The gym smelled like rubber mats and determination. You were sitting on the edge of a bench, playing with the hem of your hoodie, the scale in front of you feeling like the enemy. Damiano stood a few feet away, adjusting the weight plates on a barbell, his hair pulled back, tattoos peeking out beneath his tank top.

"Come on," he said gently, voice calm but firm. "You promised — one time. Just step on. No judgment."

You sighed, already regretting agreeing, but stepped onto the 𝗌𝖼 𝖺𝗅𝖾 anyway. You crossed your arms and looked away, suddenly wishing you’d stayed home.

"Okay," Damiano said quietly, reading it, then looking up at you. "Got it. Thanks."

You braced yourself for something — a critique, a sigh, pity — but he didn’t give you any of that. Instead, he walked over to the dumbbells, picked up two, and started loading a barbell with double your wei ght.

"Damiano, what are you—"

He didn’t answer. He slid the bar into position, got under it, and started to lift. Slowly at first, then steadier as he pressed it up, breathing controlled, muscles working, eyes locked on yours.

"This," he grunted between reps, "is how much you 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍."

He pressed it again. And again. And again.

He dropped the bar into its rack, breathing hard, wiping sweat from his forehead with a towel. Then he stepped up to you, softening.

"You think you're too much? I just carried twice you without blinking. You’re not heavy. You're strong as fvck."

You looked at him, eyes stinging, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

"And even if you were heavier," he added gently, "it wouldn’t change a thing. Not to me."