The night had gone too quiet. The aftertaste of laughter still lingered in the room, but somehow, the silence that followed was heavier than any words you could’ve said.

Damiano was sitting at the edge of the couch, arms resting lazily over his knees, head tilted back to watch you with those unreadable eyes of his.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, hands wringing the hem of your oversized sweater, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low, casual.

You nodded too fast.

Then you shook your head.

"I need to tell you something," you blurted out before you could lose your nerve.

He straightened slightly, sensing the change in the air. You could see it — the way his muscles tensed subtly under the fabric of his shirt, the way his thumb started tapping nervously against his thigh. Waiting. Listening. Always patient with you.

You sucked in a breath.

"I... I think I’m in love with you," you whispered.

It was almost pathetic how your voice cracked at the end.

"No, not think. I am. I— I’ve been in love with you for a long time."

For a second, he didn’t move.

The weight of the confession hung between you.

"Shlt," he exhaled, raking a hand through his messy hair, standing up.

Your stomach twisted.

"I’m sorry," you rushed, already taking a step back. "Forget it, okay? Forget I said anything—"

But Damiano crossed the distance between you in two long strides, grabbing your wrists gently but firmly, anchoring you to him.

His forehead pressed against yours, and you could feel his breath, shaky and uneven.

"You have no fvcking idea," he whispered, voice rough with something you didn’t dare hope for. "How long I've been waiting for you to say that."