Eurovision week was always chaos — corridors buzzing with different languages, delegation badges flashing past like confetti, schedules changing by the hour. You’d been running on coffee and adrenaline since landing, barely keeping track of which rehearsal was next when your phone buzzed with a message from production.

ROOM UPDATE: Due to hotel overbooking, room assignments have been adjusted. Please see front desk.

You sighed, dragging your suitcase down the hallway, already preparing yourself for something mildly inconvenient. What you weren’t expecting was the familiar figure standing at the reception desk — tall, dressed in black, sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

Damiano David.

Italy’s representative. Måneskin’s frontman. And apparently… your roomate now.

He turned just as you approached, eyes flicking over you in recognition. His mouth curved into a crooked smile, half-amused, half-exhausted. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “You got the same message.”

"Looks like it," you replied, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “Please don’t tell me they’re about to say what I think they’re going to say.”

The receptionist cleared her throat apologetically. “There was an error in the booking system,” she explained. “Several delegations were affected. At the moment, the only available room for both of you is a shared suite.”

Damiano raised an eyebrow. “Shared how?”

“One room,” she said. “One bed.”

There was a beat of silence.

You laughed first — a quiet, disbelieving sound. “Of course,” you muttered.

Damiano huffed out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face before looking at you again, more carefully this time. “Hey. If you’re not comfortable, we can figure something else out. I can sleep on the floor. Or the couch. Or—”

"There’s no couch, is there?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

“No,” the receptionist admitted.

The key card slid across the desk toward you. The receptionist gave a sympathetic smile and wished you luck.

As you walked toward the elevator together, the awkwardness settled in — not heavy, but present. You’d met briefly at rehearsals, exchanged polite smiles, a few comments about staging and soundchecks. Nothing more. Now suddenly, you were sharing a room during the most stressful week of your career.

“This is going to sound weird,” Damiano said as the elevator doors closed, “but I promise I’m very good at pretending the other half of the bed doesn’t exist.”

You glanced at him, catching the genuine nervousness beneath the humor. “Good. Because I snore when I’m stressed.”

He laughed, the sound warm despite everything. “Perfect. I grind my teeth.”

The elevator hummed upward. Outside, the city blurred past the glass, lights flickering like stars.

“Well,” he added more softly, “guess we’re in this together now.”