TW; sick kid, vom-t mention. (𝐝𝐚𝐝!𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐨) it was being the worst night ever for damiano. having his five year old kid with fever, nausea and bellyache was definitely not the plans he had for a friday night.

his "papa bear mode" as his friends call it, was more than activated. he had more than clear he wasn't getting any sleep today, but he'd never complain for it.

you had just thrown up, again. he sat on the bathroom floor with you, holding back your hair gently and kissing your forehead afterward. he wouldn’t flinch at gross stuff. he’d clean it up without making a face. "it’s okay, tesoro… papa’s here." he keeps mumbling.

you're in his arms, head on his chest, curled into his tattoos, wrapped in his hoodie that still smells like his cologne. “you’re still cuter than me with the flu. unfair.” he softly says, trying to lift the mood a bit but you just curl more into him.