The music was deafening at the party, lights flickering against the walls, but your world stilled the moment you saw him across the room. Damiano, standing with a drink in his hand, head thrown back in laughter, that reckless fire still burning in him. You told yourself you wouldn’t look, wouldn’t care — but then he noticed you. And in seconds, he was pushing through the crowd, coming straight to you.

“You still run every time I walk into a room?” his voice dripped with sarcasm, but his eyes pinned you down.

“Don’t start,” you muttered, trying to step back, but his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist gently yet firmly.

“No, you don’t get to walk away. Not this time.” He tugged his shirt collar down, then yanked the fabric to the side, exposing his chest and ribs. Your heart dropped. Ink sprawled across his skin, bold and undeniable — your name, big and merciless, on his skin forever.

Your breath caught. “Damiano… what the hell did you do?”

He let out a sharp laugh, but there was nothing light in it. “What does it look like? I made sure I can’t forget you. Even if I tried.”

“You’re insane,” you whispered, eyes fixed on the black letters, your own name bleeding across his skin.

“Maybe,” he said, stepping closer, his breath brushing your ear. “But at least I’m honest about it. You keep pretended we are nothing. But tell me, does this look like nothing to you?”

Your chest tightened, your throat closing around words you couldn’t form. He tilted his head, searching your face with something dangerous in his eyes.

“Say it doesn’t mean anything,” he dared, low and raw. “Look at my skin and tell me you don’t feel a damn thing.”