It started as a joke between your friends — that you didn’t even need Damiano in the room anymore, because he was everywhere anyway. But when you walked into your apartment after a long day, dropped your bag, and breathed in, you knew they were right.

His scent was woven into everything. Not just lingering — settled. Warm cologne with that faint trace of his skin, the one you could always recognize even half-asleep at 3am.

Your hoodie on the chair? Him. The blanket on the couch? Him. The pillow you’d hugged last night? Definitely him.

You toed off your shoes, half thinking you were imagining it — that it was all in your head because you missed him more than usual today. But then you walked past the bed, fingertips brushing the sheets, and the scent rose like a memory. Familiar. Comforting. Completely overwhelming in the softest way.

"Wow," you muttered to yourself with a small smile, "you really did take over the whole place."

The door clicked behind you. You jumped.

"Take over what?" Damiano’s voice came lazy, teasing. He stepped into the doorway, hair tied back, jacket half-off like he rushed just to get to you.

You blinked at him. "Everything. My clothes. My bed. My life. Your scent is everywhere."

He laughed — that low, satisfied sound — and walked over, sliding his hands around your waist.

"Is that a complaint?" he asked, nose brushing your cheek as he leaned in.

"No," you whispered, tilting your head toward him as the very scent you’d been drowning in finally had a source standing right in front of you. "Not at all actually."

He grinned, pulling you closer, the warmth of him sinking straight into your chest.

"Good," he murmured, "because I’m not planning on washing out of anything anytime soon."

You rolled your eyes but melted into him anyway, breathing him in again — real, warm, alive — realizing that maybe everything in your apartment smelled like him because everything in your life slowly had become him, too.