(might be triggering)

You sat on the cold, graffitied bench of a rundown bus shelter, arms wrapped around yourself, your clothes damp from the rain. The streets were mostly empty, just the occasional car speeding by, splashing through puddles.

You hadn't expected to see him — not here, not tonight. But Damiano had a way of appearing just when you least expected, a chaotic force of nature wrapped in leather and smudged eyeliner. He stopped abruptly when he saw you, the flicker of surprise quickly masked by a wry smirk.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite runaway,” he chuckled, shaking out his damp hair. “What are you doing out here alone, huh?”

Your eyes dropped to your scuffed shoes, fingers fiddling with the hem of your jacket. “Needed some air,” you muttered.

He didn’t push, just let out a huff of breath before sitting down beside you on the bench. He lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his handsome face.

“You always end up here when things get heavy,” he said, exhaling smoke into the rain-dampened air. “Like this shitty shelter’s gonna keep you safe or something.”

You didn’t respond. The truth sat too heavy on your tongue — the way this old, broken-down spot felt like a hiding place.

He glanced at you, his gaze softer now. The rain had slowed, just a soft drizzle against the shelter’s roof. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders, the leather warm and worn, smelling faintly of smoke and cologne.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured, his voice low, almost tender. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”