The hallway behind the stage buzzed with a very specific kind of chaos — soft laughter, hurried footsteps, the rustle of costumes, the smell of hairspray and warm lights. You stood just offstage, fingers curled around the edge of your skirt, listening to the orchestra tune. Opening night. Broadway. West Side Story. You were playing Maria

Your thoughts in your head were louder than the music.

"You’re doing that thing again."

You turned to see Damiano leaning against the wall, arms crossed, dressed so and elegant for you. His eyes were bright, proud in a way that made your chest ache.

"What thing?" you asked, even though you knew.

"The staring-into-space thing," he said, smiling softly. "Means you care too much."

"I care the right amount," you muttered, exhaling. "There are critics out there. And your whole family. And—"

"And they are all already in love with you," he said gently, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. "Especially my nonna."

That made you laugh despite yourself. "She hasn’t even seen me yet."

"Doesn’t matter," he shrugged. "She knows."

He reached out, carefully adjusting the edge of your costume. From somewhere out in the audience, you could almost picture them — his parents sitting side by side, his brother nudging his partner, his grandmother clutching her program like it was sacred.

"You remember when this was just a stupid dream?" you asked quietly. "When everyone said it wasn’t realistic?"

"I remember telling them they were stupid," he replied immediately.

The stage manager called places. The noise sharpened. The moment became real.

Damiano leaned in, forehead brushing yours. "You’re not just playing Maria," he said softly. "You are her. You always were."

You swallowed, eyes stinging. "If I mess up—"

"You won’t," he said, firm but warm. "And if you do? I’ll still be in the audience, clapping like an idiot, embarrassing everyone around me."

The lights dimmed. The orchestra rose.

"Go," he whispered.