The Friday night was too quiet. No movie, no music.

You sat curled up beside him, legs tucked beneath a blanket, TV remote resting useless in your lap. Damiano hadn’t said anything in the past few minutes, just kept rubbing circles into your arm with his thumb like he was trying to comfort you without knowing what for.

Eventually, you broke the silence.

"I got the final results today."

He didn’t need to ask what you meant. His head turned toward you instantly, gaze sharp with attention.

"And?" he asked softly.

Your voice cracked before it even fully formed. "They said it's… extremely unlikely. Like... less than a 5% chance. Ever."

Damiano didn’t react right away. He blinked, nodded slowly, his jaw tightening just slightly. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped — thinking.

"I know that’s not what you wanted to hear," you whispered, swallowing hard. "I know you said you wanted to be a dad someday and—"

"Hey," he cut in gently, turning back to you. "I wanted to be a dad with you. That doesn’t change."

You blinked, your throat already tight. He reached for your hand.

"We don’t need a blueprint to build something real. So we can’t do it the traditional way. So what? There’s adoption. There’s surrogacy. There’s a million messy, beautiful ways to make a life with someone."

You didn’t realize you’d started crying until his thumb wiped the first tear from your cheek.

"You think I dreamt of fatherhood just for the biological part? No, amore. I dreamt of holding a kid that looked up to you. Who learned to love music because we sang to them, our little sunshine"

You laughed through the tears, pressing your forehead to his.

"And if none of that ever happens?"

"Then I’ll just be the luckiest man alive to grow old with you. And maybe a cat. Or five."