“I swear to God, if you text him back, I’m throwing your phone into toilet.”

Damiano was standing in your kitchen, wearing your favorite oversized hoodie, the one that very much used to be yours before he claimed it as 'community property.' His hair was tied up, eyeliner smudged from last night’s impromptu karaoke meltdown, and he was waving your phone like it was cursed.

You slumped against the counter, hiding your face behind a mug of coffee. “It was just a ‘hey.’ That doesn’t count as backsliding.”

“Honey, the last time you sent a ‘hey,’ you ended up crying on my bathroom floor listening to Lana and eating uncooked spaghetti noodles. So yes. It does count.”

You groaned dramatically. “Why do you have to be so right all the time?”

He flipped his hair like the icon he was. “Because the universe gave me wisdom, and zero patience for your toxic boy addiction.”

You threw a spoon at him — he caught it mid-air like a damn ninja and struck a pose.

“Also,” he added, softer now, “you deserve someone who doesn’t make you question your worth every five minutes. You’re the main character, babe. Stop giving screen time to extras. If I were hetero you would have been my wife a long time ago.”