My hands went to my shoes immediately. “I can do it myself.”
“You won’t,” he said simply.
“I will.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m offended by how accurate that is.”
That made him exhale through his nose—almost a laugh again.
His fingers gently touched my shoe.
And I froze.
“Elena,” he said, softer now, “let me see.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because this is weird.”
“It’s practical.”
“It’s extremely not practical,” I muttered, trying to pull my foot back.
He didn’t even struggle.
Just held it—firm, steady, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You’ve been walking around the entire building,” he said. “In shoes that are clearly too small.”
“They are not too small.”
“They are squeezing your circulation.”
“That sounds dramatic.”
“It’s observable.”
I opened my mouth—
Nothing came o
