The roar of the crowd still rang in your ears as you stumbled offstage, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your spine. The encore had left your hands shaking — not from adrenaline this time, but from sheer, aching exhaustion.

You barely made it past the curtain before you collapsed onto the nearest case, tugging off your in-ears with trembling fingers. Your throat burned. Your muscles screamed. And yet, in ten minutes, someone would come asking for you again. Interviews. Meet and greets. Photos. Always more.

“You need to slow down.”

His voice sounded through the backstage noise.

You didn’t look up. “Don’t start, Damiano.”

He crouched in front of you anyway, elbows resting on his knees, eyes locked on yours. He looked... furious. And scared.

“No one’s asking you to carry the whole band. No one expects you to be some machine.”

You laughed, humorless. “Then why does it feel like if I stop for one second, everything falls apart?”

“Because you don’t let anyone help.”

Your lips pressed into a line, jaw clenched. You didn’t want to cry — not here, not in front of him, not when the makeup was still fresh and the cameras still lurked just beyond the doors.

But his voice softened. “You looked pale the whole second half of the set. You missed cues. Your hands were shaking.”

You blinked down at them now. He was right.

“I’m fine,” you whispered.

Damiano reached forward, brushing a strand of damp hair from your face, his touch achingly gentle.

“No, you're not. And that’s okay. But I’m not gonna watch you break yourself just to prove a point.”