Damiano, besides being secretly in love with you for several years, has always been very observant, especially when it comes to you. So when you stumbled into his apartment that night, your eyes a little too glazed, laugh a little too loud, he caught on faster than you expected.

“You good?” he asked, his dark eyes lingereing on you.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you replied, waving your hand. “Just... long day.”

But you saw the way his jaw tensed, the way his gaze flicked to your fingers, still shaking slightly. Damiano knew you like the back of his hand, like a favorite song played on repeat. And right now, you were off-key.

“Hey,” he murmured, stepping closer. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, Dio, just... chill, alright?” you snapped back.

His brows furrowed..

“Don’t lie to me,” he pressed softly. “I’m not stupId.”

And suddenly, it was too much — the weight of his eyes, the quiet worry. The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

“I just... I need it sometimes, okay? To... feel better. To not feel.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Damiano's eyes widened just a fraction before softening, something breaking in them. He didn't yell, didn't lecture — he just stepped forward and pulled you into his arms, holding you like you were something fragile.

“Hey,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. “You don't need that shlt. Not when you've got me, alright?”