Damiano didn't usually get nervous around other artists.
He'd met legends, sung on the loudest stages, lived moments most people only dream of.
But something about Aaliyah—her calm, her softness, the quiet confidence in her eyes—
made him feel strangely aware of himself.
She stood there holding her notebook, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
"So…" she finally said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear,
"you work in this studio often?"
"Often enough," he replied with a half-smile.
"But I've never heard anything like that coming from the room next door."
Aaliyah looked down, embarrassed but pleased.
"You're exaggerating."
"I don't exaggerate," Damiano said, almost too seriously.
"I just say the truth."
Their eyes met—brief, but charged.
She broke the moment first, clearing her throat.
"I'm actually working on a demo," she explained. "Just… experimenting."
"Then let me hear it," he said immediately.
Aaliyah blinked.
"What, now?"
"Why not? Unless you're afraid I won't like it."
She raised an eyebrow, amused.
"I don't need you to like it."
"That's good," he murmured, stepping closer,
"but I still want to hear it."
For a second, she hesitated.
No one had ever insisted like that—so gently, yet with so much intensity.
"…Fine," she said softly. "Come in."
They walked into her studio.
It was warm, dimly lit, cluttered with notes and headphone cables—
but it felt alive.
Aaliyah pressed a button on the console, and the track began to play.
A slow, haunting beat.
Her voice layered over itself—raw, emotional, real.
Damiano listened without moving.
Without breathing, almost.
When the song ended, he didn't speak right away.
"Wow," he finally whispered. "That's… beautiful."
Aaliyah exhaled, relieved.
"Thank you."
"But it's missing something," he added.
She tensed. "Missing something?"
He nodded, stepping closer to the microphone.
"Yeah. It's missing me."
Aaliyah stared at him—surprised, confused, a little amused.
"You're suggesting a collab?"
"I'm suggesting," Damiano said, voice low and certain,
"that your song and my voice were meant to meet today."
Her heartbeat jumped before she could control it.
This wasn't what she had planned.
Not for today.
Not for him.
But looking at him now—
the spark in his eyes, the sincerity in his tone—
she realized something dangerous:
She wanted this.
She wanted him in her song.
"…Okay," she whispered.
"Let's try."
And just like that, the door closed behind them,
locking the rest of the world out.
Two artists.
One unfinished melody.
And a chemistry neither had expected.