You had never told him—not in full. You had never spoken about the nights of hunger, the hand-me-down clothes that never fit, the way your stomach used to twist in shame when you couldn’t afford what the other kids had. You had spent so many years hiding it, burying it, convincing yourself that it was behind you.

And yet, here you were, standing at the counter of your kitchen, methodically wrapping up the leftover pasta from dinner. Not in a container. Not in foil. But in the same plastic bag the bread had come in earlier that week.

Damiano leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed, watching you. His brows furrowed.

“You know we have Tupperware, right?” he asked, tilting his head.

You barely glanced up, too focused on wraping the leftovers. “Mhm.”

He didn’t say anything else right away, just stepped forward and reached for a glass of water. But he kept his eyes on you, observing the small things—how you always saved every scrap of food, no matter how small. How you turned off every single light in a room the second you left it. How you flinched just a little when the cashier rang up groceries, even though you had more than enough to cover it.

How you never, ever wasted anything.

It clicked.

“Baby.” His voice was softer now, careful. You stiffened slightly but didn’t turn around.

“What?”

Damiano set his glass down on the counter, stepping closer. His hands found your waist, his chest pressing against your back. “You don’t have to do that.”

You hesitated. “Do what?”

His fingers traced slow, soothing circles against your hip. “Save every little thing like you won’t get more.”

Something in your chest tightened. You forced out a quiet laugh. “It’s just a habit.”

“You don’t have to do that anymore"