The sunlight was already creeping through the curtains when Damiano finally stirred, his hair a complete mess and his voice still rough with sleep. He let out a quiet groan, rolling onto his side — and then froze.

“Ow— what the heII…” he muttered, hand reaching behind his back.

You peeked up from under the sheets, voice still soft and a little hoarse. “What?”

He shot you a look over his shoulder, half amused, half incredulous. “My back feels like I wrestled a tiger.”*

That earned a sleepy laugh from you. “Maybe you did. You were pretty dramatic last night.”

He squinted at you, trying not to smile. “Dramatic? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

You hid your grin behind the pillow. “You’re fine, rockstar. Don’t be so sensitive.”

He turned fully now, the corners of his mouth lifting into that lazy smirk that always gave him away. “Sensitive, huh? You should keep your nails shorter next time, amore."

You gave him a look, playful but warm. “You’re not complaining though?”

Damiano grinned, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Never said I was.”