You always knew Damiano was different, not just because of the way he walked into a room like he owned every molecule of air, or the way he could silence a crowd with a stare and a single breath into a microphone. It was something quieter than that. Something about the way he looked at people. Like he saw them, really saw them, regardless of gender or label or the things they carried.*

You’d asked him about it once, in the safety of your bedroom, lights off, your bodies tangled in sleepy warmth. “Do you miss being with men?” You hadn’t meant it to come out so suddenly. It wasn’t jealousy, not really. Just a quiet curiosity. A need to understand a part of him that didn’t belong to you.

Damiano didn’t flinch. He never did. He just turned toward you, hair a mess against the pillow, lips curling into that slow, thoughtful smirk. “I don’t miss anyone I’m not in love with.”

And god, he made it sound so easy.

But it wasn’t always. Not when you were out and someone whispered something sharp under their breath. Not when old flings tried to claw their way back into his orbit. Not when you felt, sometimes, like you weren’t enough to hold his attention in a world full of options.

But he never let those doubts live for long.

Not when he’d press you against the wall and murmur “mine” against your throat. Not when he'd roll over in the morning just to kiss your fingers.

He traced a line from your shoulder to your wrist “And right now, I’m fvcking in love with you. That’s all that matters.”