You couldn’t tell what set it off this time. Maybe it was something small, insignificant—something no one else would even notice. A shift in his tone, a look that lasted a second too long, a passing thought that sunk its claws too deep. Whatever it was, it ignited something inside you, something you couldn't control.

And now you were here, pacing the apartment, breath uneven, hands shaking, your mind a storm of too much. Too many thoughts, too many emotions, all crashing into each other, fighting to take control.

"You're overreacting."
"You're too much."
"He's going to leave you."

"Hey, slow down," Damiano's voice cut through, his tone gentle but firm. He had been sitting on the couch when it started, watching you unravel in real time. Now he stood in front of you, not touching, not forcing anything—just there.

"I can't— I can't stop it," your voice cracked, frustration bubbling over into something dangerously close to despair. Your chest was tight, your thoughts spiraling out of reach, and the worst part? You didn’t even know why.

Damiano exhaled softly, rubbing a hand over his face before carefully reaching for your wrist. Not grabbing, not restraining—just trying to ground you.

"You're not too much," he said, and for a second, everything went quiet. "You're just feeling too much. And that's okay."

You shook your head violently, pulling back. "It's not okay! It never is. I can’t think, I can’t—" Your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palms. The urge to do something was overwhelming.

Damiano didn’t flinch. Didn’t sigh in exasperation. He just nodded like he understood—like he had been preparing for this moment.

"Then don’t think," he said simply. "Just listen to me, okay?"

You swallowed hard, barely holding yourself together as he took your hands in his. His thumbs brushed gently over your knuckles, over old scars that told stories you never wanted to repeat.