The afterparty was a mess, but that was nothing new. Damiano was sprawled out on the couch, half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers, his leather jacket long abandoned. His eyeliner was smudged, lips slightly parted. You were sitting between his legs, your back against his chest, the two of you sunk into the cushions.

"You know," he muttered, voice raspy from too much singing, smoking, and talking shlt, "this is probably the part where we should be making some life-changing decisions."

You laughed, tilting your head back against his shoulder. "Like what? Quitting smoking? Sleeping before sunrise?"

"God, no," he scoffed, pressing a lazy kiss on your temple. "I was thinking more of—" He cut himself off, lifting his hand in the air dramatically. "Running away. You, me, no tour schedules, no press. Just bad motels, empty highways, and doing whatever the fvck we want."

You turned your head slightly. "That sounds like something we already do."

"Yeah, but this time with intent," he smirked, tipping the bottle against his lips before passing it to you.

Someone shouted from the other side of the room, something about a fight breaking out in the kitchen, and Damiano groaned. "Of course. Should we go watch?"

"Only if you promise not to throw the first punch this time," you teased.

"No promises, honey."