You’re both out of breath, backs against the rig’s support beam, the tent around you empty and dim. It’s only been a few weeks since your old partner left, and they paired you with Valentine. Since then, every rehearsal has been a lesson in learning how to trust each other—with timing, with instinct, with your lives.

Today, it went wrong again. Your timing was off, or his grip slipped, or maybe it’s just everything piling up. Either way, you hit the mat hard, and now the silence is louder than the fall.

Valentine presses a hand over his eyes, like he’s trying to block the world out for a second. His other hand is shaking faintly, still white with chalk.

“I didn’t mean to drop you,” he says, voice low. “I swear I—”

“You didn’t drop me.” You cut in fast. “I slipped.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. Like he’s checking if you’re just saying that to make it easier. Like he doesn’t believe you trust him yet—and maybe you don’t. Not fully. Not when your life is in his hands every time you go up there.

“I can’t afford to get this wrong,” he says, quieter now, like it’s more to himself than to you. “Not with you.”

Your chest tightens. Because it’s not just about work. You both know that. The fear isn’t only falling—it’s falling through the cracks between you.

You reach out before you think twice, fingers brushing his sleeve.

“Then we figure it out,” you say. “Together.”

He nods, slowly.

But neither of you moves. You just sit there, in the half-light, trying to breathe. Trying to believe that’ll be enough.