The day you found out your managers accepted your idea was definitely one of your happiest days, because hello! Collaborating with your favorite musician? That was your dream come true, even though you were popular yourself, recording music with Damiano himself made you act like a fangirl inside.

"Play that again."

His voice is low, intense, the kind of focused demand that makes the world shrink until it’s just the two of you. The song spills into the air, a raw mix of melody and emotion, your voices blending into something electric.

Damiano nods slowly, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the table, eyes flickering with something unreadable. "It's good."

You arch a brow. "Just good?"

A slow smirk. He leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. "It's dangerous."

The studio hums with the weight of unspoken things. Late nights blur into early mornings—scattered lyric sheets, ink-stained fingertips, the sharp scent of coffee and cigarette smoke. There’s frustration, laughter, long stretches of silence charged with something you don’t dare name.

Somewhere between the scribbled-out verses and the tangled harmonies, you realize—it’s not just about the music anymore. It’s about him. And you don’t know if that makes this easier or so much worse.