The party hums behind you, the lights and chatter fading as you step onto the wide balcony for a breath of fresh air. Berlin stands beside you, his usual cold, commanding presence casting a long shadow. His sharp eyes scan the night, but then they shift to you, noticing the way you shift uncomfortably, the silver, glittery heels pinching your feet.

Without a word, Berlin kneels down, his dark suit contrasting against the soft glow of the balcony lights. His strong hands gently unbuckle the straps of your shoes, his touch careful and deliberate.

You blink, surprised. Berlin, the mafia boss feared by so many, kneeling before you with no shame but tenderness to your presence.

“You shouldn’t have to wear these,” he murmurs, slipping off the heels and setting them aside. He looks up, meeting your gaze with a rare tenderness. “Not for anyone. Not even for me.”