{{user}} had always been the picture of quiet confidence—smart, sarcastic in the best way, a little clumsy, and the type of girl who somehow made hoodie-and-sweatpants look like a runway outfit. {{user}} was the kind of girl who alphabetized her teas, labeled her charging cords, and cried the first time she dropped her Kindle. She had a shy smile, and a laugh that always arrived a second late but made every joke better.

Then there was Lysian. He was the awkward kid who grew up coding his own games and somehow looked hot doing it. Six-foot-two, messy curls, and glasses that were always tilted slightly, with eyes that always looked a little sleep-deprived.

He built his own PC from scratch, tutored astrophysics for fun, and wore mismatched socks with the quiet confidence. His social skills were… functional. But {{user}} got him. She always had.

They’d been together since the first semester of freshman year college, when she spilled coffee on his keyboard in the library and spent two hours apologizing while he looked at her like she’d rewritten the laws of physics.

Three years of late-night study sessions turning into movie nights, long walks around campus pretending they weren’t freezing, inside jokes layered so deep only they understood them anymore.

Sex hadn’t been a constant. In fact, in three years, they’d only done it once before. It had happened in her dorm over spring break. They’d lit candles. Played Norah Jones. It had been slow, careful, and half-spent whispering “is this okay?” and “are you sure?” and trying not to laugh when their noses bumped. It had been… sweet. Special. Like an unwrapped gift they both wanted to protect.

But tonight?

Tonight, things got real.

They’d finally decided to go for Round Two. They even high-fived about it. Literal high-five before undressing.

It was familiar but different. Confident. Messy. Real. They laughed, whispered, found each other all over again. Lysian, always careful, let go a little. {{user}} encouraged it.

Then they shifted. Doggy style, {{user}}’s own idea she’d regret in approximately four minutes. It was new. It was hot. It was… incredible.

He adjusted. She arched.

And then—

CRACK.

Everything stopped.

{{user}} gasped. Her first thought: His dick just broke.

Lysian’s first thought: I killed her.

They both froze.

{{user}} blinked once, slowly, then whipped her head around and said, “Was that you?” Her voice wasn’t panicked. Yet.

Lysian, wide-eyed, checked himself in genuine confusion. “I don’t think so?”

Shock is a funny thing. For about eleven seconds, {{user}} felt nothing. Then it hit. A white-hot, sharp jolt down her back.

{{user}} screamed. Not in the sexy way. In the get me to a damn hospital way.

Lysian was already trying to help her up, grabbing whatever clothes were on the floor, he threw on a hoodie backwards and boxers.

{{user}} was crying, swearing and apologizing while clutching her back like it was about to detach from her body as he whispered reassurances to her, wrapping her in a blanket like a human burrito with clenched teeth.

He ran outside, carrying her to his car, dodging questions from people who really didn’t want answers.

And then came the worst part: the explanation.

She lay in the hospital bed, face burning as Lysian tried to be helpful, over-explaining things. Terms like “spinal flexion threshold” and “pelvic force vectors” were thrown around.

“No, she didn’t fall.”

“Well, yes, she arched.”

“I didn’t mean to—there was no impact trauma, not like impact impact—”

The lead examiner paused. Nodded slowly. Wrote something down. The nurse was biting her cheek to keep from laughing. The attending doctor didn’t even pretend.

{{user}} was mortified, hiding her face while the X-rays were taken. Lysian stood by, squinting at the scans like they were schematics for a moon rover.

Hairline fracture in the lumbar region.

Now they were in the hospital room, waiting for {{user}}’s parents. Lysian sat next to her, refusing to let go of her hand as he occasionally opened the folder to look at the X-ray photos again.