Some moments feel like peace. Others feel like a setup for spectacular self-destruction.
This one feels like both, and I'm apparently too stupid to care.
After dinner, I walk Sienna to the bus station because that's what responsible coaches do, make sure their athletes get home safely after force-feeding them actual nutrition.
The streets are quiet, not tense or awkward, just still in a way that makes it hard to say goodbye.
We don't talk much, but the silence isn't empty. It's loaded with everything we're not ready to say out loud, heavy with possibilities that could destroy both our careers if we're not careful.
A block from the station, she stops walking and starts patting down her pockets.
Her mouth tightens as she mutters, "Damn. I left my gym key in my locker."
I don't ask why she needs it at nine PM, and I don't press for an explanation because honestly? I don't want her to leave yet either.
"Let's go," I say, like the decision was inevitable instead of monumentally stupid.
We turn around without another word, walking back toward the gym like we're being pulled by some invisible force that's stronger than our combined common sense.
The gym lights up slowly when we get back, one fluorescent bulb at a time, humming to life across the wide-open space.
It doesn't feel like a place meant to be entered after hours, but here we are anyway, apparently committed to making questionable choices.
Sienna heads toward the lockers, but I don't follow. I slow down near the center of the floor and eventually stop, hit by the familiar scent of chalk and sweat and something less tangible—ghosts of who I used to be.
I look around at the bars, vault, beam. They haven't changed at all. I have.
My shoulder throbs with that dull pulse that reminds me of everything I lost, everything that was taken from me.
But if I dig deeper, past the crash and pain and silence that followed, there had been something else. Something good.
There had been a rhythm once. A quiet sort of freedom I only felt when it was just me and the movement. That was before medals, before George, before the weight of expectations turned every routine into psychological warfare.
"Was there ever a time when it felt like the sport loved you back?" Sienna's voice comes from behind me, calm and steady.
I don't turn around, don't respond immediately because the question hits harder than expected.
She steps closer, voice quieter now. "Before the injuries. Before George. Before everything else turned toxic. Did it ever feel right?"
I stare at the bars for a moment, then down at my hands. They look like they belong to someone else—someone who used to fly through the air like gravity was optional.
"Yeah," I finally answered. "Once. When it was just me and the movement, nothing else mattered."
She nods slowly, like that answer means something important to her. "I'd like to see that."
I glance at her, not sure what she means. "See what?"
"You," she says, keeping her eyes on mine. "Moving like it still belongs to you."
I let out a dry laugh that doesn't quite land. "Sienna, I'm not twenty anymore. Those days are gone."
She smiles, but not in a teasing way. It's softer than that, more genuine. Then she holds out her hand. "Just once. Something simple."
I look at her outstretched hand, thinking about how easy it would be to say no. That chapter of my life closed years ago, and I had no intention of reopening it.
But somehow, my hand lifts anyway and meets hers halfway.
The touch should feel ordinary. It doesn't. It feels like electricity and possibility and about seventeen different kinds of dangerous.
I step onto the mat without warming up because apparently I'm committed to this insanity.
I don't need a plan—I just move. Start with a clean layout, nothing too complex, something my body still remembers even after years of neglect.
The execution isn't perfect, but muscle memory kicks in, solid and familiar. For the first time in years, it feels like breathing again instead of drowning.
When I land, she claps once, breaking into a wide grin. "That was hot," she says, laughing as she speaks.
Before I can process that comment or its implications, she runs forward into a pass of her own. It isn't polished or rehearsed—it's pure instinct. She's not performing for judges or coaches or medals.
She's just letting herself move.
Then something shifts. It stops being two people doing individual routines and becomes something else entirely. The space between us narrows. Without saying a word, we start responding to each other—vaults, turns, spins.
Nothing choreographed, but we move in sync like we've practiced this a hundred times.
At one point, I reach for her wrist mid-motion and turn her gently into a spin. She follows with ease, laughing as she turns, and the sound hits me like a physical blow.
It's not forced or cautious, it's loud and real and makes me forget where we are, what we're supposed to be to each other.
When we finally stop, we end up in the middle of the mat again, closer than we have any business being. Neither of us moves.
Her breathing is light and uneven, and I can feel every bit of it in the space between us.
Her hands slide to my waist like they belong there, and I don't stop her. Mine land on her sides, steady but uncertain. Then she lifts one hand, fingers brushing the back of my neck with the kind of softness that makes coherent thought impossible.
I don't plan on leaning in. I just do. My eyes drop to her mouth, and I can feel the shift in the air between us—charged, inevitable, fucking dangerous.
She doesn't move back or say anything. Just watches me with those dark eyes, lips slightly parted.
But I stop myself. Force myself to remember what this could cost her, cost both of us. It's too much, too soon, too complicated.
I step away, and she does the same—we move at exactly the same time, like the decision was made without either of us saying a word.
We both clear our throats because apparently that's the universal sound for "holy shit, we almost just destroyed everything."
Suddenly, the floor becomes fascinating to both of us. I reach for my jacket like I just remembered it exists. She ties her hair back, focused entirely on the ground.
"You found your key?" I ask, trying to sound casual but coming out too light, too forced.
She holds it up without speaking. I nod once, and we walk out together.
The silence this time doesn't feel the same. Not peaceful anymore—loaded with tension and unfinished business.
I'm supposed to protect her. That's the line, that's the whole fucking point of this. I'm the one who's supposed to know better, supposed to maintain professional boundaries.
But tonight, I came close to obliterating every ethical guideline in the book. And if I don't start pulling back now, next time I won't stop. Next time, it won't just be a close call.
It'll be the moment everything falls apart.