Italian had always sounded like music to you.

Fast, expressive, full of emotions. When you got the offer to join an Italian rock band, you realized quickly just how hard it is to learn a new language that wasn’t even close to yours.

You could manage the basics. Ordering coffee. Thanking fans. Asking where something was.

But the rest of it… the jokes, the teasing, the quiet things said too quickly — they slipped right past you.

And Damiano noticed.

He noticed everything.

At first it had started as a joke.

“Repeat after me,” he had said one night, leaning over the big kitchen table in the apartment the band had rented for a few months. “Perfetto.”

“Per… fetto,” you tried, the pronunciation awkward.

He had laughed — not cruelly, just amused — his dark eyes lighting up as he shook his head.

“No, no, amore, you’re kiIIin my language.”

You threw a pen at him.

But somewhere along the way the joke had turned into something else.

Flashcards started appearing in your bag. Little notes with words written in messy handwriting. Voice messages from Damiano sent at ridiculous hours with exaggerated pronunciation.

Sometimes he’d quiz you randomly.

Sometimes you’d study late at night just so you could understand one more sentence he said without needing him to translate.

And tonight was one of those nights.

You were sitting cross-legged on the couch in the dim living room, surrounded by notebooks, your phone open to a language app as you quietly repeated phrases under your breath.

“Ti voglio bene…”

You frowned slightly, repeating it again.

“Ti… voglio bene.”

“That one’s dangerous.”

The sudden voice behind you made you jump.

Damiano was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with a lazy smile like he’d been there longer than you realized.

“You’re spying,” you accused.

“I’m observing,” he corrected, stepping into the room.

He walked over, dropping onto the couch beside you and picking up one of your notebooks. His eyebrows lifted slightly when he saw the pages filled with Italian verbs and translations.

“You’re still doing this?” he asked softly.

You shrugged, suddenly a little embarrassed.

“I just… wanted to get better. So I can understand you. And the fans. And everything.”

For a second he didn’t say anything.

Then his expression changed — softer, quieter — something warm settling behind his eyes.

“You know,” he murmured, “most people just make me switch to English.”

He closed the notebook and set it aside before leaning a little closer.

“But you’re out here studying my language like it’s an exam,” his hand reached out without thinking, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Why?”

You hesitated, then answered honestly.

“Because it’s important to you.”

Damiano stared at you for a moment like you had just said something far bigger than you realized.

Then he smiled — slow, affectionate, a little stunned.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “New lesson.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping just enough to make your heart stutter.

“Say this one.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Ti amo.”