People always stared when you walked into the room.

Maybe it was the eyeliner. Or the black velvet. Or the way you didn’t care if they stared at all. You moved like you belonged somewhere else entirely — a funeral, maybe. Or a dream. Always silent, always deliberate.

But tonight, they weren’t just looking at you.

They were looking at you two.

Damiano had his arm slung lazily around your waist as you stood by the bar. You, in your corset top and fishnets, hair in black waves, lipstick so dark it could’ve passed for bruised blood. Him — loud, golden, laughing too easily, brushing your waist with his thumb like he didn’t even notice he was doing it.

The contrast? Blinding.

People whispered. Of course they did. The rockstar and the goth girl. The chaos and the calm. The flame and the shadow.

He leaned down, brushing his mouth against your ear.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he murmured. “Staring at everyone like you know how they’re gonna die.”

You smiled slightly, not looking at him. “I do.”

He let out a low laugh. “God, I love you.”

You turned your head slowly, finally meeting his gaze — he was already watching you like he always did: like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re wearing my necklace,” he noticed suddenly, his voice softer now.

You touched the chain around your throat — his old silver one, the one with the chipped charm. “It matches my soul.”

He snorted. “You mean your closet.”

“Same thing.”

He turned, placing both hands on your hips now, pulling you closer. “Do you know how insane it drives me when you dress like that and then act like I don’t exist?”

Your lips twitched. “I like making you suffer a little.”

He hummed, resting his forehead to yours. “Keep going, then. I deserve it.”