Some training sessions feel like psychological warfare. This one feels more like we've declared a temporary ceasefire and nobody's trying to assassinate anyone's self-esteem.
Sienna doesn't argue with a single correction. I don't have to raise my voice once. She follows instructions like she actually trusts them instead of treating every suggestion as a personal attack on her life choices.
No unnecessary flair, no risky stunts designed to prove I'm an idiot, no death-defying moves just to make a point. She moves with control instead of fear, and I adjust the plan with intention instead of authority.
For the first time in weeks, I notice actual progress instead of just cataloging new ways she's trying to destroy herself.
"You did well today," I say as she reaches for her towel.
She freezes mid-motion and stares at me like I just announced I'm secretly an alien sent to study human gymnastics.
"I'm not doing anything special," she mutters. "Just drills. You won't let me do the real stuff."
"That's exactly why it's working," I reply. "You stuck to the plan instead of trying to rewrite physics."
She doesn't push back or change the subject, which honestly feels like a minor miracle. Instead, she walks over to the edge of the mat and sits down, rotating her ankle slowly.
"I really wanted to work on my landing," she admits after a moment.
I crouch beside her and place my hands on her ankle, keeping everything professional while checking for swelling and pressing gently along the joint.
Just routine injury assessment. Nothing inappropriate about basic sports medicine.
"No sharp pain?" I ask.
She shakes her head, biting her bottom lip in that way that makes my brain temporarily short-circuit.
I look up to check her reaction and immediately wish I hadn't.
That lip, the tension in her jaw, her eyes watching me way too closely. Her posture says guarded but not completely closed off, and my hands are still on her ankle.
I hesitate. My hands stay still just a second too long—long enough for the air to shift into something dangerous.
I pull back quickly, probably too quickly.
"Rest it tomorrow," I say, standing a little too fast. "No heavy landings."
"Got it," she replies quietly.
We walk to the exit together without conversation or weird tension, just silence that feels steady. Uneasy maybe, but not suffocating.
Then her stomach growls loud enough to echo off the gym walls and she stops like I just caught her shoplifting.
I raise an eyebrow. "Did you eat today?"
She shrugs. "I'm fine."
"Not good enough," I mutter, because apparently I've appointed myself the food police. "Come on. Let's get food."
We end up at Caster's Diner—worn booths, chipped menus, fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look slightly deceased, and zero people paying attention to anyone else's business.
Perfect.
I order for both of us without asking because I've seen her idea of meal planning, and it mostly involves pretending air has nutritional value.
She picks at her bowl initially like it might be booby-trapped. Then slowly, bite by bite, she starts actually eating. No thank you necessary—progress is progress.
We talk about Regionals. She brings up a new pass she wants to try, and her tone is confident without being arrogant. "I'll place," she says, matter-of-fact.
I smirk. "Prove it."
When the server brings her order, I slide the bowl across the table. Her fingers brush mine—just skin against skin, no gloves, no professional barrier. It couldn't have lasted more than a second.
My stomach flips anyway.
I clear my throat. "Eat. Then rest."
I don't look at her again after that because I'm not sure I can handle another one of those accidental moments without doing something monumentally stupid.
Halfway through the meal, she finally speaks. "Do you ever miss it?"
I look up. "What?"
"Competing," she says. "Being the one out there instead of watching from the sidelines."
I lean back and cross my arms, considering the question. "Sometimes. But not in the way people think. I don't miss the pressure or the constant judgment. I miss the feeling of weightlessness—those few seconds when gravity doesn't apply and everything else disappears."
She nods without looking at me, just staring at her half-empty bowl like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"I get that," she says quietly.
There's a pause before she adds, "Sometimes I wonder who I am without it. If I'm not training or winning medals, what's left? Like, what's my personality besides 'gymnast who follows orders'?"
The question lands harder than I expected. I watch her face—she's not fishing for comfort or validation. She's admitting something no one's ever made space for her to say out loud.
"You're more than this sport," I say, meaning every word. "Even if no one ever showed you how to believe that."
She doesn't answer immediately, but she meets my eyes and holds the stare.
There's something honest in her expression, something open and unguarded that scares me more than I'd like to admit.
Because this, this version of Sienna who asks real questions and eats actual food and doesn't flinch when I correct her form, this is who she could be if George hadn't spent years systematically destroying her sense of self.
I clear my throat to break the moment before I say something that crosses another line I can't uncross.
"You ever think about doing something else? Outside of gymnastics?"
"Maybe. I don't know.” She blinks like the question doesn't compute at first. “Teaching, maybe. Writing. Something that doesn't leave bruises or require eating disorders as a prerequisite."
I smile, barely. "That's a start."
"What about you?" she asks. "If you hadn't gotten injured, would you still be competing?"
The question hits differently than I expected.
"Probably not," I admit. "I was already burning out before the injury. The politics, the pressure, the way coaches like George turn athletes into products instead of people. Maybe getting hurt saved me from becoming someone I wouldn't recognize."
She considers this while picking at the last of her food.
"Sometimes I think about what I'd be like if I'd never met George. If I'd started with someone like you instead."
"Someone like me?"
"Someone who gives a shit about whether I survive the season instead of just whether I place."
The honesty in her voice catches me off guard.
This is the most real conversation we've ever had, and it's happening in a dive diner over mediocre food while we both pretend we're not navigating a minefield of inappropriate attraction.
"For what it's worth," I say, "I think you would've been extraordinary either way. Just... happier."
She doesn't respond, but something shifts in her expression. Not quite a smile, but close.
We finish eating in comfortable silence—not the awkward kind that makes you want to escape, just the kind that lets you breathe without performing.
And I'm not sure if that's progress or just another way we're setting ourselves up for disaster.
But for tonight, I don't really care.