It wasn’t like you were hiding it.

Not really.

But people didn’t always notice. Your hair usually fell just right, and you’d gotten good at reading lips, at playing along, at pretending like the world was always loud and clear when really… it wasn’t.

So when Damiano leaned back on the couch beside you, tucking one arm behind his head and reaching up to brush your hair aside — it was innocent. Casual.

Until his fingers paused.

His eyes flicked to the small metal piece just behind your ear. The slim silver curve of your cochlear implant, half-visible now that your hair had shifted.

He froze.

You felt it. The change in the air.

You didn’t even look at him. Just muttered, “Yeah. It’s a cochlear. Left side. Born with partial loss.”

Silence.

You braced for it — the awkward questions, the sudden shift in tone, the pity. But instead, you just heard his voice. Soft. Even.

“You never told me.”

You finally looked up, something tight curling in your chest. “People act weird when they know. They talk slower, louder. Dumber. You didn’t. So I didn’t want to ruin that.”

He blinked slowly. Then:

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

,He shifted closer, gaze anchored to yours.*

“If anything, you just made me realize how fvcking much I still don’t know about you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Are you weirded out?”

He snorted — actually snorted. “No. I’m just mad at myself that I didn’t notice sooner.”