Damiano had noticed it long ago, but he had never wanted to push it. The way you never laughed without covering your mouth, the way you meticulously fixed your makeup, even when you already looked perfect. The way you nervously played with your sleeves whenever you wore something even a little more revealing. The way your fingers automatically moved to your cleavage, as if you wanted to cover yourself, as if you felt you were showing too much.

Today was no different.

You were wearing a dress you had bought a long time ago but you never had the courage to wear. It was beautiful and it fit you perfectly. And yet you stood in front of the mirror, frowning, moving the material as if yout were trying to stretch it.

"What's wrong?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

"Nothing," you replied quickly, although your hands said otherwise. "It's just... I don't think it's for me."

Damiano frowned. "Why?"

"I don't know," you said, looking away.

He didn’t buy it. He stepped closer, standing just behind you so you two could look at each other in the mirror.

“You look at yourself like some goddamn sketch, not a finished masterpiece,” he said quietly.

You glanced at him uncertainly.

Damiano lifted a hand, gently pushing your fingers away from your cleavage. “You have nothing to cover up.”

“But—”

“No,” he interrupted, firmly but softly. “There are no ‘buts.’”

He brought a hand up to your face, ran his thumb gently over the line of your jaw. “You don’t have to fix anything. Or hide anything. Or change anything.”

You stared at him in the mirror, as if you wanted to believe him, but something still held you back.

He sighed quietly and stepped back to give you some space. “I won’t tell you how to feel,” he admitted. “But I will tell you you’re beautiful until you finally get it.”