You’d made it halfway through the shopping trip before the shoes turned against you.

At first, it was just a small pinch—a little tightness at the back of your heel. Manageable. But by the third store and fifth window display, it had escalated into full-blown betrayal. Every step felt like walking on knives dipped in regret.

But Satoru?

Oh, he was thriving.

Sunglasses on, hands full of unnecessary bags (because of course he insisted on carrying everything), humming cheerfully as he pointed out the most ridiculous shirts and loudly declared “this one’s so you!” to every glittery mess on a hanger.

You tried to push through.

You really did.

But then he noticed.

You took one slow, careful step—and his head snapped around like a hawk catching movement.

“Whoa, whoa. Hold up, Cinderella,” he said, suddenly beside you. “You’re limping.”