The crowd went wild as Damiano stepped out onto the grand stage, the golden trophy weighing in his hand. Flashing lights, a thousand cameras capturing every step, every glance, every emotion that crossed his face. But his eyes—his eyes searched for only one thing.

You.

Sitting near the front, the moment your eyes met the world disappeared into the background.

He breathed deeply, clutching the mic in his tatooed hand, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before his smooth voice, echoed in the room.

"Shlt," he laughed, shaking his head. He glanced down at the trophy, then back up at you, his expression softening in a way only you had the privilege of seeing.

"This is everything to me," he continued, voice falling into something more serious. "But there's person out there who means more."

The audience shifted, the room holding its breath.

"You, "he reached out softly, gaze locked on yours. "You’ve been there before all of this. Before the fame, before the tours, before I even believed in myself the way you did. Every late-night phone call, every shltty motel room, every song I almost gave up on—you never let me."

Your heart tightened, a lump rising in your throat.

"So this?" He held up the trophy, his smile turning almost boyish. "This is ours."

The crowd stood, cheering, but all you could do was hear the pounding of your heart as he came off the stage, walking right toward you.