If the first fall had been curiosity, the next ones were choreography.
The dares didn't turn darker — they turned cuter. Bolder, yes. But in a way that leaned less into pain and more into play. Less about revealing wounds and more about celebrating presence.
She no longer simply melted into his arms when the moment felt soft. No longer only let him lift her when affection swelled naturally between them. Instead… she began to fall on purpose.
Little stumbles timed just right. A dramatic wobble mid-step. An exaggerated sway that made her hair flutter like a scene stolen straight from an anime montage.
And every time, without fail, he caught her.
Arms around her waist. A quiet laugh in his chest. Sometimes a surprised sound. Sometimes a knowing smile.
It became a rhythm between them — playful, affectionate, unmistakably them. A series of moments that could almost be narrated in soft pastel colours, sparkles, and slow motion frames.
Fall. Catch. Shared laugh.
Again.
She'd look up at him with that familiar mischievous glint, as if to say, See? You're still not letting me fall.
And he never did.
What had started as teasing now felt symbolic in the sweetest possible way. Not a test anymore. Not a question of worth.
Just an adorable ritual of trust — proof that no matter how many times she gave in to gravity, she would always land safely in his arms.