The crowd had been louder than usual tonight, and the adrenaline had pushed you through the entire act. Cards, coins, sleights of hand—you were nailing every move.

Until you weren’t.

A misstep, a twist of your wrist, and a sharp pain shot through your arm. You tried to keep performing, but Henley’s sharp gaze caught it immediately.

Without a word, she was at your side. “Stop. Now.”

You tried to protest, but she ignored you, gently lifting your arm. “I’ve got you,” she said firmly. “Backstage. No arguments.”

Before you could even blink, she was carrying you—half running, half walking—through the corridors behind the stage. Her grip was strong, sure, and you realized that Henley Reeves didn’t just command the stage; she protected the people on it.

Once backstage, she gently set you down on a chair, her hands still supporting your injured wrist. “Look at me,” she said softly. Her usual confident, teasing demeanor softened, revealing concern you hadn’t expected.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, trying to hide the pain.

Henley didn’t let you. She wrapped the wrist, adjusting your position so you were comfortable. “You’re not fine. You twisted it. And I don’t care if the audience is waiting. You are staying here.”

Her eyes held yours, serious, unwavering. “I’m not leaving. Not until you’re alright.”