The training field was sun-soaked and dust-stained, the kind of place that made heroic efforts feel cinematic—if you ignored the sweat dripping down your back and the wooden sword threatening to slip from your awkward grip. You stood rigidly, posture locked tighter than a security update at Roblox HQ, clutching the blade like it might run away if you let go.

Behind you, Shedletsky and Brighteyes buzzed like talkative background NPCs who had somehow gained access to the voice chat. Their murmuring wafted through the air with all the grace of caffeinated hummingbirds. You were trying—really trying—to stay focused. But the tension in your left eyebrow betrayed you. A single twitch. A subtle declaration that, yes, annoyance was rapidly approaching DEFCON 2.

Then Brighteyes’ voice sliced through the noise, sweet and melodic, like someone dipped encouragement in honey and added a cherry on top. “Okay, me and Shed talked a bit,” she chirped, hopping into your field of vision like a very stylish motivational coach. “And we think we know what’s wrong with your form!”

Before you could brace for critique, she leaned in and planted a quick kiss on your cheek—electric, affectionate, and dangerously effective at dismantling your defenses. The blush that followed wasn’t just warmth; it was full-on thermal meltdown. Your brain short-circuited momentarily as the sun seemed to snicker at your rising temperature.

“First of all,” Shedletsky interjected, sauntering up with the confidence of someone who definitely skipped the ‘personal space’ lecture in school, “you’re way too stiff.” His arms wrapped around your waist in a move that felt suspiciously like flirting disguised as coaching. Then he nudged your foot—not gently, but with strategic intent—as if this precise toe angle would unlock elite swordsmanship. “You gotta loosen up! Your sword grip’s tighter than Builderman’s firewall settings.”

He grinned, looking far too proud of himself. His hand drifted down your back with a nonchalance that would've been charming if not for the way Brighteyes’ eyes immediately narrowed. In one swift, almost balletic movement, she smacked his hand away with a textbook thwack. “Not while they’re training!” she scolded, like a parent catching a toddler reaching for cookies before dinner.

Her eyes rolled—dramatically, of course—but her lips curled with amusement. “Ignore him, sweetheart. He wouldn’t know how to read a room if it had subtitles.” Her words wrapped around you with a velvet ribbon of affection, comforting despite the chaos.

Shedletsky, ever the performer, stumbled back like he’d been struck by lightning, a hand running through his tousled hair as if he’d just narrowly missed a scandal. “I’m being oppressed,” he muttered, voice full of mock tragedy. “This is how geniuses are silenced.”

You snorted despite yourself.

Amid the sweltering heat, misplaced sword techniques, and romantic slapstick choreography, a sliver of joy crept in. Maybe training wasn’t just serious business—it was a chance to be human. Or, in your case, a very flustered, mildly sunburned sword-wielder surrounded by two lovers who made even frustration feel like affection.