The automatic doors slid open slower than you remembered. Maybe it was just you.

Fresh air hit your lungs like a punch — too real, too loud, too... alive. Your duffle bag hung heavy off one shoulder, half-empty, smelling faintly of antiseptic and washed-out memories.

And there he was.

Leaning against his black car, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed into his curls like he’d been pacing before he saw you. He hadn’t noticed you yet. Or maybe he had, and was just giving you space to breathe. Typical Damiano.

Your shoes crunched softly on the gravel, a sound sharper than it should’ve been.

He looked up.

The moment your eyes met, something cracked open in your chest. You saw it in him too — a flicker of pain, relief, guilt, love — all tangled together in a heartbeat.

"Your hair is shorter," he said quietly, pushing off the car and walking toward you like you might run. Like he wouldn’t chase you if you did.

"You grew yours out." Your voice was steadier than expected.

He gave a soft smile, small and careful. His hand twitched by his side, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to reach for you yet.

"I wasn’t sure if you'd want me here," he admitted.

You looked down, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. "I wasn’t sure either."

Silence fell, but you didn’t step back when he took a slow step forward. Didn’t flinch when he gently tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. His touch was feather-light, hesitant, like you were something breakable.

"You can come home with me," he whispered. "Or we can go somewhere else. Anywhere. You don’t have to decide today. Just... let me be here."

You didn’t speak. Just let the silence set between you until it softened.

And then — barely audible — you said, "I missed you."

His breath hitched.

"I missed you," he said, like it was a confession.