It wasn’t that you didn’t want to speak. The words were there, always lingering on the tip of your tongue, but when the moment came, they just—stayed. Stuck somewhere deep in your chest, refusing to come out.

Damiano never pushed. He never got frustrated when your lips parted but no sound followed. He listened in ways most people didn’t—picking up on the way your fingers curled when you were anxious, the way your eyes flickered when you wanted to say something but couldn’t.

Now, in the dim glow of his bedroom, he sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It never was with him.

His hand found yours, warm and steady, fingers brushing over your knuckles before lacing together. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, thumb grazing the inside of your wrist. “I hear you anyway.”

Your chest ached in the best way possible. You squeezed his hand once—thank you.