(might be triggering)

Cancer was unfortunately hereditary in your family, you always had it in the back of your mind that you could get sick, but you didn't expect to be diagnosed during a regular check-up at the doctor's while Damiano was rehearsing in the music studio.

You returned to your apartment, barely holding back tears, seeing Damiano sitting on the couch in the living room.

“Amore—” Damiano immediately stood up and walked towards you, sensing that something was very wrong. His warm hands cupped your face. “What’s going on?” His voice was so soft.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. How the hell were you supposed to say it?

Damiano shook his head, as if refusing to let silence be your answer. “Talk to me, amore. Please.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you exhaled a shaky breath. “I'm sick,” you whispered. “It's... it's cancer.”

His face didn’t change at first—just a slow blink, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly. Then, a sharp inhale, a flicker of something breaking behind his eyes.

“No,” he said, as if the word alone could undo it.

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “I don't think it works like that.”

His jaw clenched. “Then we fight.” His voice was rough now, determined, desperate. “We do whatever it takes. Whatever you need. I’m not—” His breath hitched, and he pressed his forehead against yours. “I'm not losing you.”

Your hands curled into his hoodie, trying to ground yourself. “I don't want you to be scared,” you murmured.

Damiano let out a broken sound—half laugh, half sat—as he pulled you into his arms.

“Tough luck, amore. I already am.”