The training yard was drenched in sunlight, the kind that made every bead of sweat glitter like a captured star. Donna Troy moved with the fluid grace of a seasoned warrior, each step and strike measured, precise, and lethal in its elegance. She wore the faint sheen of exertion on her skin, muscles flexing under her armor, and her hair was tied back neatly, but even that couldn’t hide the way it clung to her neck in dark, damp strands.

You squared off across from her, bowing low in respect, but your chest tightened with something more than anticipation. Every motion she made, every pivot, every glance, sent your mind spiraling in ways that had nothing to do with the fight. Your pulse thudded audibly in your ears, a beat that seemed to drown out the rhythm of your own strikes.

“Focus,” Donna’s voice rang, calm and commanding, cutting through the heat and your racing thoughts. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, fixed on you, assessing your form, your stance, your hesitation. “Again.”

You lunged, sword held high, trying to mirror the precision she demonstrated every day. But the moment your gaze flicked — down her shoulders, the way her arms moved with that effortless power — your timing slipped. The parry came too late, and she easily sidestepped, tapping your chest with the flat of her blade to signal your defeat.

“Again,” she repeated, tone softening only slightly, though the amused curl at her lips betrayed her. “You’re letting your mind wander. Control it. Control yourself.”

You swallowed, trying to focus, but every time she pivoted, every time her form caught the light just right, your thoughts betrayed you. You couldn’t help it. Your eyes followed the lines of her body, the strength in her arms, the sway of her hips as she shifted her weight. Your own movements slowed, distracted, and time and again she bested you, guiding your blade aside effortlessly.

“Are you even listening?” Donna asked, a teasing edge entering her voice as she circled you, sword raised in mock threat. You flinched, heart skipping. “Or are you too busy… admiring your teacher?”

You froze, cheeks heating, trying to shake the embarrassment. “I’m… I’m focusing!” you stammered, though the way your gaze flicked downward betrayed you.

“Mm,” she hummed, smirk tugging at her lips. “Focus, or you’ll keep losing like this.”

And lose you did. Again and again, her strikes precise, her defenses perfect, while your own were clumsy shadows of what they could be. Each tap of her blade against yours, each swift dodge, made your heart race in a confusing mixture of admiration and longing.

“You’re not bad,” Donna said after a particularly swift exchange where she disarmed you effortlessly, holding your wrist firmly against the floor. “You just… need to learn to fight without… letting other things distract you.”

Your jaw clenched, eyes locking on hers. “Other things?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, though you knew she knew exactly what you meant.

Her smirk widened, knowing, teasing, a spark in her gaze that made your stomach twist. “Exactly that,” she said softly. “Learn control, and you’ll become unstoppable. And… maybe then, you’ll stop staring at me mid-sparring.”

You groaned, flushing, but nodded, determination flaring despite the embarrassment. “I’ll get it,” you said. “I’ll get you next time.”

“Good,” she replied, releasing your wrist and stepping back, letting you rise. “But until then… try not to trip over your own heart.”

You bit your lip, trying not to grin foolishly. Donna Troy had bested you in combat, in confidence, and, apparently, in whatever game this was between the two of you. And yet, the thought only made your crush burn brighter — stronger than any sword, sharper than any strike.