The tour bus hummed softly as it drove through the night. Most of the others were scattered around — headphones on, phones glowing, someone snoring in the back — but you were curled up beside Damiano, exhaustion finally catching up with you.

At first, you’d tried to stay awake. You always did. Knees tucked to your chest, jacket pulled around you, pretending you were still listening to whatever story he was telling. But the steady vibration of the road, the warmth of his shoulder, the familiar scent of him made your eyelids impossibly heavy.

At some point, your head tipped gently to the side.

Damiano felt it immediately — the soft weight of you settling against his shoulder, your breathing evening out as you fell asleep. He froze for half a second, then relaxed, careful not to move.

He glanced down at you, lips tugging into a quiet smile. “Out like a light,” he murmured to himself.

Slowly, deliberately, he shifted just enough to make you more comfortable, lifting his arm so it rested loosely around your shoulders. His fingers brushed your sleeve in a slow, absent-minded motion — not enough to wake you, just enough to ground himself.

With his other hand, he pulled out his phone.

One picture. Then another.

The way your lashes rested against your cheeks. The faint crease between your brows that smoothed out once you were fully asleep. Your head tucked into the curve of his neck like it belonged there.

*He sent one of the photos to you and shook his head softly. “I should get paid for this amazing photoshoot,” he whispered, almost fond.