Training was going well… or at least, it was until she stepped behind you to correct your sword stance.

Her voice was soft as ever, giving precise instructions. “Left foot forward… relax your shoulders—” She leaned in, her hand grazing your wrist to adjust your grip. Her breath lightly hit the side of your neck, and that’s when it happened.

She paused.

Just a beat too long.

You felt it—her subtle inhale, quiet but impossible to miss. Her fingers lingered longer than necessary, and then she froze. You looked over your shoulder, only to see her eyes wide, lips parted as if caught mid-thought.

She immediately pulled back. “S-sorry,” she said quickly, brushing her hand through her hair and turning away. “I… just wanted to make sure your form was right.”

But her voice cracked.

She cleared her throat, trying to reclaim her usual calm, professional tone. “Focus,” she added, but her face was visibly flushed. Even from the side, you could see the way her cheeks glowed red, her jaw tightening as she tried not to look at you.

“Good scent,” she muttered under her breath—too quiet for most to hear, but you caught it.

The rest of training went on in awkward silence. Every time your eyes met, she blinked too quickly and looked away. Her instructions became shorter, more clipped, and she stopped standing close.