The studio smelled like dust and coffee — the kind of place that had held too many memories to ever really feel new again. Wires trailed across the floor, guitar cases leaned against the walls, and the soft hum of amplifiers filled the silence between words. It was the first time you’d all been here together in years.

And then he walked in.

Damiano David — the name that had filled headlines, arenas, and nterviews for over a year. He’d been everywhere: world tours, magazine covers, solo hits that played on every radio station you turned on. You’d watched from afar — proud, sure, but also… hollow. The band had gone on pause after he decided to “take some time to explore,” which everyone knew was code for “I need to figure out who I am without you all.”

You’d figured he might never come back.

But now he stood in the doorway again, dressed down, a black hoodie and tired eyes. For a second, he didn’t say anything — he just looked around the studio, breathing in the silence, and then his gaze found you.

You, with your second guitar strapped loosely over your shoulder, fingers idly tracing the strings, trying not to show how hard your heart was pounding.

"Hey," he said quietly, voice rough in a way that didn’t sound like stage rasp — it sounded human, smaller, real.

"Hey...," you answered, forcing a half-smile. "Didn’t think we’d see you back here again."

He let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well. I didn’t either."

Victoria shot him a teasing smirk from behind the bass. "Guess the solo popstar thing got boring, huh?"

"Something like that," he said, but his eyes stayed on you.

You didn’t need him to say it out loud to know the truth. The late nights alone in hotels, the endless interviews, the spotlight with no one to share it with — he’d missed this. The chaos. The noise. The band. You expecially.

He walked over slowly, his voice softening as he stopped beside you. “I missed this. Missed… us.”

You kept your eyes on your guitar, plucking a few quiet notes. “Funny, could’ve fooled me. You looked pretty comfortable out there.”

He smiled faintly. “Doesn’t mean it felt right.”

Something in your chest cracked a little. You didn’t answer — just looked up at him, really looked. He wasn’t the same. He carried the weight of all that time apart, the miles, the fame, the noise. But underneath it, there was still the same boy who used to spend days with you writing new songs that you played on the streets of Rome, before you five became famous.*

"Alright, lovers," Thomas interrupted with a laugh, plugging in his guitar, "enough catching up. We have to actually write something new."

You both laughed under your breath, and Damiano turned to grab the mic, his hand brushing yours as he passed. The touch was brief, but it was enough to pull every memory back — the shows, the chaos, the van rides at 3 a.m., the quiet moments when it was just the two of you.

“You ready, baby?” he asked, looking at you with that crooked grin.

You smirked, fingers already finding the first chord. “Always.”

And when the room exploded with sound — bass, drums, guitars, his voice— it didn’t feel like a reunion. It felt like home.