We've settled into what looks like professional tolerance from the outside, but feels like walking through an electrical storm every goddamn day.
She managed to pull off the modified routine without her ankle staging a full rebellion, which counts as a victory in our current disaster of a coaching relationship.
Better, not perfect. Nothing about this situation will ever be perfect.
But that night hangs between us like a loaded weapon we're both pretending doesn't exist. The kiss that never happened according to our mutual silent agreement, but somehow manages to make every interaction feel like foreplay disguised as athletic instruction.
This is fine. Everything is professional and appropriate and I definitely don't imagine what it would feel like to pin her against the vault every time she stretches.
The gym's empty except for us, lights dimmed because apparently the universe has a twisted sense of humor about creating romantic atmosphere in the least appropriate place possible.
We're reviewing footage on my laptop, and she's standing close enough that I catch hints of her shampoo—something vanilla and clean that makes me want to bury my face in her hair.
Professional boundaries, Ford. Remember those?
Neither of us mentions the cab. It's become this radioactive topic that could destroy everything if we acknowledge it exists.
After watching her fail the same sequence for the fifth time, she breaks the comfortable silence with a question that hits like a sucker punch.
"Why did you really quit competitive gymnastics?"
Her voice comes out quiet, almost vulnerable, and I can feel her watching me instead of the screen.
"George said you couldn't handle losing. But I've seen your old routines online, and you were..." She pauses, searching for words. "Extraordinary."
Well, shit. She's probably been YouTube-stalking my competition history. That's either flattering or concerning.
Something raw scrapes against my chest at the mention of George's version of events. My entire demeanor shifts before I can stop it—half a second of letting the mask slip before professional distance slides back into place.
"Injuries happen in this sport," I say carefully, like I'm defusing a bomb. "Some are accidents. Some aren't."
"What do you mean?"
I swallow hard, voice going distant because dragging up these memories feels like performing surgery on myself without anesthesia.
"George wasn't just a rival. He was the cause of my injury."
She goes very still beside me.
"I was pushing for a combination he designed, even though my body was screaming to stop. George had this way of making you believe that pain was just weakness leaving the body." My jaw clenches involuntarily. "That stress fracture wasn't bad luck. It was the price I paid for trusting someone who saw athletes as disposable."
The words hit her like a physical blow—I can see it in the way her shoulders tense, the way her breathing changes. The parallels to her own experience are impossible to ignore, but her defensive programming kicks in anyway.
"But still, you don't know anything about my relationship with Coach Foster," she snaps, even as doubt starts creeping into her voice.
"I know you haven't eaten a proper meal in days," I say quietly, but with enough steel underneath to cut through her bullshit. "I know you're training through injuries he chose to ignore. And I know that look in your eyes when you nail a routine—you're not performing for yourself or medals. You're desperately trying to earn approval that never comes."
My words slice through every defense she's built, surgical and accurate. She stands up abruptly, fury rising like a tidal wave.
"You have no right to analyze me like I'm some damaged case study!"
"As your coach, it's my job to see what you're hiding even from yourself," I reply evenly, which clearly pisses her off more.
That's when her body decides to prove my point for me. Sharp cramps twist her features—the familiar punishment for days of existing on lettuce and self-denial.
She doubles over, hands clutching her sides, and suddenly I'm there with my hand steady on her back.
"Are you okay?" The concern in my voice is completely genuine and catches us both off guard.
It's such a contrast to the harsh criticism she's used to that I can see her fighting back tears. Someone actually giving a shit about her wellbeing instead of just her performance statistics? Revolutionary fucking concept.
She straightens slowly, trying to swallow the discomfort and what's left of her pride. "I'm fine."
Lies. All lies. Nothing is fine, and we both know it.
When she tries to step back and regain personal space, her traitorous ankle gives out completely. I catch her without hesitation, hands steady at her waist, and suddenly we're close enough that I can see light flecks in her dark-brown eyes.
The air between us turns electric.
My gaze drops to her lips—those lips I can't stop thinking about—then back up, and there's a question in the space between us that neither of us is brave enough to ask out loud.
"This is inappropriate," she whispers, but she doesn't pull away because apparently neither of us has functioning self-preservation instincts.
My gaze darkens, intense and unreadable, because I'm fighting the same war that's raging in her eyes.
"Everything about this is inappropriate," I murmur back, voice rough with three weeks of suppressed want.
Understatement of the fucking century.
The space between us shrinks until I can feel heat radiating off her body, until our breath is mingling and I can hear her heart pounding.
Every rational thought in my head is screaming at me to run, but there's something stronger pulling me closer—toward the dangerous territory we've been dancing around since that night in the cab.
My fingers brush a stray lock of hair from her face, slow and deliberate, watching her pupils dilate. The weight of my gaze pins her in place, and time feels suspended like we're in some alternate universe where consequences don't exist.
I remember exactly how she tasted. I want to taste her again. I want to back her against the wall and find out if she makes that same soft sound when I kiss her neck.
Kiss her. Don't kiss her. This will destroy everything. This might save everything. Make a fucking decision.
Then the moment shatters like glass hitting concrete.
The gym door slams open with a bang that could wake the dead, and one of the junior coaches walks in, completely oblivious to the sexual tension crackling between us like a live wire.
Sienna jumps back like she's been electrocuted, face flaming with embarrassment and frustration. I step away smoothly, but I can feel the same conflict burning in my chest—the same war between what we want and what we know is professionally suicidal.
The junior coach starts chattering about scheduling or equipment or some equally irrelevant bullshit while I stand there trying to remember how to breathe normally.
I respond with appropriate coaching-related sounds, but my attention is still locked on Sienna.
When the interruption finally leaves, we're left in a silence so thick it's practically suffocating. The unfinished moment hangs between us like a loaded gun, dangerous and impossible to ignore.
Neither of us says anything, but everything has changed. Again.
This is going to end badly for everyone involved.
But fuck it, I'm not sure I care anymore.