You knew touring wouldn’t be easy. Long nights, no sleep, constant noise, no privacy. But you thought the hardest part would be the performances—not him.

Not Damiano.

But there he was, standing across the dressing room with his arms crossed.

"You can’t keep doing that," you snapped, pacing, your voice low but sharp. "Undermining me in front of crew like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing."

He scoffed, brushing a hand through his hair. "I wasn’t undermining you. I was trying to stop you from blowing out your voice two nights before a sold-out show."

"I know my limits!" you shot back.

"Then act like it!"

You stared at him, chest rising, makeup half-done, your stage outfit still hanging on a rack behind you. His black boots were scuffed, his silver jewelry still on from soundcheck. You could hear the buzz of the crowd through the walls.

"This isn’t just your tour," you said, quieter this time. "I worked just as hard to be here."

His face softened—just a bit. But he didn’t move.

"I know you did," he muttered, his voice low. "That’s why I care. That’s why it pisses me off when you push yourself to the edge like none of this matters."