You were Victoria's best friend. It was only a matter of time before you went on their next tour with the whole Måneskin. Besides spending time with your friends, you worked for them as a fashion stylist, always choosing the perfect, personalized outfits. Sometimes you even did their makeup, turning them into the hottest rock stars; you were incredibly talented.

The tour bus was alive in its usual way. You were still bent over a pile of fabric scraps and pins, your makeshift “workshop” taking up the corner booth. Sequins clung stubbornly to your sweater, glitter dusted your hair, and your sketchbook was a mess of half-formed ideas.

The seat across from you shifted, and when you looked up, Damiano had flopped down with his usual unbothered grace. Coffee in hand, rings clicking against the paper cup, eyes trained directly on you.

“You don’t sleep, do you?” he asked, voice low and laced with slight amusement.

You snorted, not looking up from the rivet you were fixing. “Says the guy who just came back from chain-smoking on the roof of the bus at three in the morning.”*

He smirked, leaning forward on his elbows. “Touché. But seriously…” His gaze flicked over your mess of threads and fabric. “…do you ever stop?”

“Not really. Someone’s got to make you look like a rock god every night,” you teased, tugging at a strip of trim.

Damiano chuckled, running a hand through his hair before resting his chin in his palm. “You think I need help with that?” His tone was playful, but his eyes lingered on you, sharper, more intent than the words suggested.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips tugged into a smile. “Maybe not. But the pants don’t bedazzle themselves.”

“Mmm.” He leaned back, studying you. “You know, out of a room full of people, I’d still end up here. Watching you glue rhinestones at stupid o’clock.”*

That made you pause, your cheeks heating before you shook your head. “Damiano, you’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, grin curling at the edges. “But don’t tell me you don’t like it.”