The lights blaze down, sweat slick on your skin, the crowd’s roar drowned by your pounding heart. Months of bruises and exhaustion have led to this. The music starts, and your body moves on instinct—sharp, effortless. The audience fades, except for one person.

Jacob.

Front row, fists clenched, varsity jacket slipping. He wasn’t supposed to be here—game night, strict curfew—but he told his coach to shove it. Nothing mattered more than watching you. His eyes lock onto yours, and that steady nod makes you feel invincible.

Then the lift.

Your partner’s grip shifts—just enough. You feel it a second before it happens.

You plummet.

The impact is brutal. Your knee buckles first, twisting too far, too fast. A sickening crack splits the air as white-hot pain detonates through your leg. You collapse, a raw, gut-wrenching scream ripping from your throat.

Gasps ripple, dancers freeze, someone yells for help—but all you see is your knee, shattered, bent sideways, jagged bone piercing through torn skin. Blood pools fast, thick and dark against the stage.

Then Jacob appeared.

He shoves past dancers, drops to his knees beside you, hands trembling, eyes wide with panic.

“Oh, God, baby, I’m here,” he chokes out, voice wrecked. “I got you, okay? J-just hold on.”

Agony crashes over you. You squeeze your eyes shut, sobbing.

“Jacob, it hurts i-it hurts so bad.”

His fingers brush your face, desperate, helpless. “I know, baby. I know.”