(might be triggering for people with emetophobia)

You gripped the edge of the sink, your eyes squeezed shut as another wave of nausea hit you. Your whole body felt drained. The sickness had been hitting you at all hours—morning, noon, the middle of the night.

You didn’t hear him come in, but suddenly, Damiano was there.

"Again?" His voice was soft, you could hear the concern beneath it.

You barely nodded before another dry heave forced you forward. His hands were on you in seconds—one rubbing slow, steady circles against your back, the other brushing damp hair away from your sweaty face.

"It’s okay, amore," he murmured. "You're so strong."

You let out a shaky exhale, resting your forehead against your arm.

"I hate this." Your voice was weak, barely above a whisper. "I can’t even eat without—"

"I know." His fingers traced lightly down your spine before he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. "But you’re not alone in this, okay? We’ve got this. Together."