You told yourself it wouldn’t happen again. Not this time. Not after the last fight, not after the last empty apology, not after the way he made you feel like you were losing your mind. And yet, here you were.

Damiano leaned against the doorway, watching you with that unreadable expression—the one that shifted from warmth to coldness in an instant. The one that made you question whether he adored you or just enjoyed the power of making you think he did.

“Are we really doing this again?” His voice was calm, too calm. Like he wasn’t the reason your chest felt tight, like he didn’t just unravel you and stitch you back together however he pleased.

You swallowed hard, your arms crossed over your chest. “You lied to me.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a smirk. “And you’re being dramatic.”

Your nails dug into your palms. “You keep twisting things, making me feel like I’m the crazy one—”

His laugh was low, condescending. “Because you are, tesoro.” He stepped closer. "Always so emotional, so reactive. You take everything so personally.”

Your breath hitched. It always went like this—he did something wrong, you called him out, and suddenly, somehow, you were the problem.

“I don’t—”

“You do,” he interrupted smoothly, tilting his head. “And you know what the worst part is? You like it.” His fingers ghosted over your jaw, his touch deceptively gentle. “You like the chaos, the push and pull. You like me.”

You should’ve pushed him away. Should’ve walked out. But his words were a tangled web, and you were already caught.

“If I were really that bad,” he murmured, voice a breath away, “you wouldn’t still be here.”