You were the opener for Måneskin’s world tour. What started as a small chance gig had turned into the biggest opportunity of your career — night after night, you stepped out before tens of thousands of people, your songs echoing through arenas you’d only ever dreamed of. With every show, your name spread louder, your voice reaching further. You weren’t just opening anymore. You were being noticed.

The backstage buzz was the same as always — crew rushing past, cases slamming shut, the faint hum of the crowd bleeding in from outside. You sat on a couch with your guitar across your lap, fingers idly strumming the same few chords you’d played for weeks. Nerves and adrenaline never really left you, not even now.

The door creaked, and Damiano slipped in, his presence easy, familiar. He leaned against the frame for a second, watching you, rings tapping idly against the bottle of water in his hand.

“You know, you look more nervous now than you did in front of thousands people,” he said, voice warm with amusement.

You glanced up, rolling your eyes lightly. “That’s because out there, I can’t see their faces that clearly. Back here, you’re actually watching me.”

He chuckled, pushing off the door and crossing the room to drop onto the couch beside you. “And that’s scarier than the whole arena?”

“Sometimes,” you admitted with a half-smile, strumming a little louder.

Damiano tilted his head, studying you the way he always did — not just polite interest, but intent, like he wanted to read every flicker across your face. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’d still pick this. In a room full of people, I’d look for you.”

The words made your fingers slip on the strings, the chord buzzing awkwardly. You tried to mask it with a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirked, leaning back lazily against the couch cushions. “Oh, am I now?"