The moment the last notes of "Skinny Love" fade away, I'm up again, applauding like a lunatic. Mesmerised. Completely gone for her.

But she doesn't look at me. Not like she did before.

She's smiling timidly, eyes on the old piano, cheeks faintly blushing, unaware of the riot she's causing in the room - in me. The crowd cheers for her, and she lifts her hands gracefully from the worn keys, as if she hasn't just hijacked the emotional bandwidth of everyone here.

"Come on... look at me, sweet girl," I mumble under my breath.
Nothing.

She stands, shyly slipping toward the back.
She's leaving.

No. No no no.

I scan the crowd like a paranoid idiot. There could be some smug bastard in here who thinks he gets to claim her, who knows her name, who touches her hand.

If that happens, I'll actually lose it.

"Harry?" Gemma's voice pulls me out of my spiral. She gestures toward the stage.

What? What does she want me to do - leap up there like a maniac? Tackle her in the middle of her exit?
No fucking way.

But... she's really going.

"Harry!" Gemma's voice sharpens. She looks at the stage, then back at me, exasperated.

"Go. To the back. Now. I'm right behind you," she says, like she's handling a toddler who just wandered off in Tesco.

I hesitate.

"Jesus, Harry. Snap out of it!" she scolds, grabbing my arm and dragging me behind the stage like a mum hauling a dazed child through a shopping mall.

There's a narrow corridor that leads to a tiny dressing room - barely a room, really. Just mirrors, makeup bags, and faintly flickering lights.

And she's there.

Standing in front of the mirror, tying her hair up into a ponytail. Casual. Effortless. Magical.

She hasn't noticed us.

So Gemma clears her throat gently.

She turns.

Wow.

I'm lost in the blue of her eyes all over again - and this time I have no idea what to say. Nothing. My tongue and brain are in two completely different time zones.

"Are you next?" she asks sweetly, and I just stare at her like a complete tool.

No words. Just dumb silence.

"I'll be out of your way in a second," she adds, turning to zip her makeup bag.

Her voice - there's an accent. Not Jamaican. Not American. Definitely not British. European, maybe?

"I thought I was the last one," she adds casually, as if I'm not over here having a full-body existential meltdown.

She moves gracefully, like her whole body is tuned to music. I internally facepalm a thousand times.

Gemma gives me a look I can't quite decipher - somewhere between disgust and are you actually this thick?

She's seen me flirt with hundreds of girls. Too many, probably. Some of her friends, which, yeah, not my proudest moments. But I've never been like this. Never been this... mute.

She's practically nodding at me now, willing me to say something.

Nothing comes out.

Fucking brilliant.

"Are you nervous?" she asks kindly, picking up her bag and stepping toward the door.

I nod. Because honestly? Yeah. I am.

"Don't be. It's fun," she says, her tone soft and encouraging. "Okay, I won't lie - the first thirty seconds are nerve-wracking. But then it's magical."

And in any other situation, I'd find it ironic - getting a pep talk from someone playing open mic, when I've had arenas screaming my name. But this? This is different.

She's different.

Gemma taps her foot behind me, grinning like she's watching a live comedy show.

"Yeah, he's performing," she chimes in suddenly, and I turn to her like she's lost her mind.

"First time, too," she adds with a smirk.

"Oh, that's wonderful! Exciting!" Demetra claps her hands like a kid. It's so pure, so unaffected, it makes me want to hug her. Or maybe marry her. One of those.

"What's your name?" she asks, confirming what I'd already hoped - she doesn't recognise me.

"Ha-"

"Nick," I blurt out, jumping in before Gemma can say my real name.

My voice cracks a little. I sound so unconvincing I think she's already suspicious.

"And I'm... Nicol," Gemma says with the most unconvincing fake name I've ever heard, offering her hand to my angel like this is all part of some casual Tuesday plan.

"Is someone waiting for you? Or could you stay a few more minutes and help me with Nick here?" she asks, and I make a silent vow to buy her every designer bag she's ever pointed at.

"Hi. Nice to meet you. I'm Dem-Demetra," she says, then adds with a shy smile, "My friends call me D."

And I die.
Just a little bit.
Hearing her melodic voice say her own name like that is... unfair.

"No, I'm by myself," she continues. "Actually, I'm here on holiday alone, and telling you this is something my mom would kill me for - giving personal info to strangers." She giggles, and I want to bite her. In the best, most unhinged way.

She offers her hand to me now, and when our fingers touch, I feel the electricity travel all the way up my arm. Like actual voltage. I'm short-circuiting.

"So, Nick," she asks, "what are you singing?"

"You were brilliant up there," I blurt out, shocked to hear my own voice again.

"Thank you, Nick. That's so nice of you to say." She beams. "I'm sure you'll be great, too."

I look down, totally flustered. Blushing.
Since when the hell do I blush?

"You're... okay. Decent," Gemma adds, casually stabbing me in the back with a grin. All those designer bags I promised her? They're going to Lou now. Maybe Lou's dog.

"Guitar? Piano? CD?" D asks, and it hits me - I actually have to perform. Like... now.

"Guitar," I say, practically whispering.

"Fantastic!" she says brightly, brushing her fingers down my arm as she turns to leave. Goosebumps explode across my skin like fireworks.

"Now, go be the best you can be," she says, and then - completely without warning - leans in and kisses my cheek.

Her lips.
On my cheek.
I'm going to pass out.

"My angel. My muse," I whisper internally, definitely not holding it together.

"Nicol, let's give him a few minutes," she says to my traitor of a sister.

"Well, but of course, Nick," Gemma says, batting her lashes and having the time of her damn life.

"We'll be right at the front," D tells me. "Pretend you're singing just for us, yeah?"

I nod.
Like an actual idiot. Like a bobblehead with no thoughts, only D.

The second I'm alone in that excuse of a dressing room, the full weight of my stupidity crashes over me like a wave.

Why the fuck did I lie?
She didn't even recognise me - which, yes, is amazing. But she's going to find out eventually.
What then?

And Gemma. Nicol. She is so dead to me. She should've stopped me instead of enjoying the free front-row seat to my emotional breakdown.

I bet she's recording this. I know she is.

There's a knock at the door.

"Anyone back here?" says the guy from the other night - yellow teeth, brown outfit, bad attitude.

"Yeah... umm... can I sing too?" I ask, grabbing the house guitar from the corner, praying it's tuned. Please God, don't let me sound like a strangled cat.

"Ya man! Go ahead," he shrugs. "Name?"

"Nick. Just Nick."
Can't back out now, can I?

He leaves and I take a deep breath. I stare at myself in the mirror. I look like Harry Styles pretending to be someone else. Which... I guess is exactly what I am.

God help me do this.

I hear the announcement in a thick Jamaican accent:
"Ladies and gentlemen... the one and only... Nick."

Well. Shit.

I exhale slowly.
"Let's fucking do this," I mutter to myself and head out.

The room feels smaller now. Quieter.

And there she is.
True to her word, she's right at the front - next to Gemma, who's grinning like the Cheshire cat that just won the lottery.

Oh, I am so getting her for this later.

I adjust the guitar strap, barely hearing the applause. My hands find the strings. My mouth opens.

And I sing.

If I could fly, I'd be coming right back home to you
I think I might give up everything...
Just ask me to...

My eyes search for her.
Find her.
Lock.

And suddenly, I'm not in a bar. I'm not pretending to be someone else.
I'm just a guy, singing to a girl with ocean eyes who has no clue what she's already done to me.

I'm singing just for her.
Just like she told me to.