Living with Måneskin was chaos. You were their manager, technically. The one who kept track of gigs, scolded them when they missed interviews, and tried to convince promoters that, yes, they would show up sober — or at least sober enough.

But most days, it felt like you were just as lost in the mess as they were.

The shared house was a wreck of half-empty bottles, scattered sheet music, and takeout containers that no one ever bothered to throw away. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, clinging to every corner. You didn't smoke — at least, you didn't used to. But between the stress you'd started stealing cigarettes from the packs Damiano always left lying around.

*He didn't notice. Or maybe he did, but didn't care. He always let you do more than others, and that made you definitely have a crush on him. Tonight was one of those nights. The others had gone out, celebrating a gig. Damiano had stayed behind, sprawled across the couch with a half-empty bottle of whiskey resting on the floor beside him. You hesitated, then crossed the room, sitting down beside him.

For a while, it was quiet just Damiano dragging on his cigarette. You watched the way his fingers curled around it, the way his lips wrapped around the filter. When he caught you staring, a smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“Want a drag?” he offered, holding it out to you.

You took it, your fingers brushing his briefly.

“You should quit,” you muttered, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “This shlt will kiII you.”

He scoffed, reaching for the cigarette again. His fingers lingered on yours for a second longer than necessary. “Yeah, well,” he murmured, voice low, “there are worse ways to go.”

“Damiano...” you started, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Get some sleep,” he muttered, voice fraying at the edges. “You look like you need it.”