Everyone always said the same thing.

They said it with raised eyebrows, with half-smiles, with that tone that meant they were trying to be polite while clearly not understanding it at all.

You and Damiano didn’t make sense on paper.

You were soft where he was sharp. Quiet mornings, early nights, playlists full of gentle songs. You liked routines, warm drinks, staying in. He thrived in chaos — loud rooms, late hours, cigarette smoke and noise, always moving.

And yet.

You were sitting on the kitchen counter in his apartment, legs swinging slightly as you stirred sugar into your coffee. Damiano leaned against the doorway, already dressed in black, rings on his fingers, boots by the door, watching you like this was the calm before a storm he didn’t want to miss.**

“Someone actually asked me today how I ‘put up with you.’”

He laughed under his breath, crossing the room to stand between your knees. “And what did you say?”

“That you’re not something to put up with,” you replied. “You’re just… loud.”

His grin softened.

“They asked me the same thing,” he admitted. “How someone like you ends up with someone like me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“I told them opposites attract,” he said. “Then I told them to mind their business.”

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, the contrast between his rough rings and gentle touch impossible to miss.

“You calm me down,” he said quietly. “You make everything better.”