"…You did fine."

It wasn't quite a compliment. More of an obligation. But there was the faintest stiffness in her voice—like something about the way he said it had nudged her just a little off balance.

Damien tilted his head, eyes narrowing with lazy amusement. "That sounded forced."

Elysia, in response, straightened her posture further, as if willing her body to fall back into routine. Her voice regained its neutral calm.

"You should focus on your flexibility now."

"Flexibility…" Damien echoed, wiping the sweat from his jaw with the back of his hand. "Right. Of course."

"Yes," she said simply.

He exhaled, rolling out his shoulders, then offered a small shrug. "Okay. Show me."

Without another word, Elysia stepped forward.

She closed the distance between them, not with hesitance, but precision. There was no performance in her movements—just the efficiency of a blade returning to its sheath.

Her hands reached toward his arms—not abruptly, but firmly—and began repositioning him.

Guiding him.

Adjusting the placement of his elbows, the angle of his hips, the extension of his legs.

"You lack range in your external hip rotation," she said, voice quiet. "That's why your pivots are tight. Too much force is being redirected back into your spine."

Her hands didn't linger. They moved like a craftsman's—correcting his alignment, lowering his center, adjusting his breath timing.

Damien let her guide him.

Let her get close.

Elysia moved around him with a surgeon's precision, stepping into position behind him without pause. Her hands slid down his arms, adjusting the extension, then traced down to his sides as she guided his torso into a deeper stretch. Damien followed her movements without resistance—muscles tight, breath steady.

She knelt slightly behind him, pressing her palm between his shoulder blades.

"Exhale."

Damien did.

And she pushed—gently but firmly—into the stretch, guiding his chest forward and hips down.

That's when it happened.

Her chest met his back.

Not intentionally. Just proximity. Contact born of function, not desire.

But still.

It happened.

And Elysia felt it.

She didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. Her expression didn't change. But her mind… paused.

His back was broad. Smoother than she remembered. Heat radiated off his skin—raw, sharp, clean from exertion. Every breath that left him seemed to roll through her palms like energy waiting to be shaped.

'This isn't how it used to be…'

She pressed down a little more, keeping her voice neutral. "Keep your spine aligned. Tilt your pelvis forward slightly."

Her hand slipped lower, adjusting the angle of his hips—not intrusively, but decisively. She leaned forward slightly, body brushing against his again to maintain alignment as she shifted his weight to one side.

Damien said nothing.

But she could feel his attention. His awareness of her closeness. He didn't move away.

And that made it worse.

Because now that she was this close…

She could feel it.

The strength in his core. The subtle pulse of muscle and breath. The steady rise and fall of someone who had rebuilt themselves—completely. The boy she once dressed, once pitied, once had to steady by the arm just to keep upright… was gone.

Replaced by something heavier.

Tighter.

Rooted.

Her fingers hesitated for the briefest second as she adjusted his thigh position—pressing in from an angle that made her heart pause, just for one breath.

She swallowed.

Reset.

"Good," she said softly. "Now hold that."

Her palms remained where they were, applying just enough force to deepen the stretch.

'Why am I… noticing this?'

It was just training. Just contact. Just her body fulfilling its function.

Elysia felt it, the way her chest pressed flush to his back—not lustful, not deliberate, but present. And that was the problem. It was the presence of it. That there was something now, a tension she couldn't label and couldn't redirect. Her skin began to prickle with a low, unfamiliar heat. Not embarrassment. Not quite desire either. Just... awareness. A disruption in the precision she'd always taken pride in.

She adjusted his hips again, fingertips steady, even as her pulse flickered hotter than it should've. This never happened during solo drills. Not with other trainees. Not with Damien, before.

And then she noticed it.

Just below his waistband, barely obscured by the thin athletic fabric. A shift. A bulge.

Her breath hitched.

'...'

Damien didn't move. But his head tilted slightly.

"What?" he asked, all too innocent. A smirk began to form at the corner of his lips, his blue eyes cutting slyly over his shoulder.

And she knew that look.

"Young master," she said, low, almost warning—but her voice betrayed her. There was a breath in it. A pause too long.

Damien's smirk curved wider. "Ah," he said, as if a memory had just returned to him. "That again."

Her hand was still on his hip. She let go like she'd touched fire.

"All that training, and then you rubbing on me like that…" he breathed out, a little heavier, a little more amused, "—I am no saint, Elysia."

She stepped back, barely. But the room hadn't grown any larger, and he filled it differently now.

She should've looked away. Should've reprimanded him. Should've treated it like an inconvenience to be brushed off like sweat from a collarbone.

But instead, her eyes locked with his.

He didn't flinch.

"Come here," Damien said, quietly. Not a tease. Not a dare.

A command.

And damn her—damn her—she took half a step before she realized it.

Then stopped. Heart too loud. Breath too still.

"…This is training," she said.

Damien turned toward her, slow and deliberate. The smirk on his lips had softened—not into mockery, but something quieter. He stepped into the space between them again, and this time, it was him reaching out.

His fingers found her chin, tilting it gently.

"Do you mind my reaction, Elysia?"

His thumb brushed the corner of her lower lip.

She froze—not because of the touch, but because of what it didn't make her feel.

Disgust.

She waited for that familiar coil of revulsion in her stomach, the stiffening behind her eyes that always came when the old Damien had tried something clumsy. A leer. A stupid joke. Pathetic words uttered through the haze of alcohol and cowardice.

But it didn't come.

Instead, there was heat. Subtle. Quiet. Low in her stomach and spreading like an ember pressed into cloth.

Her lips parted.

"I–…"

But Damien's hand withdrew before the moment could crystalize into something more. He stepped back—not as rejection, but acknowledgment.

Letting her breathe.

"Let's continue," he said, his voice even again. Calm. Focused.

But there was a glint in his eyes and a twitch on the corner of his mouth.

As if he'd seen it.

Felt it.

And chose not to press.

'Why?'

She thought to herself, but couldn't answer.

That made it worse.

Because now, her heart was pounding for a reason she couldn't file away under tactical response. It wasn't adrenaline. It wasn't embarrassment.

It was him.

She stepped forward again, her movements practiced, but less fluid than before. Her hands found his shoulders, guiding them down into the next stretch. She spoke, but the clinical precision was harder to summon.

"Lower your center. Elbows inside your thighs. Hold the tension. Breathe through it."

He obeyed, still watching her.

But he didn't smile this time.

And that silence between them—the one that used to be clean, surgical—was now heavy.

Tangible.

Different.

Elysia said nothing more.

But her hands lingered longer now.

And she hated that part of her didn't mind.