The roar of engines mixed with the smell of fuel and dust was his world. Every night, when the spotlight hit the metal sphere, he rode inside it like lightning caged in steel. To the crowd, he was fearless. To her, he was just the boy who always asked for a kiss before stepping into danger.

She was the trapezist, the one who made the audience hold their breath with every flight across the tent. Her sequins caught the lights like stars. From above, she watched him pull his helmet on, the faintest grin still visible underneath.

Before every show, they met in the shadows behind the curtains. The world buzzing outside, the ringmaster shouting, the drums rolling, but all they felt was the quiet between them.

“Good luck,” she whispered, pressing her lips quickly against his cheek.

He tapped his helmet against her forehead in return. “Don’t fall tonight.”

“I never do,” she teased, though her eyes softened, because she worried about him far more than herself.

The kiss was their ritual. To the others, just superstition. To them, it was armor.

When he sped inside the Globe of Death, the crowd erupted. Girls screamed his name, waving, daring to be noticed. And when she soared high above the ring, the boys in the front row leaned forward, dazzled by her daring smile.

Neither of them cared. They had each other, and that was louder than applause.

Her family had been born into this world—grandparents, parents, cousins, all trapezists, acrobats, tightrope walkers. The circus was in her blood.

But him? He had no family left. He never told the full story, only pieces: nights alone, streets that didn’t remember his name, a house he left behind forever. The circus had found him broken and restless. He stayed because it gave him speed, light, a reason to keep breathing. And then, it gave him her.

Sometimes, after the crowd left, she would swing gently from her trapeze while he leaned against his bike, helmet off, hair damp from the heat of the ride.

“Do you ever regret it?” she asked once, her voice floating down from above.

“Regret what?”

“Choosing this life.”

He looked up at her, shadows cutting across his face. “I didn’t choose it. It chose me. The only thing I chose was you.”

Her fingers curled tighter around the rope, heart stumbling in her chest. She knew he meant it.

The tent at night was theirs. Sawdust on the floor, posters peeling from the walls, the smell of metal and chalk still clinging to the air. His bike rested silent, her trapeze swayed faintly overhead, and between them stretched a quiet understanding.

He feared nothing inside the Globe. She feared nothing in the air. But both feared what life would be without these moments in the dark.

When he reached for her hand, rough with calluses from handlebars, she let him hold it. Their palms fit together awkwardly, perfectly, as though the universe had rehearsed it for them.

The circus would always belong to the audience in the evening. But after the show, when the stars were hidden behind the canvas roof, it belonged to them.

And every kiss before the curtain rose wasn’t just luck. It was a promise.