The glow of your phone was the only light in the bedroom.

Outside, Rome was quiet — too quiet for someone who was six months pregnant and wide awake, your hand resting on the gentle curve of your stomach as if it could ground you. The other side of the bed was cold, untouched. It had been that way for weeks.

Damiano’s name lit up your screen.

You answered instantly.

His face appeared, tired and pixelated, messy hair falling into his eyes. A hotel room blurred behind him somewhere in another country, another timezone.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You’re still up.”

“You called,” you replied, trying to smile. “I was waiting.”

His gaze dropped immediately, always the same, straight to your belly. “How’s… how’s our kid tonight?”

You shifted the phone a little so he could see the curve of you. “Restless. Like their father.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I miss you,” he admitted. “So much it hurts.”

There was a pause. You took a breath, feeling your chest tighten.

“Damiano… I need you to come home.”

His expression changed instantly — not defensive, just heavy. “I know. I want to. You know I do.”

“I’m not saying forever,” you said quietly. “Just… now. I’m scared sometimes. My back hurts, I can’t sleep, and everything feels so real all of a sudden. I don’t want to do this part without you.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a little on the screen. “They’ve got three more shows lined up. Contracts, crew, money—”

“I know,” you whispered. “I know it’s not simple. But neither is being six months pregnant alone.”

Silence stretched between you, broken only by the faint hum of his hotel room.

“I feel like I’m failing you,” he said finally. “I’m on stage screaming into microphones while you’re at home building a whole human.”

“You’re not failing me,” you replied. “But I need you with me. Not just on a screen.”

He stopped pacing and looked straight into the camera.

“Talk to me,” he said. “Tell me what you’re really scared of.”

Your hand tightened over your stomach.

“That something’s going to go wrong,” you admitted. “And you won’t be here.”

Damiano’s jaw clenched.

“I swear to you,” he said, voice low and fierce, “I’m not missing this. Not you. Not them. I’ll make it work. I always do.”

Your eyes burned.

“Promise?”

“On my life,” he replied. “I’m coming home to you.”