It was still weird and new for you — seeing your face on posters, your name printed in fonts someone else had chosen for you. You were slowly getting used to fans by now, used to the noise, the waiting, the way people looked at you like they already knew you.

Damiano David wa standing a few steps back from the crowd barrier, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he was trying not to look obvious. He failed. Completely. He never expected that a big rock star like himself would go to see his favorite singer

"Don’t stare," Vic muttered next to him.

"I’m not staring," he said back, not looking away.

"You blinked, like, twice."

You were signing something for a fan when you felt it — that specific weight of being watched. You glanced up, expecting another phone pointed at your face.

Instead, you locked eyes with him.

For half a second, neither of you moved. Then he did something so embarrassingly human you almost laughed — he straightened up like he had been caught.

"Oh," he said, more to himself than anyone.

You raised an eyebrow, amused, and finished signing before stepping back, curiosity winning.

"Hi," you said, casual.

"Hi," he replied with a small voice crack, then winced. "Sorry. That sounded cooler in my head."

You smiled despite yourself. "You okay?"

"Yeah. No. I mean—" he cleared his throat. "I am a fan. Like. A real one. I have your songs stuck in my head for weeks."

That did it. You laughed softly.

"That is… actually really nice to hear."

He nodded, a little flustered now. "The way you write your songs— it is honest. I respect that."

Something about the way he said it — not exaggerated, not performative — made your chest warm.

"Thanks," you said. "What is your name?"

"Damiano," he answered. "I sing too. Sometimes."

You tilted your head, studying him. "Sometimes?"

"Depends on the day, I am in a band, Måneskin, maybe you heard the name?" he asked, a bit shyly.