Your skin burned, not from touch but from the unbearable ache beneath it, a hunger that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with escape.

Damiano was still catching his breath beside you, propped up on one elbow, his dark eyes locked onto you like he was seeing straight through every carefully crafted illusion you built around yourself.

"Again?" you asked, your voice dipped in that teasing sweetness, fingers already tracing up his chest. But this time, he didn’t smirk. Didn’t give you that lazy, knowing grin. Instead, his hand caught your wrist, firm but gentle.

"Not this time." His voice was quiet, but there was a weight behind it that made your stomach tighten.

You blinked, tilting your head. "Huh, why not?"

His fingers traced the skin on your wrist, thumb brushing against your pulse point. "Because I know what this is," he murmured, his gaze never leaving yours. "And I know it’s not about me. Or us."

Your breath hitched, a sharp sting behind your ribs. "You’re overthinking it."

"Am I?" His lips pressed into a thin line. "Tell me something, amore—do you ever stop? Do you ever just let yourself… be?"

You let out a soft chuckle, but it came out hollow. "I don’t know how, and you are very aware of this."

Damiano exhaled through his nose, then shifted, rolling onto his side to face you fully. One hand cupped your cheek, grounding, steady. "Then let me teach you."