The zipper wouldn’t go up.

“Just hold still,” Damiano muttered, his fingers grazing the small of your back as he fumbled with the delicate fabric. His rings were cold against your skin, and you hated how your body still reacted to his touch — even now. Even here.

Especially here.

“It’s a bad fit,” you said quietly, avoiding the mirror. “I can’t breathe.”

“It’s not the dress,” he replied before he could stop himself.

You turned your head slightly, catching his reflection behind you. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but you knew him too well. You’d seen those eyes tired, angry, drunk, soft. This was none of those. This was something he was trying to bury.

“Say it,” you whispered.

He looked down. Then back up.

“It should’ve been me.”

The silence after those words felt heavier than the gown draped on your body.

Your throat tightened. “You don’t get to say that. Not now.”

He stepped closer, the lace of the dress brushing against his jeans. “I didn’t fight for you. I thought… if I stayed quiet, you’d be okay. You’d learn to love him.”

“I won’t.”

Your voice cracked.

“I won’t love him, Dami.”

And that broke something in him.

His hands slipped around your waist, lips brushing the bare skin between your shoulder blades — not quite a kiss, but almost.

“Then run,” he breathed. “Run now and never look back.”