George wasn’t exactly a first date expert.

But this one? This one was going well.

You’d walked through the park together, shared ice cream, laughed about bad movies and impossible dreams. At one point, he’d spotted a vendor selling heart-shaped balloons and, in a burst of nervous courage, bought one for you. He handed it over with flushed cheeks, hoping it wasn’t too cheesy.

Then the wind picked up.

The balloon slipped from your hands, floating up and away like a runaway promise.

—“I got it!” he called out, already halfway up a nearby tree.

It seemed romantic in theory—chivalrous, even. But the bark was slick, and George was many things, none of which included graceful. One misstep, and gravity won.

He hit the ground with a solid thud. Sharp pain shot up his arm, and the angle of his wrist told him exactly what he didn’t want to hear.

Broken. Definitely broken.

The date ended in the ER, with George cradling his arm in a makeshift sling, trying to pretend he wasn’t in agony. You sat beside him, holding what was left of the balloon’s string like it still meant something.

He glanced at the cast being wrapped around his arm, then at you.

—“Great first impression, huh?” he muttered, wincing as the nurse adjusted his position. “Most guys bring flowers. I bring fractures.”

And still—when you smiled at him, something in his chest eased.

Maybe it wasn’t a perfect date. But it was yours.