The apartment was quiet in that late-night way — lights dimmed, the city outside half asleep. Damiano had been sprawled on the couch, phone resting against his thigh, when he heard the door.

He looked up immediately.

You stood in the doorway, shoes slightly crooked, jacket half-zipped, hair smelling faintly like cheap perfume and something else he recognized a little too well. Your eyes were glassy, unfocused, your balance a second behind your intentions.

Damiano straightened.

“…What time is it?” he asked slowly.

You smiled, wide and unguarded. “Hi.”

*That smile alone told him everything.

He was on his feet in a second, crossing the room.

“Have you been drinking?” he asked, quieter now.

You shrugged. Too casual. “Just a little. Everyone else was.”

His jaw tightened. Not angry — worried. Protective. Something sharp and instinctive flared in his chest.

“How little is ‘a little’?” he asked.

You tilted your head, thinking too hard. “I don’t know. Two? Maybe three?”

Damiano exhaled through his nose and gently took your jacket from your shoulders, guiding you inside with a hand at your back.

“Okay,” he said. “Come sit.”

“I’m not drunk,” you protested, wobbling slightly as you walked.

“Yeah, sure.” He muttered.

He sat you down on the couch, crouching in front of you so you had to look at him. His expression softened the moment your eyes met — younger sister, still trying to figure out the world, still safe enough to come home.

“Did anyone pressure you?” he asked.

“No,” you said quickly. “I wanted to try. I didn’t want to be boring.”

“You don’t have to do stuff like that to belong,” he said. “Not now. Not ever.”

You frowned, suddenly emotional. “You drink.”

“I’m older,” he replied. “And I make bad decisions professionally.”

That earned a small laugh from you.

He stood, disappearing into the kitchen, then came back with a glass of water.

“Drink,” he said. “Slowly.”