At first, you thought he was just tired. The way his eyes kept darting around the room, how he kept rubbing at them like he was trying to blink something away. You shifted closer on the couch, brushing your fingers lightly over his arm.

"Hey," you said softly, "you good?"

Damiano didn’t answer at first. His jaw was tense, breathing uneven, eyes locked on something you couldn’t see—something across the room, something inside his own head. His whole body had gone rigid under your touch.

"They're here," he muttered under his breath, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it.

"Who’s here?" you asked, your heart hammering a little faster now. You tried to keep your voice calm, steady. "There's no one here, Dami. It’s just us."

He shook his head violently, gripping the edge of the couch like he was grounding himself. His nails dug into the fabric. "I see them. I swear to God, I see them—" his voice broke, raw and panicked in a way you had never heard before.

You slid in front of him, dropping to your knees so you could meet his eyes, even if they were wide and unfocused.

"Look at me," you whispered, taking his face gently between your hands. "Damiano. Look at me, baby. I'm real. I'm right here."

For a terrifying second, he didn’t. He just stared through you, trembling. And then, finally, his gaze locked onto yours, and some part of him seemed to come back.

"Breathe with me," you said, your forehead resting against his. You matched your breathing to his, slow and deep, over and over until you felt his muscles start to relax, the tremor in his hands easing just slightly.

His arms wrapped around you, clinging like you were the only solid thing left in his world. His voice was hoarse against your neck.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "I'm sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me."