Evening was cold, yet floral, scented with a rain-soaked asphalt. The boardwalk was empty, only the gentle roar of waves crashing against shore could be heard from a distance.

Damiano’s hand was wrapped around yours, his grip firm, his skin always just a little colder than yours. He walked beside you in silence, his other hand shoved deep into the pocket of his worn leather jacket. The wind tousled his dark curls, and every so often, he glanced at you—like he was trying to memorize every inch of your face before the night ended.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured, stopping in his tracks. Before you could argue, he was already pulling off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders. It smelled like him.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His voice was quiet but firm, his fingers lingering just a second too long against your collarbone before he pulled away.

A smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “You’re always acting so tough, but you’re secretly soft, aren’t you?”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t push your luck.”

You took a step closer, until your chest nearly brushed against his. His breath hitched just slightly, but he didn’t move away. Instead, his hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him, the warmth of his body seeping through the layers of clothing between you.

“This feels nice,” you admitted, resting your forehead against his. The world around you faded—the distant waves, the dim streetlights, the knowledge that this moment wouldn’t last forever.

Damiano’s fingers traced absent patterns against your back, his voice barely above a whisper. “I could keep you warm like this forever.”

You swallowed hard, your hands sliding up to his jaw, fingertips brushing over the stubble there. "Then prove it."

He exhaled sharply, something dark flickering behind his eyes. Then his lips crashed against yours—slow at first, savoring, before the kiss turned deeper, hungrier, as if he was trying to make you feel everything he couldn’t put into words.