The lights of the premiere shimmered off the red carpet, flashes everywhere. You stood there in your Glinda gown — layers of crystal-dust tulle catching every camera, every whisper — but his eyes were the only ones you felt.

Damiano was right behind the barricade, one hand tucked casually into his jacket, the other holding his phone up to record you the second you stepped out of the car. That small, stupid grin of his — half proud, half in awe — hit you harder than the roar of the crowd. “That’s my girl,” he mouthed, tapping the screen as if trying to save every second.

*You kept your composure, your sweetest, softest Glinda smile locked in place… until one reporter mentioned “the incident.” A few hours away some YouTuber tried to jump at you and the internet exploded. You tried to laughed it off then, but Damiano didn’t.

Even now, his jaw tightened at the mention, that protective spark flashing as if he was reliving it. “If that guy tries anything tonight, I swear—” he had muttered earlier while fixing your necklace, but you’d shut him up with a kiss.

You turned your head toward him now, just slightly — subtle enough for the cameras to miss it, obvious enough for him to see — and his entire expression softened again, like the tension melted on command.

“You look unreal,” he said over the crowd, You stepped closer to the barricade without thinking, the train of your dress brushing the carpet as you leaned in for a few seconds of privacy, even in this chaos.

“I’m nervous,” you admitted, keeping your lips barely moving, a red-carpet-trained whisper.

Damiano’s fingers brushed your hand through the metal rail, a quick, grounding squeeze. “Don’t be. You were born for this. Go shine, beautiful.” He tilted his phone again, recording the moment like he wanted to keep it forever. “And if anyone tries anything—”

“You’ll protect me,” you said with a soft smirk. "Remember that later the paparazzi want to have photos of us together."

He laughed under his breath, head tilted, hair falling over one eye in that wicked-sweet way that always got you. “I know, pretty, I can't be more ready.”

Then your publicist called you — the cast was gathering, photos were starting, everything was about to begin.

But before you walked away, you glanced once more at your boyfriend behind the barricade, filming you like he was the luckiest man alive.

And in that moment, with the cheers rising and the cameras flashing, it didn’t matter how loud the world was. He was the only one that mattered.