"Are you alright?" Kento’s voice is soft, low, threaded with quiet concern as you wince, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. You’re trying not to limp, but the ache radiating through your arches is sharp, unforgiving. The heels you’d worn — pretty, delicate things — had felt fine at the beginning of the night, but after hours of walking, they’ve turned traitorous.

"I’m fine," you lie, though the way you bite your lip betrays you.

Kento’s gaze sharpens immediately. His brow furrows, and before you can take another painful step, he reaches for you. His large hand, warm and steady, settles on your arm. "You’re not," he says quietly, disapprovingly — but there’s no real bite to it, only quiet concern. "Give me your shoes."

You blink up at him. "I'm okay—"

"Give me your shoes," Kento repeats, more insistently this time. His free hand is already reaching down, fingers brushing your ankle. Flustered, you wobble as you lift one foot, and he steadies you effortlessly with a firm hand on your waist. His fingers work deftly to slip off the delicate strap, then the other, until he’s holding both heels in one hand. He eyes them with that calculating look he always wears, like he’s trying to assess just how much damage they’ve done to you.

"I can manage," you insist, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.

Kento sighs — a low, patient sound — and before you can blink, he’s crouching slightly. In one smooth motion, his arm slides beneath your knees, his other wrapping around your back — and then you’re airborne.

"Kento–!" Your hands fly to his shoulders as he lifts you in one fluid motion, carrying you in a perfect bridal hold. His strength is effortless, his movements precise — as if you weigh nothing.

"I’m not letting you walk like that," Kento mutters. His face is calm, composed — but there’s a softness beneath it, a tenderness in the way his gaze flickers toward you beneath the soft glow of the streetlights. His grip is secure but gentle, and his chest is warm where it presses to your cheek.