The kitchen smelled like freshly baked focaccia and olive oil — the kind of smell that meant one thing and one thing only: your mom and Damiano’s mom were together again. They’d been inseparable since their own school days, and so had you and Damiano, thrown together at every family gathering, holiday, road trip, and chaotic summer afternoon. It was all you’d ever known. And honestly? You wouldn’t have had it any other way.

You stepped into the living room, expecting the usual clutter — discarded board games, abandoned blankets — only to find Damiano sprawled across the couch, guitar in hand, scribbling something in his notebook with a frown of intense concentration.

"You know," you said, leaning on the doorframe, "I’m pretty sure your head's gonna explode if you keep frowning like that."

He looked up instantly, the grin spreading across his face before he even finished turning around.

"There she is," he teased, sitting up and tossing the notebook aside. "Thought you ran away to join a circus or something."

"Mmh, tempting," you said, flopping down beside him, shoulder pressing into his. "But someone’s gotta keep you grounded."

Damiano bumped his knee against yours — a lazy, familiar gesture — the kind that said more than words ever had to. "And here I was hoping you’d want to float away with me."

Your stomach did that little flip — the same one it’s been doing since sometime last year, when all those years of childhood friendship quietly became something else. Something heavier. Something you hadn’t talked about, but both of you felt in every glance, every stretch of silence that wasn’t really silence at all.

"Okay but seriously," he said, nudging you again, "you’re coming to dinner tonight, right? My mom bought that stupid sparkling water you like."

"You told her you hate it," you pointed out, amused.

"I do. But you don’t," he said with a shrug. "And if she’s gonna insist on feeding me polenta every week, I think I’m allowed to make demands."

You rolled your eyes, pretending your pulse wasn’t picking up. Pretending you weren’t acutely aware of how close his hand was to yours on the couch.

"Fine," you said, voice just a shade too soft. "But you’d better sit next to me."

He didn’t miss the shift in your tone — he never did. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, warm.

"Always do, you know it, princess," he said simply. And somehow, those words held every memory, every soft moment, every hint of something more.