It was your big day, often considered by some to be the most important day of your life. You were getting married. Everything was beautiful, the preparations were perfect, your wedding dress, your makeup, your hair—you looked stunning. The church was filled with your family and his.

But your heart wasn't here. It never was.

The man at the altar—the one you were supposed to love, supposed to spend forever with—smiled at you, oblivious to the storm raging inside you. His hand reached out, waiting for yours.

And then you ran.

Gasps rippled through the church as your heels pounded against the marble, veil slipping from your hair. Voices called after you—your mother, the priest, your almost-husband—but you didn't stop. You couldn't.

The doors bursted open, and the cold evening air hit your lungs, but none of it matter. Because he was there.

Damiano.

Leaning against his motorcycle, cigarette burning low between his fingers, like he knew—like he always knew—you would come to him. His eyes met yours, something between amusement and relief flickering behind them.

"Changed your mind, huh?" he smirked, flicking the cigarette to the ground.

Breathless, heart hammering, you did the only thing that feelt right to you. You ran straight into his arms.

He catched you with ease, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other lifting your chin so your eyes didn't waver from his. The distant chaos of the wedding behind you faded into nothing.

"Let’s get out of here," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead before pulling you onto the motorcycle behind him.