It started young—learning to read the sharpness in your father’s voice, the shift in his posture, the quiet sighs of disappointment that cut deeper than any shout ever could. You grew up in the shadow of his expectations, twisting yourself into whatever shape would make him proud. It never worked.

And now, you’ve carried it into everything else. Into every glance, every word, every moment that should feel safe but never does.

Into him.

Damiano leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable expression—the one that makes your stomach twist into knots. He’s always been hard to shake, impossible to fool, and yet you still try.

“I said I’m fine,” you snap, too sharp, too fast.

His brow lifts slightly, like he’s unimpressed, like he sees right through you. It only makes the frustration boil hotter under your skin.

“You do that a lot, you know,” his voice calm, infuriatingly steady.

You scowl. “Do what?”

“Act like you don’t care.” He tilts his head, gaze searching.

The words land like a punch to the ribs, knocking the air from your lungs. You look away, jaw clenched, fingers curling into your sleeves.

It’s not like that. It’s not.

Except it is.

Because somewhere along the way, you learned that pushing first means never getting pushed away. That keeping people at arm’s length is easier than risking the same cold indifference you grew up drowning in.

But Damiano doesn’t budge. Doesn’t flinch. He just sighs, running a hand through his curls before stepping closer. Close enough that you can’t pretend he’s not there. Close enough that you can’t escape the warmth of him.

“I’m not him,” he says softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t know how to fight that.