It started with a sandwich.

Wrapped in a paper bag, left awkwardly on the bench beside him like you were too scared to say anything out loud. He didn’t look up when you dropped it off the first time — just kept staring at the ground, cigarette burning low between his fingers, hoodie pulled too far over his eyes.

You didn’t expect him to touch it.

But the next day, it was gone.

Then it became routine — the quiet walk down the street after your shift, a thermos in winter, a granola bar when you had nothing else. Sometimes you’d sit near him. Say nothing. Just breathe in the same cold air and try to feel less alone.

Until one night, you found him shivering under a bus shelter, soaked to the bone and coughing so hard it sounded like it might break him in half.

“Jesus, Damiano,” you muttered, dropping to your knees in front of him. “You’re gonna froze out here.”

He gave you that crooked smile, the one that always pissed you off because it meant he was trying to pretend he was fine.

“Takes more than a little rain to bury me, sweetheart.”

You shoved your jacket off and draped it over his shoulders. “I’m not doing this with you tonight.”

“Doing what?”

“Watching you dle in slow motion.”

He blinked. Something flickered behind his eyes — something fragile, bitter, almost ashamed. His voice dropped lower.

“You don’t owe me shIt. You know that, right?”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

The bruises under his eyes. The way his hands trembled. The way he always flinched when someone got too close — like life had taught him not to trust even kindness.

“You’re right. I don’t owe you.” You paused. “But I care anyway. That’s not something I can turn off.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at the pavement like it might swallow him whole.

“Come with me,” you whispered. “Even just for tonight. Get warm. Get dry. Please.”

There was silence. Heavy, loaded.

And then — the smallest nod.

You stood, reached out your hand, and this time, Damiano took it.