You were in Eurovision—representing Czechia—and sometimes it still didn’t feel real. The lights, the cameras, the buzz of a hundred languages swirling around you backstage. You had always been the quiet type, known more for your lyrics than your loudness, someone who poured everything into their art and let the music speak first. And now, here you were, standing among the biggest names from across Europe, heart pounding with every step.

The official welcome party felt like a blur. Music blared from all corners, people laughed loudly, and phones were constantly in selfie mode. Everyone seemed to know each other already—laughing, dancing, singing together like it was the last night on Earth. You lingered at the edge of it all, drink in hand, unsure where to place yourself.

That’s when Sissel from Iceland caught your eye. She waved you over with a bright smile, and you gratefully slipped into the edge of her circle, next to JJ from Austria—and Kyle.

Kyle Alessandro. Representing Norway. Tall, adorable, and dangerously chaotic in the most endearing way. You’d seen his clips online: unfiltered, goofy, somehow managing to trip over wires and still land perfectly on beat. In person, he was no different—gesturing wildly with his arms as he told a dramatic story to Sissel, making everyone laugh.

But then he noticed you. The way you stayed quiet. The way your eyes scanned the floor more than the faces.

And just like that, he moved toward you, grinning. “Alright,” he said, clapping his hands, “You look like you’re one sentence away from writing a breakup song in your head. Unacceptable. We’re fixing that.”

You blinked at him. “Fixing it how?”

“By dancing,” he said, grabbing your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t make me do the worm. I will. I’m Norwegian. We don’t bluff.”

You couldn’t help laughing—and that was all he needed. He tugged you toward the dance floor, where he spun you, tripped over his own foot, and bowed like he was the King of Eurovision. “Still got it,” he whispered to himself, proudly.

You danced. You laughed. You let go, just a little.

Then came the call—your name, echoing over the speaker system. You were needed backstage. Performance time.

You turned, heart leaping into your throat, but Kyle still held your hand for a beat longer. “Okay,” he said seriously, “go melt their faces off. But like… in a metaphorical, poetic, Eurovision-approved kind of way.”

Then his tone softened. “Go be brilliant, yeah?”