The keys jingled in Damiano’s hand as he turned to look at you, his eyes shining with a mix of disbelief and excitement.

"Pronta?" he asked with a crooked smile. You nodded, barely able to contain your own grin. This wasn’t a tour stop or a rental flat. This was your home. Yours and his. In Italy. Together.

The house wasn’t massive, but it had that rustic Italian charm, sun-washed bricks, olive trees in the yard, shutters you’d already planned to paint blue.

The minute you both walked inside, the chaos began.

“Dami’, where do you want the boxes labeled ‘kitchen’?” his older brother shouted from the van parked in the gravel driveway.

“Inside the kitchen, genius!” Damiano yelled back, before glancing at you and mouthing, “he’s hopeless.”

His mother stepped through the front door next, holding a stack of clean towels. “I brought some extras in case you haven’t unpacked the linens yet,” she said in Italian, giving you a warm smile. “And don’t let him stack the plates, he drops everything.”

“Mamma!” Damiano groaned, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder dramatically. “She’s trying to impress you, not learn how clumsy I am."

You giggled, wrapping your arm around his waist.

Meanwhile, his sister-in-law had already taken over arranging the living room, muttering something about “masculine minimalism” needing a touch of color. His dad wandered in with a bottle of wine and two mismatched glasses, raising his eyebrows at you both like ‘you’ll need this’.

Eventually, in the middle of the mess Damiano pulled you into the backyard and took your hand.

“We really did this,” he murmured. “Our first home.”