You were diagnosed when you were seventeen. You remembered the sterile hospital lights, the way everything shifted in a single day — the needles, the math, the constant background noise of what if. Now, seven years later, it was just part of your life. Still messy. Still unpredictable. But yours.

And Damiano had never treated you like you were sick.

You were curled up on his couch now, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, chewing absentmindedly on a straw from your juice box. The good kind — the one he always made sure to keep in the fridge. Just in case.

He came in from the kitchen, holding a small bag of gummy bears. “Found these in your coat pocket. Half-melted.”

You shrugged. “Emergency stash.”

He tossed them onto your lap and sat next to you, one leg tucked under the other. “You check today?”

“Yeah. Kinda. I forgot at lunch. Felt it dip during rehearsal.”

He looked at you. Not annoyed. Not worried. Just… present. “You okay now?”

You nodded. “Juice helps.”

There was a quiet pause, then he leaned in, pressing his forehead to your temple. “You scare me when you go quiet like that.”

“I’m fine,” you whispered.

“I know.” He exhaled, his hand resting lightly on your thigh. “Still wish I could fight it for you.”

You smiled faintly, turning to kiss his cheek. “You carry candy snacks in every single one of your jackets. You’re already fighting.”

He laughed under his breath, warm and tired. “True.”

You leaned into him, the rhythm of his breathing grounding you. You didn’t talk about it every day. You didn’t need to. He understood. He kept an eye on you. Checked your sugar when your hands shook too much. Never made you feel like a burden.

It wasn’t always perfect. You weren’t always careful. But he was there. And that made all the difference.