You apologized when someone stepped on your foot. You held the door for six people in a row and said “no worries” when the last one didn’t even look at you. And now you were standing there with lukewarm coffee you didn’t order, because the barista made a mistake and you were too scared to correct her.

Damiano had been watching all of this from across the small café. Elbows on the table, rings clinking against his mug, he raised one brow as you finally sat back down with a sheepish shrug and someone else’s soy latte.

“Sweetheart,” he muttered, leaning in slightly. “You do know you’re allowed to say that something is wrong, right?”

You blinked at him. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“That’s not the point,” he said, tone dry but eyes warm. “You don't have to be that kind.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d called you out for saying sorry too often, or for letting people walk all over you. It wasn’t cruelty. If anything, it felt like… concern. Like someone finally saw how tired your smile was.

“I just don’t want to cause a scene,”* you mumbled, tracing the edge of your cup.*

Damiano leaned closer, tapping a finger against your forehead. “There’s a difference between being kind and being afraid to exist. And you? You deserve better than to keep shrinking.”