I should've gone home hours ago, but apparently my ability to make rational decisions has completely packed up and moved to another time zone.
Walking back into the gym at this hour is either dedication or insanity, and I'm honestly not sure which.
The overhead lights buzz like dying insects, mats still warm from day training, and there's Sienna—pushing a body that's already waving white flags of surrender like she's trying to prove something to the empty air.
This is healthy. This is totally normal behavior for someone whose ankle is held together by spite and medical tape.
Another tumbling pass, another landing that makes me wince from across the room. She resets immediately, goes again, and eats shit so hard I'm surprised she doesn't bounce.
The frustration rolling off her is so familiar it makes my chest tight. That same chest-clenching panic I used to feel when coaches were watching, waiting for failure like vultures circling a carcass.
Except there's no coach here now. So why does she look exactly like I used to feel?
"You're holding back," I say, stepping out of the shadows. "Not physically. Emotionally."
She spins around like I've caught her robbing a bank, heart probably hammering hard enough to power a small generator. Which, considering how many training protocols she's currently violating, isn't entirely wrong.
"I'm doing everything as you said," she snaps, volume control apparently another casualty of whatever psychological warfare she's waging against herself.
I step forward, not fast, but deliberate. Because I'm not letting her deflect her way out of this conversation like she usually does.
"Are you? Or are you just doing enough to keep me satisfied while you chase some impossible version of perfection that doesn't exist?"
Her face goes through this whole journey—defiance, recognition, then something that looks suspiciously like panic. Because she knows I'm right, and she hates that I can see through her bullshit so effortlessly.
"That's not fair," she says, but her voice wavers like she's fifteen again and lying about her curfew.
I move closer. Too close. Close enough to see the exhaustion written in the lines around her eyes, the way her chest rises and falls like she's fighting some internal war.
"You're still performing for approval, Sienna. Not yours. His. You train like George is still in your head, still watching, still waiting for you to fail."
The words land like physical blows. I can see them hit, see her armor crack just enough to let real emotion leak through.
"You don't know what it was like," she whispers, staring at the floor like meeting my eyes might actually kill her.
"No, I don't," I agree, because lying won't help anyone here. "But I know what it looks like when someone's training from fear instead of freedom. I've been there."
When's the last time she did anything that felt free? When's the last time she moved because she wanted to instead of because she was terrified of the consequences?
"You think I want to be like this?" The question comes out sharp as broken glass as she steps toward me. "You think I haven't tried to change?"
My gaze doesn't waver, doesn't judge. Just holds steady while she falls apart in front of me because someone needs to witness this, needs to see her pain and not look away.
"I think you've never had permission to."
Permission. Like it's that simple. Like trauma can be fixed with a hall pass and good intentions.
But maybe it starts there. Maybe healing begins with someone telling you it's okay to stop carrying weight that was never yours to lift.
The room suddenly feels smaller, her presence filling every available inch of space.
My hand twitches at my side, fingers physically restraining themselves from reaching for her because touching her right now would be crossing about seventeen different professional boundaries.
"I'm not broken," she whispers, and it sounds like she's trying to convince herself as much as me.
"I never said you were."
Then I reach up, hesitating for half a second before my thumb brushes across her cheek, catching a tear. The contact burns more than it should, but she doesn't pull away.
Christ, I'm in so much trouble.
"I see the strength you don't let yourself own," I say, voice coming out rougher than intended. "You deserve to fight for yourself, not for a ghost."
We're standing too close, breathing the same air, and the tension between us is so thick it's practically combustible.
My hand lingers at her jaw, and for one absolutely insane moment, I want to kiss her.
Because everything in me is drawn to her—her stubborn refusal to quit, her brutal honesty, the way she looks at me like I might actually understand the war she's fighting inside her head.
This is a spectacularly bad idea.
But bad ideas have been my specialty lately, so why stop now?
The moment stretches between us like a held breath, electric and inevitable. I can see in her eyes that she's thinking the same thing I am—that we're about to cross a line that'll change everything.
Her lips part slightly. My hand tangles in her hair. The space between us shrinks to nothing.
Then the universe decides to remind us both that we're idiots.
A crash echoes through the building, metal weights hitting the floor like a gunshot, and we spring apart like we've been electrocuted. Her breath hitches, my hand drops, and suddenly there's too much space between us and not nearly enough.
We stare at each other like deer in headlights, both pretending that whatever just almost happened was a figment of our collective imagination.
"That was probably James," I say, clearing my throat and trying to sound like a professional adult instead of someone who was thirty seconds away from destroying his career. "He forgets to rerack the plates."
Right. James. Weights. Normal gym sounds. Not the universe cockblocking us at the worst possible moment.
"I should cool down," she mutters, brushing past me toward the stretching area.
But as she moves, her shoulder grazes my chest, and the brief contact sends heat shooting through me like I've touched a live wire. My heart's hammering so hard I'm surprised it's not audible, and it has absolutely nothing to do with cardio.
"Sienna," I say as she's walking away. She stops but doesn't turn around, which is probably smart because I'm not sure either of us can handle more eye contact right now. "You don't have to carry it all by yourself."
She bites her lip hard enough that I wonder if she's trying to ground herself through pain. "I'm not."
But we both know she's lying.
And we both know I'm about thirty seconds away from following her to that stretching area and finishing what we started.
Professional boundaries, Ford. Remember those?
Yeah, I'm fucked.