You had flicked the lighter with shaky fingers, shielding the flame from the wind as the two of you had leaned against the backstage brick wall. The concert had ended an hour ago, the adrenaline still humming under your skin; the night had smelled like sweat, smoke and his cologne—always him. Always.

Damiano had stood close enough that your shoulders had brushed every few seconds, close enough that you had felt the heat of him even in the cold. Too close, not close enough. Click. You had lit his cigarette for him, like always.

“You okay?” he had asked quietly, his voice scratchy from the show, from the shouting, from the way he had said your name into your neck ten minutes earlier.

“Yeah,” you had breathed out, but it had been a lie and he had known. He had always known.

You had taken a drag, slow, deep, letting the smoke fill your lungs. Then you had turned your head toward him and had exhaled gently—straight into his mouth. He hadn’t even pretended not to wait for it. He had leaned in, breathing you in like oxygen he had been deprived of for years.

“Breathe out… so I can breathe you in,” he had murmured, the lyric slipping from him in a hoarse whisper, “hold you in…”

Your heart had stumbled. That stupid song—the one you both had claimed wasn’t “your thing” until it had become your thing, until it had started sounding too much like everything you had felt but had never said.

He had pressed his forehead to yours, his cigarette forgotten, burning down between his fingers. “Do it again,” he had said, softer this time, almost vulnerable.

You had taken another drag, stepped forward, your free hand sliding up the front of his shirt. You had exhaled into him again, and this time he had caught your mouth with his—slow at first, then deeper, the kiss smoky and warm and tasting like every version of tonight that had felt too good to be real.

His hand had found your jaw, holding you like he had been afraid you would disappear. “God,” he had breathed against your lips, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You had laughed, but it had come out more like a sigh. “And you’re dramatic.”

“Only for you.” He had kissed you again, slower. “Everlong, remember?”