The club buzzed the way it always did when they went out together — loud, messy, alive.

Music thumped through the floor, bass settling deep in your chest, lights flashing in colors that made everything feel slightly unreal. The night blurred into movement and laughter almost immediately. You were already dancing before you fully realized it, drink in hand, body loose, carefree in a way that only happened when the right people were around.

Damiano stood close, not hovering, not guarding — just with you. His arm brushed yours as he laughed at something Victoria said, his head thrown back, silver rings catching the light. Thomas and Ethan were arguing animatedly about the DJ, both of them already half gone, while friends crowded around, shouting over the music, pulling each other onto the dance floor.

You leaned into Damiano, grinning. “This was a good idea,” you said.

He glanced down at you, eyes dark and amused. “I know,” he replied. “I’m always right.”

You scoffed, nudging him with your shoulder. “In your dreams.”

Someone shouted your name — a friend waving you over — and you dragged Damiano with you, fingers laced with his as you disappeared into the crowd. The group danced in a messy circle, bodies bumping, hair sticking to sweaty faces, voices off-key but loud and happy.

At one point, Damiano leaned down, mouth close to your ear. “You’re having fun,” he said, like an observation he liked.

You turned your head, lips nearly brushing his. “With you? Always.”

His smile softened for just a second before he kissed you — not slow, not dramatic, just real. Quick and full of heat, like punctuation in the middle of a sentence. Someone whistled. Victoria fake-gagged. You laughed against his mouth.

“Get a room!” she yelled.

Damiano didn’t even look at her. “We have one,” he replied calmly, making you laugh harder.