The couch was too soft, your back was too tense, and when you shifted to grab the mug on the coffee table, something between your shoulder blades cracked like an old floorboard.

“Fvck—okay, no. That’s it.” His voice came from somewhere behind you, low with that unmistakable edge of Italian stubbornness. “Lie down. I’m serious.”

You blinked over your shoulder. “What?” Damiano was already rolling up his sleeves, standing with one eyebrow raised like this wasn’t the first time he’d told you something and expected no argument.

“Your back’s a disaster. I’ve been watching you twist around all day. Come on, I’m not gonna let you snap in half on my watch.”

“And you’re an expert in spinal alignment now?” Your tone was sarcastic, but your body betrayed you, already easing down. The second your skin touched the fabric, you sighed again.

“I’m not an expert,” he said, settling behind you, his hands already hovering just above your shoulder blades, “but I’ve had enough touring accidents to know how to help. Trust me.”