The gala is over. Your dress is still hugging you perfectly, your hair’s slightly looser now, makeup smudged just enough to look effortless. Kenan’s in all black — tailored suit, sleeves rolled up from the afterparty, the watch you once teased him about glinting under the streetlights.
He’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh. Soft music plays in the background, but mostly, it’s quiet. Comfortable.
Kenan (without looking at you): “Why do you always have to look that good? It’s genuinely disrespectful.”
You smirk, stretching your legs out.
You: “I exist. You suffer. That’s our dynamic.”
Kenan: “And yet I’d suffer again. Gladly. Forever.”
⸻
He parks in the private underground garage of your shared two-floor flat. Before you can even touch the door handle—
Kenan: “Don’t.”
He rushes around the car and opens your door for you like you’re made of gold. He holds his hand out. You raise a brow.
You: “Trying to win boyfriend points?”
Kenan (softly): “Not trying. Already did.”
You take his hand and step out — your legs a little sore from the heels.
⸻
The elevator ride is quiet, his arm around your waist, your head leaning into him. You’re tired, but not too tired to notice how he’s watching you. Protectively. Lovingly.
You get to the flat. The door clicks open.
Before you can kick your heels off—
Kenan (kneeling): “Let me.”
You freeze. He’s on his knees, gently unclasping your heels like it’s an honor.
Kenan (smiling up at you): “You wear the crown, I’ll do the work.”
You sit on the couch, silent, watching him as he takes each shoe off with care and rubs your ankle lightly.