The morning felt peaceful, filled with the quiet sounds of eggs sizzling in the pan and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. You were just preparing a nutritious breakfast for you and your boyfriend.

“Damiano?” You glanced over your shoulder with a small smile. He was right there, leaning against the counter, his fingers gripping the edge. “Coffee’s ready. You want—”

Your words cut off. Something was wrong. His posture wavered, his grip slipping, and before you could reach him, his knees buckled.

“Damiano!”

The plate in your hand crashed onto the tiles as you lunged forward, but it was too late—he was already laying on the kitchen's floor. You dropped beside him, your hands immediately cupping his face.

He was too pale. Disturbingly light in your arms.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” you murmured, brushing stray strands of hair from his forehead.

His lashes fluttered, his breath uneven as he slowly blinked up at you.

“Shlt…” he mumbled weakly, trying to sit up. “I’m—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, firm but gentle. “Don’t say you’re fine.”

Damiano exhaled sharply, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple. You could feel the tension in his body, the quiet war behind his eyes. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want you to see. But you had seen.

A moment of silence stretched between you two before he let out a small, almost bitter chuckle.

“I guess I really can’t bullshlt my way out of this one, huh?”