The studio lights cast a golden glow over Damiano’s face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw as he leaned back in his chair, his legs stretched out lazily. His notebook rested on his lap, pages already filled with frantic scribbles and half-finished thoughts.

"I want this to feel raw," he said, his voice low and insistent. "Like it’s tearing you apart." He leaned forward, his pen tapping his pen against the table in a slow, deliberate rhythm, his eyes locked onto you. "You’re holding back, amore. I can see it in your eyes."

You hesitated, glancing at the lyrics you’d written earlier. "I’m not holding back, I just… don’t know if I’m ready to go there."

His gaze softened, though his determination didn’t waver. He leaned forward, closing the space between you two. "If you’re not ready to go there, then neither is the music." His warm gaze locked on you, as he sighed softly before continuing "But I’m here. So go there with me."