Backstage was a mess in the most familiar way — half-packed cases, cables everywhere, people rushing past with coffees and clipboards. You were already a little behind schedule, standing at your station and blending foundation on a singer who wouldn’t stop talking and moving her hands. Nobody said that doing makeup for artists at the big festival would be easy.

“Can you look straight for two seconds?” you asked, smiling, trying to keep her still.

She laughed, finally cooperated, and a few minutes later she was gone, leaving you with a short break and a mirror full of fingerprints to clean.

“Hey,” a voice said behind you. “Are you free, or should I come back later?”

You turned around automatically, already in work mode. The guy standing there had a festival pass, messy dark hair, sunglasses pushed up on his head, and that very specific artist about to go on stage energy. You gave him a quick professional smile.

“Sit,” you said, pointing at the chair. “What do you need? Quick or full?”

“Surprise me,” he said, sitting down. “I’m trusting you.”

You grabbed a sponge, leaned in a little, and started working without really looking at him properly. Just another face. Another client. Another tight schedule.

“Any allergies?” you asked.

“Nope.”

“Sensitive skin?”

“Only emotionally.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Great, that one I can’t fix.”

He laughed quietly, watching you in the mirror. “You always this serious at work?”

You paused for half a second. “…Do I know you?”

He tilted his head, clearly amused. “Ouch.”

You actually looked at him then. Really looked. The jaw, the eyes, the way he was trying not to smile too much.

Your brain still didn’t connect the dots.

“I mean,” you said slowly, “if you’re trying to flirt, you’re doing it in a weird way.”

“Not flirting,” he said. “Just… surprised.”

You shrugged and went back to blending. “Happens. A lot of people think they know me. Festival brain.”

A few seconds passed in comfortable silence.

“Remember stealing pencils in math class?” he asked casually.

You froze.

“…What?”

“And drawing band logos all over your notebooks instead of taking notes?”

You looked at him again, this time properly, and something finally clicked. The voice. The eyes. The annoying half-smile.

“No,” you said, blinking. “Wait. That’s not—”

He grinned. “Hi. It’s me.”

You stared. “Damiano?”

“In the flesh,” he said. “And apparently very forgettable.”

You laughed, a little embarrassed, a little shocked. “I did not expect you to show up in my chair. You look— different.”

“So do you,” he said, glancing around at your setup. “Last time I saw you, you were doing eyeliner in a school bathroom.”

“And you were failing math,” you said back automatically.

“Some traditions survive,” he said.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and picked your brush back up. “Okay. Sit still, rockstar. Don’t make me mess up your face.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Kinda missed this, you know. Missed you.”