Your head was pounding.

The kind of pounding that made you regret every shot, every reckless laugh, every loud song from the night before. You groaned into the pillow, not even bothering to open your eyes.

“You alive in there?”

The voice came from the kitchen. Warm, familiar, and already too smug.

“Barely,” you croaked.

“Good. I brought coffee. And shame.”

You cracked one eye open. Damiano was standing in the doorway with two mugs, wearing those same plaid pants he always stole from you, hair a complete mess, rings still on his fingers like he’d never actually gone to bed.

“You’re a demon,” you muttered, sitting up slowly.

He smirked, handing you the mug. “You said some wild shIt last night. Want me to remind you?”

“No. God, no.”

He leaned against the wall, sipping his coffee like a movie character. You hated how cool he looked at 9 a.m. with hangover breath and smeared eyeliner.

“You cried over a TikTok of a raccoon,” he added casually.

“It was holding a sandwich,” you said back. “You have no soul.”

He laughed, and it was that full-body kind of laugh, the one that made your chest loosen even when your world felt like it was tilting sideways.

*You stared at him for a second too long."

Not because you were in love with him. You weren’t. Right?

He caught your look and raised a brow. “What?”