The first time Damiano saw you, he swore the world slowed down. You were standing at the edge of a dimly lit rooftop bar, laughing into the night as you exhaled a soft cloud of smoke.

“I saw her in the rightest way…” he murmured to himself, watching you, completely unaware of how deep he was already sinking.

That night, you’d ended up tangled in each other. You weren’t just another pretty girl at a party. You were trouble wrapped in poetry. He was addicted.

From that moment on, whenever he didn't have contact with you, he preferred to sleep so he could see you in his dreams, because he hated waiting so long.

Now, weeks later, you were lying on his bed, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts. He sat beside you, fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh as you hit your vape, laughing when the mist made you cough.

“Looking like Anne Hathaway," he teased, smirking as he stole the pen from your fingers. “Laughing while she hit her pen and coughed, and coughed.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging him with your knee and teasingly biting his fingers. “Shut up.”

He didn’t. Instead, he leaned in, tilting his head as he studied you. His voice dropped, something softer now, more sincere. “You know, I don’t believe in God…” His knuckles grazed your cheek, his touch featherlight. “…but I believe that you're my savior.”

You blinked, caught off guard for the first time since you’d met him. “Damiano—”

He didn’t let you finish. His lips brushed against yours, barely a kiss, more of a whisper. “Won’t you kiss me on the mouth and love me like a sailor?”

Your breath hitched. You weren’t used to this side of him—the one that wasn’t just reckless hands and teasing grins, but something deeper. Something real.

“Is that what you want?” you murmured, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“That, and more.” His lips ghosted down to your neck, voice muffled against your skin. “And when you get a taste, can you tell me, what's my flavor?”