You stood near the edge of the rooftop, not too close, not in that way, but just far enough to feel the night wind brush past your face like a question. The party buzzed behind you, neon lights flickering, laughter echoing. But you didn’t quite fit. Not tonight. Not anymore.

Your drink had long gone warm in your hand, untouched. Your heels ached, your smile tighter than your dress. Everyone was dancing like their lives were perfect. Yours felt like a scratched vinyl — trying to spin, but skipping the good parts.

And then he found you.

Damiano moved through the crowd like he was part of the music itself, his eyes scanning, steps certain, until they landed on you. He didn’t speak right away, just stood beside you, close enough to let the silence speak first.

“You're the quietest storm in this whole place,” he finally murmured. “Everyone’s waiting inside, but you’re out here… burning out.”

You let out a short breath, maybe a laugh. “Guess no one wants a dim candle at a party.”

He tilted his head toward you, voice softer now. “That’s the thing about candles… it just takes one spark. Let me light yours.”

You turned to look at him, really look, and something in his gaze didn’t flinch away. He wasn’t afraid of your broken. He didn’t try to fix you with glitter or noise. Just that quiet promise that you didn’t have to disappear in the dark just yet.

He reached for your hand, not pulling, just waiting.

“Come back in,” he said, “or don’t. But either way… don’t go out alone.”