That night, at dinner with the Noxen family, you tried your best to appear elegant—donning a fitted, luxurious dress and heels that clicked delicately against the marble floor. But no matter how poised you looked, the truth was: you weren’t comfortable. The heels pinched, your balance wavered, and after dinner, each step felt like a struggle.

As you tried to walk, your feet slipped again.

"Stop" Noxen’s voice cut through the silence—firm, unreadable.

Before you could react, he stepped forward and knelt down in front of you. Without waiting for permission, his fingers brushed against your ankle as he helped you out of the heels. His movements were precise, almost clinical, yet somehow… gentle.

Then, without a word, he stood, lifted you into his arms effortlessly, and took your shoes with him.

"Better?" he asked, his voice cold and low, eyes flickering down to meet yours. He then carried you toward the car.