You felt it brewing the moment the chords of Coraline began—something in the weight of the song, the ache in the lyrics, the way the lights dimmed just enough to make the world feel too big. You stood there on stage, guitar strapped across your shoulder, sweat cooling on your spine, and your hands… were starting to shake.

It wasn’t the crowd. You were used to crowds.

It was this song.

You tried to focus—on Vic’s bass, Ethan’s grounding rhythm, Thomas, Damiano’s voice filling the air like smoke. But each word hit harder than the last. 'And Coraline cries, Coraline has anxiety…'

You blinked, once, then again, trying to steady your breath as your chest tightened. Not now. Not here. You clutched the guitar a little harder, willing your fingers to obey, but they were starting to stiffen. Your legs locked in place. You couldn’t move, couldn’t swallow.

Fvck.

Then, through the haze of white noise rising in your head, you felt it. A glance. Not casual. Sharp. Knowing.

Damiano.

Still singing, he looked over his shoulder toward you—just briefly, but it was enough. His brow furrowed. He didn’t break character, didn’t stop, didn’t miss a note. He just shifted.

Mid-verse, without breaking the rhythm, he drifted a few steps toward you, enough to close the space without drawing attention. He didn’t say a word, just tilted his head slightly as if asking: Are you okay?

You shook your head once. Barely.

He nodded once. Subtle. His body angled slightly in front of you, protective but not obvious. Then, mid-chorus, he turned slightly toward the crowd and threw one arm around your shoulders—part stage dramatics, part real concern. His voice didn’t waver once.

To the audience, it looked like another moment of rockstar affection.

To you, it was lifeline.

His hand squeezed the back of your arm. Just once. Just enough. "You're fine. You're doing great," he mouthed—words only for you, hidden behind a perfect smirk aimed at the crowd.