"You always do this!" you snapped, your arms crossed tightly over your chest.

Damiano, sitting on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table, barely spared you a glance. "Do what?"

"You left the kitchen light on. Again. How many times do I have to tell you?"

He blinked at you slowly, clearly unfazed. "It’s just a light."

"It’s not just a light, Damiano! It’s about responsibility! About respect! About—"

"Your period."

Your mouth snapped shut. "Excuse me?"

He exhaled through his nose, setting his phone down. "You’ve been picking fights with me over literally everything today. The dishes, the TV remote, now the damn kitchen light. And you started crying when we ran out of Nutella this morning. You’re hormonal as hell."

You glared at him, fists clenched at your sides. "Oh, so now I’m just some irrational, emotional mess? That’s what you’re saying?"

He didn’t even flinch. "No, I’m saying that you’re on your period, and I don’t actually care about this argument because in ten minutes you’ll be cuddling me and telling me you love me."

You gasped, outraged, but before you could launch into another tirade, he reached over, grabbed the blanket from the armrest, and tossed it at you.

"Now come here and let me hold you before you start crying again."

You huffed, pouting like a child. "You’re an ass."

"And yet, you’re still walking over here."

You hated how right he was. But when his arms wrapped around you and his hand started rubbing soothing circles on your back, you decided you could let this one slide.