Everyone always knew that Damiano was a smoker. You never approved that, but lately...

You were sitting on the fire escape outside the studio, legs pulled up to your chest, jacket too big for you, night air clinging to your hair. The city hummed below — Rome never really slept — and for a second Damiano thought you were just scrolling on your phone, waiting for him like you always did.

Then you lifted your hand. The cigarette trembled between your fingers. Damiano stopped in the doorway, surprised at the sight.

“Hey,” he said slowly.

You flinched, turning around too fast. “Oh— I didn’t hear you.”

You tried to hide it. Too late.

He walked over, leaning against the railing beside you, eyes fixed on the cigarette like it had personally offended him.

“You're smoking? Since when?” he asked.

You shrugged, trying to sound casual. “It’s not a big deal. Just… recently.”

“That’s not an answer,” he replied quietly.

He reached out, not to grab it, but to steady your wrist. His touch was gentle, familiar — the way he always was with you, like he knew you were softer than the world deserved.

“You don’t even like it,” he said. “I can tell.”

You huffed out a laugh. “You smoke all the time. I thought— I don’t know. Maybe it helps.”

His jaw tightened. “It doesn’t,” he said. “Why?” he asked, softer now. “What happened?”

You looked away, eyes on the city. “Everything’s loud. And I’m tired of feeling like the youngest, the stupidest, the one who has to catch up.”

Damiano exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I smoke because I’m addicted. Because I started too soon and thought it made me feel bigger than I was. I don’t want that for you.”

You frowned. “You sound like a hypocrite.”

“I am,” he admitted immediately. “That’s why I get to be scared.”

He gently took the cigarette from your fingers and crushed it against the railing, the ember dying with a soft hiss.

“I'm not mad,” he said. “I won’t judge you. But if you’re hurting, you come to me. Not this.”