A/N: Hi there. I've been writing my own stuff for years but this is my first fanfiction ever! I'm not sure how I feel about it yet, but I would love your opinions. :) If you like this, I'll continue it with some proper hurt/comfort. Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!

Kurt is in the passenger seat of my Z3 when I crash it.

It is a clear, sunny day; I am drunk only with my feelings for the boy next to me; I'm doing 35 in a 40; there are no other cars around. My boyfriend and I are on our way back from watching Thor. The movie was my pick, of course – Kurt had wanted to make organic beignets – but the promise of Chris Hemsworth's naked torso in 3D (as well as a dark theatre in which to get handsy) had eventually made him give in. On the drive home, Kurt complains about Natalie Portman's horrible performance ("Figured she'd outdone herself in Black Swan so why bother!") and I turn to smile at him, to drink him in, and my right tire slips into an invisible ditch, covered over with damp leaves.

The next thirty seconds are some of my longest. The car drops with a thud. I turn the wheel gently to the left, but the ditch is too deep. Kurt screams. I pump the brakes frantically, but too late – there is a symphony of noise, cracking and ripping and thumping, as first tree limbs and then the white boards of a privacy fence slam into the windshield, obscuring my vision. I slam into my door as the backside of the car grazes a telephone pole. I lose the feeling in my arms. And then – as if by some miracle – the ditch ends, and the turned wheel pulls my car back onto the road.

I barely manage to pull into the driveway of the house which until recently had a white privacy fence and instantly reach for Kurt, bleating his name like a lost lamb. My arms still feel numb; my whole body does, really – and I forget to breathe until his gorgeous blue eyes flutter open.

"My gosh, were you unconscious?" I ask, my chest heaving with relief.

"N-n-no, just terrified," he answers, and wraps his hand around mine. The warmth of his skin reminds me that I have hands, and I start shaking violently, my throat constricting. I can hear someone yelling from behind us and I pull away from Kurt and struggle to open my car door, nearly falling out of it and stumbling when my feet hit the gravel driveway.

It's an older woman with no make-up and a Tweety bird t-shirt. As soon as I answer her "are you OK?" she asks what happened.

"I don't, I don't know what happened," I manage. My throat keeps getting tighter with tears that aren't ready to fall.

"HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW WHAT HAPPENED?" The woman yells, suddenly angry.

"I – I –"

"THAT FENCE WAS THREE FEET OFF THE ROAD! MY DOGS ARE GOING TO GET OUT!"

"I – the ditch – I got pulled -" It's at that moment that I start to see the damage I've done – there are splintered pieces of whitewashed wood literally all over the road, and what was once fifteen feet of privacy fence is now two ragged planks. "Oh my gosh." The words come out as little more than a whisper. "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh." I feel my body go shockingly numb for the second time in three minutes and my breath comes heavy and fast.

"Oh, you're OK, it's OK, it'll all be OK," Tweety-woman says, rapidly changing her tune for a second time.

"I need to make sure my boyfriend is OK," I gasp out, turning resolutely around and walking back towards my Z3. I faintly hear the woman say she'll call someone as I open my door.

Kurt is breathing quickly, his chest rising and falling at a bizarre rate. His eyes are fixed on mine immediately. "Are you OK? I can't believe I didn't – "

"Oh my gosh, you're bleeding." I point with shaking hands to the dime-sized red spot on the knee of Kurt's white riding pants.

"I'm fi – " He gasps loudly, and I'm babbling: what's wrong, what hurts – "Blaine, your arm – " – I'm so sorry, what's wrong, what's – Kurt grabs my left hand and pulls my arm towards him. I groan as he tries to pull it straight and he stops, his eyes wide. I look down at my half-outstretched arm, where my elbow is purpling at an alarming rate, and try using it to pull myself closer to Kurt. The primal yell that comes out of my chest shocks me – it hurts like hell but I'm still so numb - and Kurt drops my hand quickly, tears swimming in his seafoam eyes. When I see Kurt losing it, I can't keep the tears back a second longer – they overwhelm me, and I break down like the world is ending. I'm sobbing so hard it's physically painful, my lungs aching from the impact. I bow my head into the steering wheel, my whole body shaking.

"Blaine," Kurt says softly. The tenderness of his voice only increases my howling. His hand – delicate, long-fingered – flutters onto my back, then starts making slow, lazy circles. I try to get a hold of myself, gasping, as he rubs my back. "Blaine," he says again, massaging my shoulder with one hand.

I look up at him; the trails of tears mar his cream skin, reddened with crying. "I could have killed you," I manage through the crying, my words catching. "I could have lost you, Kurt, it would have been my fault, you could have died, I can't live without you." I turn to bury my face in the steering wheel again, but Kurt's hand catches my chin.

"Look at me, Blaine. I'm right here. I'm fine. I love you."

And all I can do is stare into his beautiful eyes.