve of the song inspired nerve in her. She stared him dead in his eye while he coined her phrase and squeezed his ass, her hands dropping steadily so he could correct them with a word or movement.

All Harry did was arch a brow.

It was Shana's turn to smirk.

It turned to a gasp when her grope was returned.

God his hands were huge. She'd never been a girl with a small bum, but Queen could pen odes to her now, and still his hands encompassed enough of her that she felt the next move was to hop up onto his hips.

She didn't, just tilted her head and leaned in while he finished his lallalalla's, let him flick his tongue down and laid one on him when the quacks picked up.

He's the one who introduced tongue. If Harry was a poker player, he clearly upped the ante often.
His lips were dreamy, soft and too fast gone. The kiss over with the song.

Harry, a little sweaty and still soft scented, hugged her close, Shana's reality roared back with the hooting of the crowd.

"Oh my god!" She whispered.

He only laughed back.

"You asshole!" She would have hit him, but hugging him close was just more amusing, right?

He cackled at that, a snort laugh, and turned her out, facing the audience.

"I'd like to thank,—-" he waited .

"Shana!" She basically screeched, all her cool lost at mutual grab ass.

"Shana," god, her name on his lips. "For volunteering. Now, for my next trick!" He picked her up gently and slid her down to the front row, the security guy receiving her with bigger, hairier arms.

"Let's give her a hand!"

And then everybody clapped for her, like she'd been sawed in half and lived.

It felt like she had!

She was certainly going to live on this memory for ages and ages to come.

Her neighbors hugged on her and squealed, but the daze of it all didn't dissipate until she was laying in her hotel room later, Woman on repeat, thinking about how Harry blew her a kiss at show's end.

Sometimes day dreams came true.

And she thought he'd never!