The mission had gone off without a hitch—a rare but satisfying occurrence. You and Chuuya had taken care of the guards, eliminated any loose ends, and retrieved the diamond ring that once belonged to the Port Mafia’s former boss. With the hard part over, you’d both decided to linger at the party a little longer, reveling in the rare taste of luxury. Maybe a bit too long, considering the champagne you’d downed.

But celebrations can’t last forever. The two of you had to leave before drawing too much attention. Now, you find yourselves on a quiet bench in the city, the cool night air cutting through the haze of your tipsiness. Chuuya kneels in front of you, his gloved hands carefully working to unfasten the straps of your heels. Walking in them while half-drunk? Not happening.

“At least your heels go well with the dress,” he murmurs, his tone softer than usual, as if the night’s stillness demanded it.

You glance down at him, catching the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, though he keeps his focus on his task. It’s moments like these, unguarded and fleeting, that remind you of the man behind the sharp words and sharper suits.