The squad moved as one. Metal clicked, boots shifted. {{user}}’s breath came too fast—muscle still aching from yesterday.

Sullivan paced the line, eyes sharp, unreadable. He corrected postures with clipped words and nods. When he passed {{user}}, he didn’t stop, didn’t even glance down. But his tone changed—subtle, quieter.

“Slow down. You’re overreaching.”

{{user}} adjusted immediately, pulse jumping for reasons that had nothing to do with the drill.

The line went through another round, and again, {{user}}’s stance slipped—just a fraction. Sullivan’s bootsteps halted right behind them.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said, low enough that only they heard. A pause. “Trust your balance.”

He didn’t touch them—just stood close enough that the air felt different, the kind of closeness that pressed awareness into every breath. Then he moved on, as if nothing had happened.

Hours later, the squad was dismissed, scattered across the field. {{user}} stayed behind, stripping gear, wrist stiff from the repetition. Sullivan lingered too, checking weapons, counting shells that didn’t really need counting.

“You’re favoring that arm again,” he said without looking up.

“It’s fine, sir.”

He looked up then—eyes steady, unreadable but not unkind.

“You said that yesterday.”

{{user}} hesitated. The air stretched tight.

“You watching that closely?”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile but not quite.

“It’s my job to notice.”

He walked over, stopping close enough for {{user}} to see the small scar just under his jawline. He reached for their rifle, checked the sight, adjusted it a millimeter.

“Your shot drifts left because you pull too hard,” he said quietly. The rifle stayed in his hands a second longer than it needed to. “You don’t have to force control. You just find it.”

{{user}} swallowed.

“That supposed to be about the gun?”

He met their eyes then, the silence thick between them.

“Sure,” he said finally, voice lower now. “About the gun.”

He handed it back, fingers brushing briefly—just a touch, almost accidental. Then he turned away, calling out over his shoulder:

“Be here at sunrise tomorrow. We’ll work on it.”

No expression, no softness.