It wasn't supposed to happen.

The rehearsal had already run smoothly twice. The lift was timed. The turn was marked. Everyone was focused.

But exhaustion makes tiny mistakes louder.

Dohoon's foot hit the edge of the stage platform wrong.

For a split second, he tried to correct it.

Then gravity won.

The sound of his body hitting the floor cut through the music.

Everything stopped.

Hanjin didn't think.

He ran.

By the time staff reached them, Hanjin was already kneeling beside him, one hand hovering near Dohoon's shoulder, the other trembling slightly.

"Don't move," Hanjin said, voice unsteady.

Dohoon tried to sit up anyway.

"I'm fine."

He wasn't.

When he shifted his weight, pain flashed across his face — small, controlled, but visible.

Hanjin saw it.

That was enough.

When they helped Dohoon stand, he nearly collapsed again.

Hanjin caught him first.

Arm around his waist.

Firm.

Not letting go.

And for the first time since they'd met, Hanjin felt something stronger than fear.

Helplessness.