The waiting room was too clean. Too quiet. Your fingers twitched in your lap, thumbs chasing each other in a nervous loop as the ticking clock above the door reminded you of every second you still had time to back out.

"You okay?" Damiano’s voice was soft, almost careful. He sat beside you, legs spread, leather jacket slung over one knee, sunglasses now tucked into the collar of his shirt. You didn’t answer right away.

"I feel stupid," you murmured eventually.

His brows furrowed. "For what?"

"For needing this. For not being able to just... deal with it like everyone else."

Damiano leaned back slightly, then reached over, threading his fingers with yours. "You think everyone else is dealing with it? Baby, have you met people?" He cracked a small smile. You didn’t.

"It just feels like admitting I’m... broken."

"You’re not broken." He turned fully to face you now. "And even if you were, so what? You’d still be mine."

The receptionist called your name.

Your breath hitched.

"Do you want me to come in with you?"