You two hadn’t spoken in hours—not in the car, not when you stepped onto the red carpet, not as cameras flashed and people called your names.

You were still pissed, so, in an act of pure, stubborn defiance, you had worn the heels. The most uncomfortable, foot-crushing pair you owned. If Damiano wanted to piss you off, then fine—you’d suffer in silence before you ever let him think you cared.

Except now, you were suffering. Every step felt like walking on glass, and he noticed.

Damiano had been walking a few steps ahead, keeping his distance. But when he glanced over—saw the way you hesitated, the slight wince when you shifted your weight—he stopped.

You tried to straighten up, act like everything was fine, but it was too late. He had already turned toward you, exhaling through his nose like he was about to lecture you.

"Seriously?"

You lifted your chin, stubborn as hell. "What?"

He looked down at your shoes, then back up at you.

"You can barely walk."

You rolled your eyes, taking another step forward just to prove a point—bad idea. You barely managed to bite back a wince, and before you could say anything else, he moved.

One second you were standing, the next—your feet were off the ground.

"Damiano!"

His arms locked around your legs, hoisting you up onto his back in one smooth motion, like it was the easiest thing in the world. The second your hands instinctively clutched at his shoulders, he let out a quiet, amused huff.

"Yeah, I thought so."