The garage had smelled like dust, oil, and old wood, the kind of place where half-finished projects went to wait for “someday.” You were standing in the middle of it with a screwdriver in your hand, staring at the mess.

“Dad,” you said, turning to him, “either this thing is possessed, or I already broke it.” You said sadly, looking at your project — a bird feeder, because you felt too sorry for the little birdies.

Damiano looked up from the workbench, one eyebrow lifting in that familiar way that meant he was trying not to laugh and trying very hard to stay calm at the same time. “You didn’t break it,” he said, walking over and gently taking the tool from your hand. “You just… attacked it a little too confidently.”

He had crouched beside you, checking the loose parts, his movements careful and practiced. He always got like this when you were around tools—quietly focused, a little too alert, like he expected the universe to throw something at you specifically. You, on the other hand, had already managed to bump your elbow on the table and almost trip over a cable within the first five minutes.

“Hey,” he said immediately, a hand on your shoulder, steadying you. “Careful. I literally turned my back for two seconds.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, even though you were laughing at yourself. “Mostly.”

He had sighed, but there was that soft smile he never managed to hide. “That word does not comfort me at all.”