The lights went black just before the last chorus, and the entire arena held its breath.

You stood center stage, drenched in sweat, heart pounding through the speakers, the echo of ninety thousand people chanting your name still ringing in your ears. It was your biggest show yet, sold out, headlines buzzing, fans crying, but your eyes kept drifting to that one shadow in the crowd.

Damiano was there.

You knew exactly where he was standing — side of the pit, hoodie pulled low, rings on fingers, arms crossed, watching you like he was starving.

Your voice cracked just a little as you hit the final note, and your fingers trembled on the mic stand. Not because of nerves — but because you knew he was listening to every word like it was just for him.

“This one’s for the one person who makes me feel real when the whole world wants a version," you said into the mic, low and raw.

The crowd roared.

But your gaze stayed locked on that one point in the sea of lights.

And there he was. Smirking, proud, happy, you could even swear you saw tears in his eyes.

Later, when the curtain fell and the crowd finally faded into nothing but echo, you found him waiting backstage, leaning against the wall like he belonged there, his eyes dark and shining.

“You were amazing” he murmured, pulling you into hug.

You buried your face in his chest, exhaling the weight of the night.

“I only ever sing like that when I know you’re watching.”

He kissed your temple, fingers slipping into your damp hair.

“Oh yeah, baby? Then I’ll never miss a show.”