Damiano stood in the doorway of your bedroom, his heart sinking at the sight in front of him. Clothes were on the floor, empty bottles were on the nightstand, and the curtains were closed so no light came in. And you—curled up in the same hoodie you’d been wearing for days, your eyes barely flickering toward him when he stepped closer.

“Babe,” he murmured, kneeling beside the bed. You didn’t answer. You just blinked slowly, as if even that was too much effort.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He hated this. Hated seeing you like this, knowing there was no quick fix, no perfect words to pull you out. But he wasn’t leaving. Not today. Not ever.

Without a word, he stood up and started cleaning your room. Tossing laundry into the hamper. Gathering the bottles. Wiping down your desk. The sound of movement filled the silence, and for a moment, he wondered if you’d protest. Tell him to stop. But you didn’t.

He glanced back at you. You hadn’t moved, but your eyes were following him now, something distant yet soft in your gaze.

“Come on,” he said, voice gentle but firm. “Let’s get you up.”

You groaned in protest, but he was already pulling back the covers, his hands warm as they found yours. He didn’t rush you, just gave a slight tug—an invitation, not a demand. And somehow, with an exhausted sigh, you let him.

He led you to the bathroom, sitting you on the edge of the tub before rolling up his sleeves. Turning on the faucet, he tested the water with his fingers, making sure it was just right before looking back at you.

“You trust me?” he asked softly.

You nodded, too drained to speak. Carefully, he guided your head under the warm stream, his fingers threading through your hair, massaging shampoo into your scalp. His touch was slow, patient, grounding.

“Mhm, just like this, there you are,” he murmured, gently washing your hair.