Before the fall, you were untouchable.

The girl with chalk dust in her lungs. The one whose balance beam clips went viral. The one Lando always described as “terrifyingly elegant”—which, coming from a guy who drove 300 km/h for fun, meant something.

But then the landing didn’t land.

And suddenly, you weren’t in training montages anymore. You were in a hospital bed, high on painkillers and blinking at a white ceiling that wouldn’t stop spinning.

Lando got on a flight the second he could. Showed up to the recovery center with no sleep, a wrinkled hoodie, and a bag of snacks you wouldn’t be able to eat for days.

He hovered in the hallway for twenty minutes before someone told you he was there.

When you finally saw him, you laughed—half-delirious—and whispered, “I look disgusting.”

He shook his head, sat down beside you, and kissed the back of your hand. “You look like someone who survived flying off a beam mid-flip. Which is pretty badass, actually.”

You cried later. Not because of the pain, not because of the bruises, but because he was brushing your hair out of your face so gently you almost didn’t feel it.

He stayed the whole week. Sat on the bathroom floor while you tried to shower. Held your hand when the stitches were checked. Bought three extra pillows to prop your leg up just right. Kept the blinds half-closed because the sun made your head hurt.

At night, he helped you change into your pajamas. Not in the sexy way. In the “I’m your person” way.

He never once looked grossed out by the bandages or the swelling. Never rushed you. Never got impatient. Just sat next to you, controller in hand, letting the video game play itself while you drifted off beside him.

And when you couldn’t sleep—because sometimes the fall came back in your dreams—he rubbed slow circles into your arm and said, “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

And you believed him.

Because even if you couldn’t stick the landing this time—he was right there to catch you.