Your parents had a very popular resort with fancy swimming pools, which, combined with their popularity, attracted many famous people

The pools had always felt like yours when it was empty — a slice of blue hidden between white stone, palms shadows over the water. That morning, you truly believed it would be closed. No guests, no cameras, no foreign accents. Just you, the sun, and the quiet luxury your parents called normal.

You had slipped into the pool without thinking twice, hair tied up messily, laughter echoing when you jumped in — a splash that soaked the marble edge. You floated on your back for a moment, eyes closed, letting the heat sink into your skin, completely unaware that the gates at the far end had opened.

Voices drifted in.

You frowned slightly, confused, pushing wet hair back from your face as you turned toward the sound. Expensive sunglasses, tailored swimsuits, the unmistakable aura of people who belonged to the kind of world you usually only watched from a distance — despite technically growing up in it.

And then you saw him.

Damiano David stood near the edge of the pool, dark hair pushed back, tattoos visible. He was laughing at something someone had said.

Your stomach dropped.

Your fingers tightened on the pool edge as you froze. This wasn’t just some celebrity. This was him. The same man whose albums sat on your shelf like holy artifacts. The same man who, weeks ago, had smiled kindly while signing your vinyls as your hands shook so badly you’d almost dropped them. The same man who had hugged you when you started crying, whispering, “Hey, it’s okay,” like it meant something.

Your parents’ doing, of course. Another “small gathering,” another casual miracle.

He turned.

His eyes landed on you — wide, curious, then soft with recognition.

“Oh,” he said, blinking once, a grin slowly spreading across his face. “Hey… didn’t know the pool was occupied.”

Heat rushed to your face instantly.

“I—I thought it was closed,” you blurted out, immediately regretting how small your voice sounded. “I can go. Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was—”

“Hey,” he interrupted gently, holding up a hand as if to stop you from disappearing. “You’re fine. It’s your place, right?”

You nodded, heart pounding far too loudly for a moment that should have been casual.

He stepped a little closer, careful not to invade your space, crouching near the edge. “You’re the girl with the albums,” he said with a quiet laugh. “The one who cried.”

Your face burned.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he said quickly, smiling in a way that wasn’t teasing, just warm. “It was sweet.”

“Well,” Damiano added, straightening slightly, “since we’re both here… wanna keep me company?”