You arrive at the hotel just after midnight.

Rome is still humming outside — scooters zipping down side streets, someone laughing too loud, the smell of espresso and something sweet lingering in the air. You’re exhausted, suitcase dragging slightly behind you, eyes half-closed as you make your way to the front desk.

There’s a guy already there, signing something.

You barely register him at first — just tall, tan, wearing a black hoodie pulled low over his forehead. One hand tugging a small duffel bag, the other tucked in his pocket. The kind of traveler who’s done this before.

You take out your ID, your phone, your confirmation email. And then the guy turns just slightly — enough for the light to catch the side of his face.

João Félix.

You freeze.

Not because you’re a fan — not exactly. But because for a moment, everything around you seems too quiet. Too unreal.

He looks over. Pauses. Then gives the smallest smile, like he’s not sure if you recognize him or not — and he’s okay either way.

You check in side by side.

The desk clerk fumbles João’s passport and laughs nervously. João just nods, polite, easygoing, slipping into Portuguese and then back to English like it’s nothing. His voice is softer than you imagined. You try not to listen, and you absolutely fail.

“Room 508,” the clerk says, handing him a key card. He steps aside.

Then it’s your turn. You feel his presence beside you, warm and quiet.

As you finish, he glances at your suitcase.

“Long trip?” he asks, like it’s just small talk. Like you’re two normal people in a lobby at 12:13 a.m.