Jax

  The applause feels distant, like it’s happening underwater. My ankle is screaming.

  I keep my smile in place until the curtain falls, until the light shifts from golden state warmth to the dim buzz of backstage shadows. Only then do I let my weight drop slightly into Milli’s shoulder.

  “Easy,” she whispers, looping her arm around my waist. Her perfume–faint and floral–mixes with the sharp tang of sweat and dust. “You’re okay.”

  “I’m fine,” I manage through gritted teeth, though the lie burns worse than the pain. “Just–twisted it.”

  But I know better. That sharp crack when I landed wrong–that wasn’t just a twist. I can barely move my foot without white-hot pain tearing up my leg.

  Mrs. Petersen’s voice cuts through the chaos. “We need urgent care, now!” There’s movement–somone on the phone, someone else grabbing ice, everyone talking at once.

  Milli tightens her grip as I sway a little. “Sit,” she says firmly, guiding me onto a nearby crate. Her hands are steady, but her voice trembles just enough to give her away.

  I try to breathe through it. “I didn’t mess up the scene, did I?”

  She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You broke your ankle and that’s what you’re worried about?” She sighs then adds quietly, “Improv worked exceptionally though.”

  A weak laugh escapes me. “The show must go on, right?”

  She shakes her head, but there’s a flicker of a smile–small, worried, but real. She crouches in front of me, her hand hovering just above my ankle like she’s afraid to touch it.

  “Jax…” she murmurs. “Why didn’t you stop?”

  Because I couldn’t. Because the second I saw her–the way she stepped into the firelight as Maris, all spark and shadow–the scene became real. I wasn’t about to ruin that.

  “I didn’t want to break the illusion,” I say softly.

  Her eyes meet mine–and for a second, the noise around us fades. Just me, her, and the dull roar of pain, as well as the distant echo of ovation that still hasn’t died away.

  Mrs. Petersen’s voice again: “Ambulance is on its way!”

  Milli squeezes my hand. “Hang on, okay?”

  I nod, trying to stay composed–prince-like even now. But as the adrenaline fades, the edges of my vision blur, and I realize that no amount of training could’ve prepared me for this kind of fall.

  The world blurs into motion–voices overlapping, footsteps echoing, the rush of cold night air as someone opens the back door of the theatre. The stage lights are gone, replaced by the harsh flicker of fluorescent hallway bulbs.

  Milli doesn’t leave my side. One arm still looped around my back, her other hand gripping mine tight enough that I almost forget the pain–almost.

  The paramedics move quickly, asking questions I can barely focus on. I catch snippets: “Possible fracture.” “Swelling fast.” “Keep him still.”

  “I’ve got him,” Milli says quietly when one of them tries to take my arm. She helps guide me onto the stretcher, her expression pale but determined.

  As they lift me, I glance up at her. “You don’t have to come.”

  “Too late,” she says, managing a small, shaky smile. “You’re stuck with me now.”

  The ambulance doors close behind us with a solid thunk. The siren wails to life, and the world outside becomes a blur of flashing red and blue.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Inside, it’s cramped and too bright. The paramedic checks my vitals, wrapping something tight around my ankle. I grit my teeth and stare at the ceiling, counting the vibrations of the road beneath us.

  Milli sits near my feet, hands folded in her lap, eyes on me instead of the chaos around her.

  “You scared everyone backstage half to death,” she says softly.

  I huff out a laugh that’s more like a wince. “I was supposed to scare the audience emotionally, not backstage physically.”

  She shakes her head, a small smile breaking through her worry. “You’re unbelievable. You managed both.”

  The medic asks me something about pain levels, and I mumble a number higher than I’d like to admit.

  When he looks away, I meet Milli’s gaze. “Hey,” I say quietly. “Thanks, for catching me back there.”

  “You’d have done the same,” she replies.

  Maybe. But something about the way she said it–steady, certain–settles the panic that’s been twisting in my chest since the curtain fell.

  She smirked and added, “Though when we first met, with the skating training early in the morning, you would not catch me. You left me to fall on the ice.”

  I rolled my eyes, “People change. Times have changed.”

  The siren fades as we near the hospital. The lights outside shift from red and blue to the softer glow of the streetlamps. Milli’s still there, chin resting on her hands, watching me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she looks away.

  I want to tell her I’ll be fine. That this kind of pain is nothing compared to falling on the ice during competition, or facing judges who measure your worth by the precision of a spin. But for some reason, the words don’t come.

  Instead, I just say, “Guess the prince’s story ends with a limp.”

  She rolls her eyes, but I see the relief flicker across her face. “Not a chance. Kael doesn’t break his legs in the script. You gotta stay on script.”

  I let out a slow breath, the edges of everything starting to blur from exhaustion and painkillers. Her voice is the last thing I hear before I drift–calm, steady, and warm in a way that no spotlight ever could be.

  The first thing I notice when I wake up is the smell–sharp and sterile, the unmistakable tang of disinfectant. The second thing is the soft beeping of a monitor somewhere near my head.

  I blink against the light. My ankle is wrapped and elevated, thick layers of gauze and splints holding it in place. The pain is dull now–a heavy throb buried under whatever they’ve given me.

  For a moment, everything feels foggy. Then I hear it–quiet humming.

  Milli.

  She’s sitting in the corner of the room, curled in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs, still in costume. Her blue tunic’s a little wrinkled, stage makeup smudged beneath her eyes. A half-empty styrofoam cup of hot chocolate sits beside her, long gone cold.

  When I shift slightly, she looks up, her brown eyes lighting with relief. “Hey,” she says, her voice soft, almost a whisper.

  “Hey,” I rasp back. My throat feels dry. “Guess I wasn’t dreaming.”

  She stands, moving to my bedside. “You weren’t. You scared all of the crew and drama class half to death.”

  I manage a small smile. “Starting to think that’s my new talent.”

  Milli shakes her head but doesn’t laugh this time. She looks at my bandaged leg, then back at me. “You broke it clean through. The doctor said you’ll need a cast for at least six weeks.”

  Six weeks.

  That hits harder than the pain. Six weeks off the ice. Six weeks without training. Mother and father are going to kill me. Or at least disown me. Six weeks without dancing.

  I stare up at the ceiling, letting the reality sink in. My whole body feels heavier. “Great,” I mutter. “Just in time for competition season.” I sigh and add, “At least I’ll get a break…” my voice lowers, “Though my parents won’t be happy, to say the least.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, then speaks up, “You still managed to finish the scene. Nobody in the audience knew you were hurt.”

  “That’s something, I guess.”

  “It’s more than something,” she says softly. “It was incredible. You didn’t just stay in character, Jax. You made everyone feel it.”

  Her words catch me off guard. I look at her, really look–the smudge of stage makeup, the exhaustion in her posture, the warmth in her eyes that doesn't fade even under fluorescent light.

  “Thanks,” I say, and I mean it more than I expected to.

  She hesitates, then sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle my leg. “You don’t have to pretend to be okay, you know.”

  “I’m not pretending,” I say quietly. “Just trying to keep it together.”

  She nods, folding her hands in her lap. “You don’t have to do that with me.”

  The room falls silent again–not uncomfortable, just still. The kind of silence that feels safe.

  I glance toward her, voice low. “You should go home. It’s late.”

  She shakes her head. “Not until they say you’re cleared. Besides, my parents have to drive half an hour before arriving, I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

  Something about the certainty in her tone makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the injury.

  So I don’t argue. I just close my eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of the monitors and the faint sound of her breathing beside me.

  For once, I let myself rest–knowing she’s there.