You sat cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through your phone, while Damiano paced in front of you, his fingers moving through his hair.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered. “You took a hit like that, and you just stood up, brushed it off, like it was nothing.”

Earlier that day, the two of you had been out, and a careless cyclist had slammed into you, sending you onto the concrete. Bl00d had trickled down your scraped knees, yet all you did was chuckle awkwardly and wave it off.

You glanced up at him, brow furrowing slightly. “I told you, Dami. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Yeah, because you can’t feel it!” he shot back, desperation flashing in his dark eyes. “Just because you don’t feel pain doesn’t mean your body’s invincible.”

A tired sigh escaped you. It was always like this — the constant explaining a condition that was part of you but so foreign to everyone else. Congenital insensitivity to pain. You’d lived with it your whole life, and to you, it was as normal as breathing.

“I know it worries you,” you said quietly. “But it’s not like I’m trying to be reckless. I’m careful, I promise.”

Damiano's shoulders sagged slightly, his frustration giving way to concern. He sat down beside you, his knee brushing against yours. There was a softness in his gaze now, an aching helplessness that made your chest tighten.

“I just—” He sighed, his voice quiter. “I just hate the idea of you getting hurt and not realizing it until it's too late.”