Love was supposed to feel safe.

Damiano had never given you a reason to fear him. His hands had only ever touched you with reverence, his voice had never risen in anger. And yet, when he reached for you—too fast, too sudden—you flinched.

It was barely noticeable. A split second. But he saw it.

He froze, hand still hovering in the air between you, fingers curled slightly as if unsure whether to move closer or retreat entirely. The air in the room shifted, thickening like a storm waiting to break.

“What was that?” His voice was quiet, careful, as if he was afraid of the answer.

You forced a laugh, shaking your head, but it didn’t reach your eyes. "Nothing, I just—"

"Don’t." His tone was different now—firm, edged with something raw. "Don't lie to me."

The silence between you stretched, heavy and unrelenting. His dark eyes, usually so full of fire, were searching now, desperate to understand something you weren’t sure you could give him.

And then, the realization settled in.

His jaw tightened. A muscle in his cheek twitched. Anger flickered in his expression, but it wasn’t directed at you. No, this was something else. A quiet, simmering rage at the ghosts that clung to your skin, the past that left you with reflexes you couldn’t control.

"I would never—" He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Who hurt you?"

Your breath caught in your throat.

There it was. The question you never wanted him to ask. The moment that will change everything.