You noticed it the second you walked into the bathroom — the faint smell of shaving foam, the sink half-splashed with water, Damiano standing in front of the mirror with that focused, slightly annoyed expression.

You leaned against the doorframe. "…Are you doing what I think you’re doing?"

He glanced at you through the mirror. "Depends. Are you thinking I finally got tired of being accused of tickling your face everytime we hug or kiss?"

You snorted. "You know it scratches. Every time."

"I know," he sighed, dragging the bl äde carefully along his jaw. "You’ve mentioned it. Repeatedly. Very passionately."

You stepped closer, watching him rinse and continue, movements slow and deliberate. He was usually careless with himself — rushing, improvising — but not now. Now he was paying attention.

"I liked the beard," you admitted, softer. "Just… not the part where it feels like sandpaper."

"Yeah, well," he said, "I like when you don’t pull away every time I get close."

That made you smile.

You reached out without thinking, resting your fingers lightly on his forearm, careful not to distract him too much. "You really don’t have to."

"I know," he replied simply. "I want to."

He finished, patted his face dry, then turned toward you, tilting his head slightly.

"Go on," he said. "Check."

You stepped in, palms warm against his cheeks.

"Oh wow," you murmured. "That’s… significantly better."

He grinned, clearly pleased. "See? Sacrifices."