The red carpet stretched out beneath your heels. You’d walked carpets before, but tonight felt louder, brighter. Damiano’s hand was warm around your hand, his thumb brushing over your skin every so often, grounding you amid the noise.

You took a few more steps, turning slightly for the cameras when you felt it — a quiet, sudden shift of fabric that made your stomach drop. It wasn’t dramatic, just one of those tiny wardrobe slips that could look much worse in front of hundreds of flashing lenses. You froze for half a second, trying to move naturally, but Damiano caught it immediately.

"You okay?" he murmured, not moving his lips much, still waving politely toward the photographers.

"Yeah, just— something with the dress," you whispered back, trying to keep your voice even.

Without missing a beat, he moved — subtle, smooth, stepping in closer and angling his body toward you. To everyone else, it looked like a romantic pose, a moment shared between two people glowing in the spotlight. But really, he was shielding you, blocking the view from the crowd as you quietly fixed the loose fold of fabric.

"Take your time," he said softly, still smiling for the cameras, pretending to adjust his jacket while giving you a few seconds of cover.