The knock at your door was soft but insistent. When you opened it, Damiano leaned against the frame. The dim hallway light casting shadows over his tired face. A half-empty bottle of wine dangled from his hand, his grip loose, casual, as if he hadn’t spent the last few minutes debating whether or not to come.

"Couldn’t sleep," he said, his voice rough and low. "Thought maybe you couldn’t either."

You stepped aside, letting him in, and he didn’t hesitate. He collapsed onto your couch, exhaling as if the weight of the day had finally caught up with him. Pouring two glasses, he swirled his drink absentmindedly, eyes flickering to you.. "You know," he began, watching the deep red swirl in his glass, "Sometimes I wonder if this is all too much. The fame, the pressure... It’s not what I imagined when we started."

His words caught you off guard. Damiano rarely opened up like this. "But then I think about you," he continued, his voice quieter now, more certain. His gaze lifted, meeting yours with an intensity that made your stomach twist. "And suddenly, it feels worth it."