(𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝!𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐨) when the concept "boyfriend" was invented, if it ever was, and by however it was– it was definitely based on damiano. in your life you haven't had many romantic relationships but god, you wish you've met this man before.

he takes pictures of you when you’re not looking, because he loves the way you exist in the world, buys you flowers for no reason, not just on anniversaries or birthdays. even learned how you like your coffee, tea, or wine and always gets it right. he fixes things around you—zippers, tangled necklaces, a broken chair—without being asked, never forgets to kiss you goodnight, even if he’s exhausted. holds you close in his sleep, makes sure you feel safe at concerts, parties, and crowded streets, takes interest in your hobbies, even if he doesn’t fully understand them. can notice your moods before you say a word. he whispers things in your ear in public that only you can hear, making you smile when no one else knows why. he surprises you with small, thoughtful gifts that show he pays attention. he never forgets your milestones, even the tiny ones. he looks at you like you’re magic, even when you’re doing something ordinary, keeps your secrets like treasures, never to be shared.

you love knitting, the kind of slow, patient hobby damiano never thought he’d care about. at first, he teased you about it but always stayed close, watching the way your hands moved with the yarn. one night, when your yarn got tangled and you sighed in frustration, he quietly asked you to show him how to do a stitch. he fumbled, swore under his breath, but didn’t give up.

later, you found a small, uneven scarf on the couch—clearly his work. he acted like it was no big deal, brushing it off with a grin, but he wore it everywhere, even to rehearsals. when people and fans asked about it, he’d proudly say, "my girl taught me."

you walk into the living room after having a shower and spot him sitting leg crossed on the sofa, all immersed in his very own little creation, working and learning his 1×1 rib stitch.

"madonna..." he mutters to himself, battling against his own fingers. "pezzo di merda..." he undoes a couple of stitches.

you smile at the sight of him and go sit on the coffee table, in front of him. "another scarf? or what is it this time?"