The door slammed harder than you meant it to.

You dropped your bag in the hallway, kicked off your shoes, and stormed into the kitchen with that practiced kind of fury, the one you knew meant nothing and everything at once. Your hoodie was soaked from the rain, your mascara slightly smudged, and your voice caught in your throat the second you realized you weren’t alone.

Damiano was leaning against the counter, barefoot, black nail polish chipped, a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a half-empty mug of coffee in his hand. His eyebrow lifted lazily as he looked at you.

“Bad day?”

You didn’t answer.

Just opened the fridge, grabbed a soda, and tried not to cry when it hissed open too loud.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head, voice brittle. “No. I’m fine.”

He didn’t buy it. He never did.

He watched you for a beat, then set down his mug and crossed the kitchen. You didn’t even hear him move until you felt his arm wrap around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. He smelled like leather and smoke and some cologne you could never place, only knew as him.

“If anyone said some shIt to you again, I’ll break their jaw.”

That almost made you laugh. Almost.

“It’s not that,” you muttered, leaning into him despite yourself. “I just… I feel like I don’t fit anywhere. Not at school, not with people. Like I’m just pretending to be a person half the time.”

Damiano didn’t flinch. He held you tighter.

“Owh, baby, that's okay, you're okay. It's valid to feel this.”

You looked up at him, blinking fast.

“You ever felt like that?”

He smirked, tapping your forehead lightly. “Why do you think I started screaming into microphones for a living?”

You laughed, really laughed this time, and he grinned, ruffling your wet hair.

“You’re weird,” you mumbled.

“Takes one to know one, bae.” He paused. “But you’re my best, smartest little sister. And anyone who doesn’t get how brilliant you are can go fvck themselves.”