The breakup had happened three days earlier, and yet nothing around them seemed to acknowledge it.

The apartment still smelled like his cologne mixed with your shampoo. The evening light spilled through the half-open blinds. Outside, Rome kept moving — cars, voices, life — while inside, everything felt suspended, like the moment before a storm actually broke.

You stood near the door with your jacket still on, fingers wrapped tightly around your phone, knuckles pale. You had come over to pick up your things. That had been the plan. A simple in-and-out. Clean. Final.

It hadn’t gone that way.

Damiano leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, shoulders tense beneath his t-shirt. His hair was messier than usual, like he’d been running his hands through it all day. He looked tired — not the sleepless-tour tired, but the quiet, internal kind. The kind you used to notice immediately.

“This was a bad idea,” he had said earlier, mostly to himself.

Now the silence pressed down on both of you, stretching far too long for two people who had once shared everything.

“This is where we’re supposed to keep our distance,” he said eventually, his voice low, controlled in a way that fooled no one.

You had let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. We’re amazing at that.”

He lifted his head then, dark eyes meeting yours. The familiarity in that look hit harder than any argument ever had. He noticed everything — the tension in your shoulders, the way you stood like you were ready to bolt, the slight tremor you hated that he could always see.

“You’re still here,” he said.

“So are you.”

You moved past him toward the living room to grab your bag, but the space was too narrow. His body reacted before his brain did, shifting instinctively — the same way it always had — and your arms brushed. The contact was brief, accidental, and devastating.

He froze.

“Don’t,” he murmured, his hand flexing at his side like he was fighting muscle memory.

“I didn’t do anything,” you replied, sharper than you meant to be, turning to face him. “You’re the one standing in my way.”

His breath left him in a quiet, broken laugh. “See? This. This is exactly it.”

“Exactly what?” you asked.

“The part where I still know when you’re about to cry before you do.”

Your chest tightened painfully. You looked away, jaw clenched, blinking hard. You hated that he still knew you this well. You hated that it felt like relief.

“You broke up with me,” you said quietly, grounding yourself in the fact.

“I know.”

“Then stop looking at me like I still belong here.”

His gaze dropped — not away, just lower — lingering at your lips before he caught himself and turned his head. “I don’t know how to turn that off.”

You took a step back. He mirrored it without realizing. Neither of you moved toward the door.

“You said we needed space,” you reminded him, your voice barely steady.

“I said it because it sounded like the right thing to say,” he admitted. “Not because I actually want it, it's so empty without you here...”