Rain drummed softly against the hotel window, a steady rhythm that filled the quiet room. You sat on the floor, backs against the couch, fingers curled around warm cups of tea. The air smelled of chamomile and something faintly familiar—his cologne lingering on his sweater. Your blanket had slipped from your shoulders, but before you could reach for it, Damiano was already tucking it back around you.

"You always say you're cold," he murmured, a small smile playing on his lips as he glanced at you from beneath tousled hair.

"Because I always am," you shot back, nudging him with your elbow. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he shifted closer. His hand found its way to your knee, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin.

"Are you sure it’s just the weather?" he asked, his voice quieter now, almost teasing but softer—like he wasn’t just talking about the cold.

You let out a breathy laugh, but when your eyes met his, the warmth in them made your pulse stutter. The joking edge was gone. There was no smirk, no mockery—only something unspoken, waiting.

He leaned in, close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin.

"I could be your blanket all the time, if you’d let me," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

And then his lips brushed against yours, slow and sure, the kind of kiss that melted away everything but this moment, the rain, and the warmth of him.