The apartment was quiet in that specific, late-night way. You were curled up on the couch with headphones on, knees pulled to your chest, phone resting loosely in your hand. His new album, Funny little Dreams, had been playing on loop longer than you wanted to admit.

Damiano’s voice filled your ears. Songs you recognized pieces of him in. Songs you recognized pieces of you in, too.

You didn’t notice the tears until one slipped down your cheek and landed on the sleeve of your hoodie.

"You’re gonna ruin the fabric like that," Damiano said gently from the doorway.

You startled, pulling one side of the headphones off. "You scared me."

"Sorry," he replied, not sounding sorry at all. He crossed the room slowly, careful, like he didn’t want to break the moment. "You’ve been quiet for a while."

You shrugged, wiping your cheek with your thumb. "Just listening."

He sat down beside you, close enough that your knees brushed his thigh. He glanced at your phone screen — the track still playing — then back at your face.

"I keep thinking about how much of you is in this," you said after a moment. "All the things you don’t usually say out loud."

"That’s why I was scared to release it," he said quietly.

You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder. He immediately adjusted, arm sliding around you without thinking, fingers warm and steady against your arm.

"You’re allowed to be seen," you murmured.

He huffed out a soft breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "You always say that."

"Because you never believe it."

He was quiet for a moment, then tilted his head so his temple rested against yours.

"And you?" he asked. "You okay?"