It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. One hotel room. One bed. Double booked. The rest of the group already passed out in the next room, and the couch in the corner looked like it had been stolen from a 1970s horror movie set.

"We’re adults," you’d said, brushing past him toward the bathroom. "It’s just sleep."

"Right," he smirked. "And you don’t kick in your sleep at all, I’m sure."

Now it was 3:47 AM. The room was quiet except for the occasional rumble of traffic outside, and the soft rise and fall of his breathing beside you.

You had fallen asleep facing the opposite direction, keeping to your side, as promised. But somewhere between dreaming and shifting and the pull of warmth, your body betrayed you.

Your arm had slipped across his waist. Your forehead rested lightly against his shoulder. Your fingers, curled slightly against the fabric of his shirt.

Damiano woke up as he had always been a light sleeper, but he hadn’t moved. He didn’t push you away. Didn’t stiffen.

And if you’d been awake, you might’ve felt the way his hand brushed against yours under the covers, just barely. Almost like he wanted to hold it but didn’t dare.

You murmured softly something in your sleep, nothing he could understand, and shifted even closer.

And he just lay there, staring at the ceiling with a heart that didn’t know what to do with itself. Because you weren’t his. Not officially.