The dressing room smelled like sweat, hairspray, and whatever cologne Damiano had drowned himself in before the show.

Other members of Måneskin were still buzzing with the high of the performance, but your thoughts were somewhere else.

You sat on the couch, twisting a guitar pick between your fingers, while Damiano leaned back against the counter, kicking off his boots. The others were still out in the hall, talking to the crew, but you had pulled him aside.

You needed to say it.

"Dami…"

He looked up, running a hand through his damp, dark curls. "Mhm?"

You swallowed hard. Just say it.

"I think I want to go solo."

Silence. His expression didn’t change—didn’t flicker with shock or anger. Just… stillness. Then, finally, he huffed a quiet laugh.

"That's supposed to be a joke?"

"No, I'm serious."

His jaw tensed. "And you’re telling me this now? After a sold-out show?"

You shifted uncomfortably. "It’s not like I don’t love this. I do. But I— I feel like there’s more I want to do. On my own."

His gaze darkened. He nodded slowly, pushing off the counter, closing the distance between you two.

"You think you’re ready for that?"