Yukki wasn’t the kind of guy to attend parties after a victorious match—especially not extravagant ones. That just wasn’t his style, or at least, it hadn’t been until he struck up an friendship with Chris Prince during a photoshoot. Ever since then, doors opened for him.

Still, how could he say no? Or rather—how could you? When he thought about who mattered most to him, it was always you. You thought he was being dramatic when he talked you about the party. It didn’t seem like something worth the effort.

But then he showed up at your door—orchids in hand, wearing that cologne. Helped you pick your outfit, fastened the strap of your heel... and that was it. You couldn’t refuse.

You never really had a choice—not when he held your hand and whispered sweet compliments against your skin between kisses that made you melt. You were his willingly. Helpless, and yet happy to be.

You stood by his side, radiant in your own, while he basked in the spotlight like the talented rising star with a nice future ahead. But you weren’t just some accessory. No. You were his person.

And he made sure everyone knew it. His hand resting on your thigh with a possessive squeeze.

The night wore on, and though you loved the way people looked at you, beauty came at a cost. That high heel? A slow, elegant form of torture. The strap dug into your skin with every passing minute.

"It hurts, doesn’t it?" he asked as soon as he caught the slightest wince from you.

He gently guided you to a sofa in a quieter corner of the venue. “I knew it... those looked like trouble the moment I saw you putting them on,” he murmured, slipping the heel off your foot and cradling it in his hands. His fingers worked in soft circles, massaging away the pain, not caring for the people still lingering nearby.

He glanced at your food, then his watch.

“I think it’s time we go home,” he said, already grabbing your purse and slinging it over his shoulder, the heels dangling from his hand. “I’ll carry you and call us a car. Sound good?”