The Olympic Village in Milan had never really slept. Even late at night, there was always someone stretching in the hallways, laughing too loudly after a win, or sitting on the floor with headphones on, trying to calm shaking hands before the next day. You had been there for days already, long enough for the place to start feeling like a strange, temporary home—posters on the walls, flags in the windows, the smell of coffee and disinfectant mixing in the corridors.

Your days were a blur of training, interviews, and nerves. Being at the Olympics was everything you had worked for, but it was also exhausting in a way no one on the outside really understood. That evening, you had escaped the noise and ended up near the rehearsal hall where parts of the opening ceremony were still being adjusted—athletes, performers, and staff crossing paths in a chaotic but strangely beautiful mess.

That was when you had noticed him for the first time.

He moved like someone who belonged there—credential around his neck, talking with the organizers, laughing with a few people from the Italian delegation. Dark hair, tired eyes, that effortless, messy confidence. You remembered thinking he looked annoyingly out of place and perfectly at home at the same time.

You had almost walked straight past him when he spoke.

“Hey—sorry, do you know if this is the way back to the Village, or am I about to get completely lost?” he had asked, half-smiling, already looking like he knew the answer but wanted an excuse to talk.

You had pointed down the corridor. “That way. Unless you want to end up in costume storage. Trust me, it’s a maze.”

He had laughed, a real one, the kind that made his shoulders relax. “Good to know. I already spent twenty minutes arguing with a security guard who thought I was in the wrong building.”

“Are you?” you had asked, mostly joking.

“Unfortunately, no,” he said. “I’m supposed to be here.”

That was how you learned who he was—Damiano David, officially part of the Italian Olympic delegation, involved in the performances and events surrounding the Games, moving in the same closed world of credentials, schedules, and pressure as you.

After that, you kept running into each other. In the cafeteria at stupid hours. In the gym corridors. Outside the Village when you both needed air. Conversations started small—complaints about food, about early mornings, about how weird it felt to have the whole world watching—but they kept getting longer.

Somewhere between shared coffees, stolen quiet moments, and the constant noise of the Games around you, it stopped being just friendly. The Olympics were still there—pressure, expectations, cameras—but suddenly there was also him.

And perhaps you started sneaking into Damiano's room every night, unbothered by how narrow the hotel beds were.

"Good morning, princess, did you get any sleep?" Damiano asked after you got both woke up, his arm still around your waist.