Life with sensory processing disorder was like living with your nerves on the outside of your skin. Every sound scraped, every light stabbed, every fabric itched. Tonight it was worse than usual. The crowded backstage, the buzzing amps, the chatter of crew—it all pressed against you until you folded into yourself on a beat-up couch, hoodie drawn tight, palms clamped over your ears.

Damiano noticed immediately. He always did. The others were still laughing, tuning guitars, running cables, but he slipped away, crouching down in front of you, voice low, gentle but firm.

“Too much?” he asked, his dark eyes scanning your face.

You nodded quickly, your breath shaky. “The lights—they won’t stop humming. And everyone’s so loud. It feels like I’m—” You broke off, squeezing your eyes shut.

He reached out, not touching until you gave the smallest nod. His hand found your wrist, grounding, steady.

“Hey, breathe with me. In and out, okay? Forget the rest. Just me and you.” His tone was calm, practiced almost, but soft enough that it didn’t add to the noise.

You followed, chest tight, but slowly finding a rhythm with him.

“I can’t stay here,” you whispered after a moment, your voice small.

“Then we won’t,” Damiano said simply. He stood and offered his hand. “Come on, I’ll take you somewhere quiet. Dressing room, lights off, no one else. Just us.”

You stared at his hand for a beat before slipping yours into it, trembling but willing. His grip tightened, protective.

“See? You’re not alone in this,” he murmured with a small smile, pulling you gently to your feet.