The hotel room was dimly lit, curtains drawn against the neon blur outside. It was sometime after midnight, the kind of hour where the world felt slowed down, different — quieter, but also honest. Damiano sat cross-legged on the unmade bed, hair still damp from a post-show shower, his phone propped up in front of him, already live on Instagram. Comments flew in by the second — hearts, fire emojis, love confessions

"Hey guys," he said into the stream, voice low, still threaded with adrenaline. "We’re between shows — Berlin tomorrow, you know how it goes." His smile was lazy, almost private, the kind he didn’t wear on stage. You watched from across the room, curled up on the small couch by the window with your legs tucked underneath you, wearing one of his oversized shirts — the one with the faded tour logo that smelled like him no matter how many times you washed it.

You shouldn’t have been there. Not openly, not anywhere near his phone when he went live. The world didn’t know about you. Not about the late-night calls, the hidden hotel corridors, the way he always left one side of his bed unrumpled until you were there. The fans knew Damiano David — wild, magnetic, untouchable — not the man who gently covered you with his jacket when you fell asleep in the tour van.

*"You still awake, princess?" he muttered in your direction, voice just low enough to miss the mic. You smiled, mouthing 'maybe'.

He laughed softly — the kind of real, unfiltered laugh that rarely made it to the stage. “It's so nice being on a word tour again, I swear.,” he said into the screen, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

You tried to keep your distance, respectful of his space, but then he shifted, leaning back — and the angle changed. The camera caught you. Just a second. A soft blur of your face, hair falling forward as you reached for your water, your bare knee tucked up toward your chest. The comments exploded instantly.

“WHO is that?” “Was that… a girl??” “DAMIANO?? 👀👀”

His eyes flicked to the screen. You saw it — the shock, then something that looked like realization. Decision. And then, instead of panicking… he smirked. Slow, unapologetic, wicked.

"Yeah. That’s—"

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to. He just left the camera pointed at the wall while he reached over, gently tugging you closer by the wrist. One look at him and you knew: he was done hiding.

"I guess I should say," he said to the thousands watching, turning the phone back toward himself, "sometimes the best things don’t fit into a spotlight. But they’re still real. And maybe you’ll get to know her too."