“You again?” Your words were spoken with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile, before Damiano had even closed the studio door behind him. He smelled of incense and light smoke—the same scent he always had when he dropped by with a sudden need for an "image change."

“Missed me?” he asked, pushing his sunglasses down his nose and lazily glancing around the familiar space. His gaze lingereing on you.

“A second thought?” you sighed dramatically, leaning your elbow on the counter. “You said you’d stop after the septum, and your first nostril.”

“Yeah, well. I lied.” His voice was calm, with that familiar note of nonchalance and flirtatious warmth. It was as if the whole world slowed down when he looked into your eyes.

You took his form without question. He knew where to sit, how to position himself, even which side of his face to turn. You had the feeling he hadn't just come for the jewelry.

“You trust me with your face again?” you asked, putting on your gloves.

“I trust you with worse,” he replied softly, closing his eyes as you disinfected his skin. “Besides… you always make it feel like therapy.”