For a long moment, neither of them moved. The room felt suspended in time, as if even the lights and the air refused to shift until Damiano said something—anything. Aaliyah wiped her cheeks with trembling fingers, her heart pounding so loud she could barely hear her own breath. She waited for his voice, for the panic, for the denial, for every reaction she had feared. But instead… Damiano exhaled shakily, lowering his gaze for a moment before lifting it again with a softness she didn't expect.
"Aaliyah…" he began, voice low, almost tender. "I need to tell you something too."
Her stomach dropped. "What… what do you mean?"
Damiano stepped closer—not hesitantly, not awkwardly, but with the certainty of someone who already knew the truth before it was spoken. His eyes scanned her face carefully, as if memorizing every detail. And then, with a quiet breath, he said it:
"I already knew."
Aaliyah's lips parted in shock. She blinked, almost convinced she misheard him. "You… what?"
"I knew," he repeated softly. "Not right away. But I noticed things. Little things." He gently touched a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear with a familiarity that made her chest ache. "The way you'd get dizzy some mornings. How you were more tired than usual. How you stopped drinking coffee. How protective you became of your stomach even before you realized it."
Aaliyah felt her knees weaken. Her voice cracked when she whispered, "Damiano… why didn't you say anything?"
He swallowed hard, his eyes burning with emotion—fear, love, guilt, devotion—everything at once. "Because I wanted you to tell me when you felt safe. When you were ready." His thumb brushed her cheek again, softer this time. "I didn't want to push you. I didn't want you to feel trapped or cornered. I wanted you to choose me—choose us—on your own."
The tears returned instantly, but this time they weren't from fear. They were from relief, from the weight lifting off her shoulders, from the aching realization that she hadn't been carrying this alone—not really.
Damiano took her hands gently, lifting them to his chest. His heartbeat was fast, almost frantic, but steady underneath. "I was scared too," he admitted, voice trembling. "I still am. But I'm not running away. Not from you. Not from this." His hands slid down to her waist, pulling her closer, grounding her. "I'm here, Aaliyah. I'm not going anywhere."
She leaned into him fully, letting his warmth settle the storm inside her. For the first time in weeks, the fear loosened its grip. Damiano held her tightly, one hand resting protectively over her stomach—as if acknowledging the future they hadn't planned, but were now facing together.
In the silence that followed, there was no panic, no denial—only the fragile beginnings of something real, raw, and terrifyingly beautiful. A connection deeper than anything they had ever admitted. And as he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, Aaliyah knew that whatever happened next, they were no longer alone in it.
Not anymore.
Not ever again.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The room felt suspended in time, as if even the lights and the air refused to shift until Damiano said something—anything. Aaliyah wiped her cheeks with trembling fingers, her heart pounding so loud she could barely hear her own breath. She waited for his voice, for the panic, for the denial, for every reaction she had feared. But instead… Damiano exhaled shakily, lowering his gaze for a moment before lifting it again with a softness she didn't expect.
"Aaliyah…" he began, voice low, almost tender. "I need to tell you something too."
Her stomach dropped. "What… what do you mean?"
Damiano stepped closer—not hesitantly, not awkwardly, but with the certainty of someone who already knew the truth before it was spoken. His eyes scanned her face carefully, as if memorizing every detail. And then, with a quiet breath, he said it:
"I already knew."
Aaliyah's lips parted in shock. She blinked, almost convinced she misheard him. "You… what?"
"I knew," he repeated softly. "Not right away. But I noticed things. Little things." He gently touched a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear with a familiarity that made her chest ache. "The way you'd get dizzy some mornings. How you were more tired than usual. How you stopped drinking coffee. How protective you became of your stomach even before you realized it."
Aaliyah felt her knees weaken. Her voice cracked when she whispered, "Damiano… why didn't you say anything?"
He swallowed hard, his eyes burning with emotion—fear, love, guilt, devotion—everything at once. "Because I wanted you to tell me when you felt safe. When you were ready." His thumb brushed her cheek again, softer this time. "I didn't want to push you. I didn't want you to feel trapped or cornered. I wanted you to choose me—choose us—on your own."
The tears returned instantly, but this time they weren't from fear. They were from relief, from the weight lifting off her shoulders, from the aching realization that she hadn't been carrying this alone—not really.
Damiano took her hands gently, lifting them to his chest. His heartbeat was fast, almost frantic, but steady underneath. "I was scared too," he admitted, voice trembling. "I still am. But I'm not running away. Not from you. Not from this." His hands slid down to her waist, pulling her closer, grounding her. "I'm here, Aaliyah. I'm not going anywhere."
She leaned into him fully, letting his warmth settle the storm inside her. For the first time in weeks, the fear loosened its grip. Damiano held her tightly, one hand resting protectively over her stomach—as if acknowledging the future they hadn't planned, but were now facing together.
In the silence that followed, there was no panic, no denial—only the fragile beginnings of something real, raw, and terrifyingly beautiful. A connection deeper than anything they had ever admitted. And as he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, Aaliyah knew that whatever happened next, they were no longer alone in it.
Not anymore.
Not ever again.