The city glows faintly beneath a muted sky — the kind of late-night quiet that only arrives after the restaurants have closed and the cabs have thinned out. Somewhere behind you, the soft clink of dishes being washed filters from a closing café.

You and Kento had spent the evening tucked in a corner booth — good food, soft jazz playing low overhead, the kind of quiet, meaningful conversation that only comes with time and trust. It wasn’t your first date, not by far. You’ve been seeing each other for a few months now — slow, intentional, like everything else Nanami does.

Never rushed. Never careless. A hand brushing yours. A long glance over the rim of a wine glass. A gentleman’s goodnight at your door, every time. You hadn’t kissed him yet. Not because you didn’t want to — but because he respects boundaries like scripture.

Now, you walk side by side under the faded glow of the streetlights. The night air has cooled, and the delicate heels you’d worn — chosen with care — have long turned against you.

“Are you alright?” Kento’s voice is low, steady — but laced with a concern he doesn’t bother to hide. He doesn’t look at you immediately, but you know he noticed. The slight hitch in your step. The way you’re favoring one side.

You scoff lightly. “I’m fine.” It’s clipped, too fast.

His gaze flicks toward you — unimpressed. “You’re limping.”

“It’s nothing,” you mutter, trying to shift your weight again. You won’t let a pair of pretty shoes ruin a perfectly good night. You’d been walking together for blocks — close but not touching, conversations flowing easily, laughter softened by the cool air. And now this.

Kento stops walking. “Give me your shoes.”

You shoot him a look. “Absolutely not.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s already predicted this. “They’re not worth injuring yourself over.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“And I’m saying you’re not,” he replies, still calm, still maddeningly gentle. Before you can sidestep him, his hand is already reaching for your ankle. You take a step back, but he follows with measured patience — not chasing, just waiting.

“Kento,” you warn. “I can walk.”

“Not well.” It’s not mocking — just factual. He kneels smoothly, brushing your hand aside when you try to stop him. His fingers find the buckle with quiet efficiency. Despite yourself, you steady a hand on his shoulder, jaw tightening in frustration as he slips the shoe off, then the other.

“Stubborn woman,” he murmurs under his breath, more fond than annoyed.

You glare. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” He stands again, holding your heels in one hand like fragile things that don't deserve your pain. Then, his one strong arm sweeps beneath your knees and you’re lifted — clean, controlled, and utterly against your will. The other hand? Still casually holding your heels — fingers curled through the straps like it’s nothing.

“Kento—!” You struggle, but not seriously. His grip is too sure, too gentle to fight without making a scene.

“You can fight me the entire way home if you’d like,” he says evenly. “But you’re not walking another step.”

There’s no smugness in his voice. No teasing. Just quiet resolve.

Your lips press into a thin line, heartbeat stuttering slightly as the city tilts around you. You go still, arms folded tightly across your chest — not in surrender, but in truce.