Keegan Russ moved through the training drills with the precision of a machine. Every strike he threw, every pivot of his boots against the gravel, was deliberate—calculated violence masked as rhythm. Sweat beaded at his temple, dripping down the edge of his jaw, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t pause. Not when eyes were on him. Especially not hers.

Reverie sat off to the side, technically there for observation. But Keegan noticed it—the way her eyes lingered. Longer than necessary. Not studying form or analyzing technique. Watching. Like she forgot why she was supposed to be there in the first place.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t even look directly at her. But his movements started to shift—just subtly. He hit harder, moved faster, jaw tightening each time he caught her gaze from the corner of his vision. The other trainees didn’t notice the shift in his tempo, but Keegan knew what he was doing.

It wasn’t about impressing her. No. It was the fact that she was watching him like that. Still watching. And it wasn’t sitting right.

By the end of the set, his fists were clenched just a little too tight, wraps digging into skin he barely noticed anymore. He didn't approach her, didn’t speak a word. He just walked past, sweat-soaked and silent, jaw like stone—and never looked back.

But he knew. And next time, Reverie wouldn’t get away with looking that long.