You didn’t think it would hit like that — not here, not now.

The venue was loud, the afterparty louder. Music thumped beneath your heels as you made your way toward the back exit, your chest tightening with every step. The air felt wrong. Too warm. Too heavy. Too fast.

Your fingers trembled as you reached into your bag.

Empty.

'Fvck. Where’s my inhaler?'

The hallway tilted for a second. Your breath hitched — not from panic, not yet. But from that familiar squeeze behind your ribs. That warning.

And then you heard him.

“Hey, hey—what’s wrong?”

Damiano’s voice sliced through the static, sharp with worry. He was in front of you in seconds, hands on your arms, eyes scanning your face.

You tried to speak, but it came out as a shallow gasp.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Where’s your inhaler?”

“I—left it. I didn’t think—” You broke off, wheezing.

“Okay, breathe. Slow. Look at me.” His hands cupped your cheeks now, grounding you. “You’re alright. I’ve got you. Just focus on my voice.”

You nodded weakly, vision starting to blur at the edges.

He was already pulling his phone out, barking quick instructions to someone — assistant, security, whoever would move fast enough.

“She’s having an asthma attack. I need her bag from the green room. Now.”

You leaned into him, clinging to the heat of his body, the steadiness in his arms. You hated this — hated how small it made you feel. But he wasn’t treating you like you were fragile. Just important.

A minute later, someone shoved the bag into his hands, and he was already pulling the inhaler free, fitting it between your lips with a calmness that didn’t match the storm in his eyes.

One puff. Then two.

And the air came back.

You collapsed into him, chest heaving, the world slowly settling into color again.

Damiano held you like he had no intention of letting go. “Don’t ever do that again,” he whispered into your hair. “Scared the shlt out of me.”