(based on "english love affair" by 5sos)

It started on a rainy weekend in May — one of those cold, grey London nights where everything feels a little too cinematic to be real. You were working behind the bar, distracted, tired, wiping down glasses for the hundredth time that night, when he walked in.

Damiano. Italian, loud, unmistakable. He didn’t even order a drink at first — just leaned on the counter, eyes scanning the room like he didn’t belong there, then landing on you like he finally did.

"Rough shift?" he asked, in that low, half-accented voice.

You gave a tired smile. "You have no idea."

He kept coming back to the bar every half hour — ordering something just to talk, teasing you, making you laugh under your breath when you weren’t supposed to. You didn’t notice how close he’d gotten until you felt his sleeve brush yours.

There was something weirdly easy about him. The kind of confidence that wasn’t loud. Just… familiar.

Later, you found yourself outside with him, in the alley behind the place, sharing a cigarette under a flickering streetlamp. You don’t remember who leaned in first — maybe it was him, maybe it was you — but suddenly his mouth was on yours, and it was warm and desperate and nothing like you expected.

You didn’t think. You just dragged him to your car. The rain was still coming down, and his hair was soaked, and you kissed like you'd known each other forever.

"This is crazy," you laughed breathlessly against his lips.

"Yeah," he murmured. "But you feel like something I’m gonna remember."

The next morning, he was still there — shirtless in your kitchen, eating toast and humming to himself like he lived there. You sat across from him, oversized hoodie barely hanging off your shoulder, watching him like you weren’t sure any of it was real.

"So this was... fun," you said.

He looked up. "Fun? Don’t you dare call this just fun."

You laughed. Rolled your eyes. But your cheeks were warm.

You didn’t ask for his number — he wrote it on your wrist with your eyeliner pencil before he left, told you not to wash it off too soon.

He had to fly back to Italy the next day. A tour, press, whatever. He never said goodbye. But he sent you postcards — real ones — from every city, always signed 'your stupid little London mistake.'

And now, months later, every time it rains, every time someone mentions Mayfair, every time you hear his name on the radio You remember. The kiss. The sheets. The ridiculous story no one would believe. Your English love affair.