The hospital room was quiet—too quiet for someone like Damiano. The kind of silence that hummed with machinery and distant footsteps, antiseptic and time blending into something blurry and heavy. You sat in the chair beside his bed, your hands wrapped around his, waiting for him to stir.

He was pale today—more than usual—and the dark circles beneath his eyes were deep, no matter how much he slept. The nurses had been gentle, and the doctors careful in the way they explained things, using words like chronic and manageable and flare-up, but that didn’t make watching him any easier.

"Hey," he murmured suddenly, voice low but warm as his fingers squeezed yours, small and intentional. His eyes opened, hazy but focused on you. "Didn’t think you’d still be here."

"Where else would I be?" you answered softly, offering him a careful smile. There were days when that answer was light and teasing—today it was quiet, honest. You brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. "Besides, someone has to make sure you’re behaving."

He let out a breathy laugh—soft and weak, but still undeniably him. "Pretty sure I’m winning the patient-of-the-month award. Didn’t even complain about the needles today."

"I know, baby. I'm so proud of you." You leaned in closer, and he shifted slightly, making room for you. Even now, even here, he still tried to take care of you, even when his body was betraying him day after day.

"Seriously though," he said, voice quieter now, eyes flicking to yours, "you don’t have to be here all the time. I know it’s—"

"Don’t finish that sentence," you interrupted gently. "I want to be here."

He sighed, emotion flickering across his face, something raw and beautiful that only came out when it was just the two of you, when he wasn’t trying to be the strong one anymore. You squeezed his hand again, thumb brushing over the back of it, as steady as your breath.

"Okay," he whispered. And then, quieter: "Thank you."