It had started as a habit you barely noticed.

A fingertip grazing your cheek in the mirror. A tiny imperfection that felt impossible to ignore. One more touch, then another — until your skin burned slightly and you pulled your hand away, already regretting it.

Damiano noticed the aftermath before he ever saw the act.

You were sitting on the bed, knees pulled to your chest, hair falling forward like a shield. The bathroom light behind you was still on, mirror still uncovered — a mistake. He crossed the room, then stopped when he saw your face tilt away from him.

“Hey,” he said gently. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you replied too fast.

He didn’t buy it.

He stepped closer, crouching so he was at eye level, his voice softer now. “Look at me.”

You hesitated, then did — and immediately looked down again.

“That bad?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed. “I can’t stop touching my skin. Every time I tell myself I won’t, I still do. And then I feel disgusting because I did it again.”

He reached out slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. When you didn’t, his thumb brushed your jaw — careful, barely there.

“You’re not disgusting,” he said. “You’re anxious.”

You let out a humorless breath. “My face doesn’t look like that, though. Everyone else has perfect skin and I just—” You gestured vaguely. “I ruin mine.”

Damiano shook his head slightly. “No. You’re trying to control something when your head feels too loud. That’s not ruining yourself. That’s coping.”