"ID, please." His voice was low, tinged with a tired Italian drawl.

You blinked. "Seriously?" You adjusted the hood on your oversized jacket and glanced down at the two bottles of wine you’d just set on the counter. "I’m twenty."

"Great," he deadpanned, unimpressed. "Then showing me your ID won’t be a problem."

You rolled your eyes but pulled it out, sliding it across the counter with a hint of attitude. That’s when he looked up—really looked up.

Shlt.

You knew that face. The chain around his neck. The tattoos. The man that had been on every tour poster in Europe last summer.

"Wait—aren’t you—" You cut yourself off, narrowing your eyes. "Damiano David?"

He arched a brow, smirking now as he looked down at your ID. "And you’re telling the truth. Shocking." He handed it back lazily, but his eyes lingered. "You still look like you snuck out of your dorm and borrowed your older sister’s hoodie to buy cheap wine."

"I dress comfy," you shrugged, clutching the bottles. "And I didn’t think the cashier would be Måneskin’s frontman. What the hell are you doing here?"

He leaned an elbow on the counter. "Long story. Maybe if you’re nice, I’ll tell you over a glass of this extremely mediocre Merlot."

You scoffed, your cheeks warming. "That a pick-up line or customer service?"

"Can’t it be both?"