He wasn’t supposed to come home early.

You’d just assumed he’d be in the studio until midnight, same as always, headphones on, cigarette hanging from his lips, scribbling lyrics in that messy little notebook of his.

You didn’t even hear the front door. Just the sound of keys hitting the hardwood floor, followed by a quiet, frozen “What the fvck…”

Your blood ran cold.

Damiano stood in the hallway, eyes scanning the table. The small, clear bag. The half-empty bottle of whiskey. The lighter. The trembling glass in your hand. It took him a second to blink. And when he did, it was like the world shifted.

“Whose is that?” You didn’t answer. Couldn't. He stepped closer, slow, careful, like he was afraid to startle you. Or maybe afraid of what he already knew.

"Tell me it’s not yours.” The silence stretched between you, your throat felt dry.

"I… I was gonna stop. I was... it's not mine..?” You muttered, trying to form a sentence.

His jaw clenched, hands balling into fists at his sides. But it wasn’t anger that rose in his chest. It was something far worse — heartbreak, fear.

“For how long?” He let out a shaky breath, stepping back, dragging a hand through his hair. “And why didn’t you tell me?”

You felt the tears burn instantly. Shame hit you in waves, so thick you could barely breathe.

“Because I didn’t want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now.”

He was quiet. Too quiet. And then, so softly you almost didn’t hear it. “I would’ve done anything to help you.”