The shouting crawls up the staircase like wildfire, each word your mother was angry.

Then the bedroom door slams open and he’s there — Damiano, drenched from the rain, a storm in his eyes. “You okay?”

You try to answer but the words choke. He doesn’t wait for more; he steps past you, his shoulder brushing yours as he moves toward the hallway. “Stay here,” he says, quick and fierce. “Don’t come down.”

You clutch at the newness of him — the way his presence makes your chest stop wobbling — as the two of you descend together. At the first step, your mother’s voice sounds through the air again. “Who do you think you are, bringing men into my house—”

Damiano doesn’t tolerate it. He crosses the threshold into the living room like a man walking into a battlefield, the room shrinking around him. For a second he’s quiet, just looking at her; the silence presses so hard you can hear your own heart. “Say that again,” he says, low and dangerous.

Your mother spins, eyes wild with the authority she’s always wielded like a weapon. Her mouth opens to fling more poison, but he speaks faster, sharper than she expects. “You call her names, you tear her down, you pretend it makes you stronger. It doesn’t. It makes you small.”

She scoffs, the sound brittle; anger and entitlement braided together. “She’s my daughter. I have the right to—”

“Right?” Damiano laughs, but it’s not humor. “There’s no right to break someone’s soul. Not yours, not anyone’s.”

He steps closer until the space between them is electric. You stand frozen at the top of the stairs, watching the tipping point of everything you’ve been carrying. Your mother’s face flushes red, fingers curled, but Damiano doesn’t flinch.

“You listen to me.” His voice tilts, softening only for you. “You will not touch her like that. Not in my presence.”