You shifted slightly on his lap, curling deeper into his chest as his arms tightened instinctively around your waist. The living room was dim, only the soft glow of a lamp in the corner lit the space, painting everything in a lazy, golden haze.

Damiano’s fingertips traced lazy shapes along your spine. You were still getting used to this—being his, being this close without a thousand thoughts crashing into you at once.

Your hand found its way up to his face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone without thinking. And that’s when you noticed it.

Tiny, almost invisible when he smiled or talked. Faint, pale scars at the corners of his mouth. You hadn’t seen them before, not really. Maybe because he always had this chaotic grin that distracted you from looking too closely.

Your fingers hovered there for a second longer than necessary. His eyes, half-lidded from the warmth and closeness, sharpened suddenly. He caught your hand gently in his own, not pulling it away, just... holding it.

"They’re old," he said, his voice low, careful. "From a time I don't talk about much."

You felt your chest tighten, not with pity, because you knew he wouldn’t want that, but with something heavier. Something that made you want to anchor yourself even deeper against him, to promise in a thousand unspoken ways that you weren’t scared off by the pieces of him he kept hidden.

Without saying anything, you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss just at the corner of his mouth, where the faint scar lived. Then another on the other side.

He exhaled shakily, his forehead resting against yours.

"You're not afraid?" he whispered, almost like he didn’t want to hear the answer.