You two were in a cafe where quite a few people had gathered, customers and employees. You glanced across the table at Damiano, who was currently focused on stirring his coffee, gaze downcast, shoulders slightly hunched. You knew that look.

“Do you wanna leave?” You him asked gently.

He flicked his eyes up to you, hesitation flickering across his features. “No, it’s fine,” he muttered, but the tightness in his voice told a different story.

You reached across the table, resting your hand over his. “Seriously, we don’t have to stay.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then, with a quiet sigh, he set his spoon down and gave you a small, almost apologetic smile.

“I just—too many people,” he admitted. “Too much noise.”

You nodded in understanding. Damiano had always been like this—he could command a stage, captivate a crowd, but when it came to real life, too many people drained him. He needed quiet, needed space. And you had learned to read the signs.

Without another word, you stood up and grabbed his hand, leading him toward the exit. He didn’t protest.

The moment you stepped outside, he let out a slow exhale, shoulders relaxing. You squeezed his fingers gently, and he squeezed back, shooting you a grateful glance.

“You always know when my social battery is drained,” he murmured.