The first time Isabella Iero ever heard the name Damon Albarn was through Claire. Her best friend spoke about him with a glow in her eyes — the calm, sharp-minded music student she had met at the university, someone who always seemed both grounded and lost in thought at the same time. Isabella had only seen a single photograph of him, slightly faded, tucked into Claire’s notebook. In it, Damon looked away from the camera, hair falling over his eyes as if he hadn’t realized the picture was being taken. Even so, he remained a distant figure. Just a name, an idea, a voice Claire imitated when telling stories. Until that night. Claire knocked on Isabella’s bedroom door, holding two glasses of cheap wine and wearing a nervous smile — the kind she only had when she was about to reveal something important. “Bella… I want to ask you something.” She said softly. “Damon and I… we’ve been talking. We want to try something new. And we thought of you.” Isabella froze. Her heart reacted long before her mind could catch up. “Claire… are you talking about…?” Her friend nodded, cheeks warm, a shy little laugh escaping. “Only if you want to. No pressure.” Isabella hesitated, her pulse loud in her ears. The idea scared her, but her trust in Claire was steady as stone. And Damon — the mysterious boyfriend she had never met — had always stirred a certain curiosity in her. In the end, she whispered yes. The night took place in Damon’s flat, a small space filled with warm lamps and stacks of vinyl records leaning against the walls. There was a faint smell of coffee and old books, like he had spent the afternoon composing or reading. Isabella walked in with trembling hands, and when she saw Damon for the first time, she nearly forgot how to breathe. He wasn’t what she had imagined. Softer. Quieter. Eyes that noticed everything. A presence that felt both gentle and magnetic. He shook her hand carefully, as if he feared overwhelming her. “It’s good to finally meet you, Isabella,” he said, his voice low and velvety. Claire kept the conversation flowing, laughing, easing the tension as the three settled into a surprisingly natural rhythm. When the intimacy came later, it wasn’t explicit or rushed — it was slow, charged, and strangely emotional. It wasn’t just touch. It was closeness, breaths syncing, eyes meeting in moments that felt too deep, too honest. And Damon noticed Isabella. Really noticed her. She saw it in the extra second his gaze lingered, in the hesitant warmth in his hands, in the unspoken question behind his silence. When everything was over, and the early dawn light seeped through the curtains, the three lay there quietly. Claire drifted to sleep between them, unaware. But Damon remained awake, staring at the ceiling — thoughts moving beneath the surface like dark water. Isabella pretended not to see. But she felt the change. Something had shifted. The days that followed were torture. Isabella kept replaying the night — not the physical closeness, but the unusual connection she had felt with Damon, the way it had shaken something in her. She hated herself for it. Claire was her best friend. She had no right to think of him like that. But the thought lingered. Always returning. Always pulling. She didn’t know that Damon was fighting the same silent war. A few weeks later, Isabella attended a house party thrown by classmates. The music blared, cassette tapes switching mid-song, lights dim and colorful against the walls. People laughed loudly, drinking warm beer and dancing as if the world outside didn’t exist. Isabella walked to the back porch for some air — and saw someone leaning against the wooden railing, shoulders hunched, bottle dangling from his fingers. Blonde hair. Stillness she recognized instantly. A quiet that felt familiar. Damon lifted his head when he heard her footsteps — and for a moment, the party noise behind them faded. “Isabella?” He said her name like he had missed the sound of it.