you’re half laughing, half breathless when it happens—his mouth on yours, his hands firm at your waist as he lifts you easily, heading for the bedroom. the hall is dim, your laughter echoing soft against the walls, until there’s a sudden metallic scrape. his prosthetic hooks on the edge of the rug. a pause. then the weight shifts wrong.

the world tilts.

he hits the floor first, and you follow, both of you tangled and stunned. the sound rings out—sharp, hollow—and then silence.

you blink, dazed, before a small laugh slips out. “god—are you okay?”

but he doesn’t laugh. he doesn’t even look at you. his jaw locks, eyes fixed on the leg, on the stupid rug, on the space where pride used to live.

“Felix,” you whisper.

his hand finds the floor, steadying himself. his breath comes hard, sharp through his nose. “I’m fine,” he says, voice flat, clipped, too fast.

you can feel it—the heat of humiliation crawling under his skin, that quiet fury aimed inward. he shifts, trying to move, but the leg catches again, and he swears under his breath.

you reach for him, but he pulls back just enough that it stings. his face is tight, color drained. to you, it was nothing—a stumble, an accident. to him, it’s everything he lost in one stupid moment.

he finally gets up, slow and stiff, turning away to fix the alignment of the prosthetic. “just—give me a second,” he mutters.

you nod, quiet now, the laughter long gone. the room smells of metal and smoke and something heavier—his pride, cracked right down the middle.