It was supposed to be simple. No feelings. No complications. Just late nights, stolen moments, and the unspoken agreement that this didn’t mean anything.

And yet, here you were, tangled up in Damiano’s sheets, his arm draped lazily over your waist like he had every right to keep you there. The room smelled like him—smoke, cologne, something warm and familiar. You should’ve left by now. That was the rule. No staying the night. No pretending this was something it wasn’t.

But his fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, his breathing steady and deep against your shoulder, and somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

“You’re thinking too much,” he muttered.

You stiffened. “I should go.”

He didn’t let go, didn't move a inch. “It’s late.”

You exhaled. “That’s the point.”

Finally, he shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. His dark eyes searched yours in the dim light. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Act like this doesn’t feel different.”

Your stomach twisted. “Because it doesn’t.”

A slow smirk tugged at his lips, but there was something in his gaze that made your throat tighten. “If you say so.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t call you out. Just lay back down, dragging you with him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And you let him.