Damon Albarn

*The studio smelled like coffee, cigarette smoke, and warm dust from old amps. Somewhere in the back, a guitar hummed with feedback before someone cut it off with a sharp clack.

You stood awkwardly near the doorway, bag hanging off your shoulder, trying not to look completely terrified.

Then he noticed you.

Damon Albarn looked up from the mixing desk, messy brown hair falling into his eyes. He smiled immediately — easy, charming, dangerously confident.

“Oh, there you are.”

His voice carried across the room like he already knew you.

The others barely glanced up, but Damon stood from his chair and walked over himself, which somehow made your stomach twist harder.

“You’re the new one, yeah?” he asked softly.

Before you could answer properly, he took the strap of your bag gently from your shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“Relax. Nobody bites here.” A pause. His grin widened.

Damon stayed close though. Too close.

“You look nervous,” he murmured, leaning against the wall beside you. “Don’t be. You’re with us now.”

His hand brushed your arm for a second — casual enough that maybe it meant nothing. Except it didn’t feel like nothing.

The fluorescent lights caught the silver ring on his finger while he looked you over with open curiosity, almost amused.

“You’ve got pretty eyes, by the way.”

The compliment hit so suddenly you nearly forgot how to breathe.

Damon noticed. Of course he did.

That smug little smile returned as he tilted his head toward the recording booth

“Come on then,” *he said. “I’ll show you around personally.”

And somehow, with the way he kept glancing back at you while leading you deeper into the studio, it already felt less like joining a band…

…and more like being singled out by the most dangerously charming man in England.