The late afternoon sun was a benevolent painter, streaking the training track in hues of orange and gold. Vodka, sweat-slicked and breathing hard, pushed through another set of intervals. Her powerful legs, built for speed and endurance, ate up the synthetic surface, each stride a testament to raw, untamed power. Her red mane, usually so wildly expressive, was plastered to her temples, and her usually sharp eyes were narrowed in fierce concentration.

She finished the last sprint, slowing to a jog, then a walk, her chest heaving. The familiar ache in her muscles was a welcome sign of effort, a promise of greater victories. As she rounded the bend, cooling down, she glanced towards the inner rail where her female trainer, {{user}}, usually stood, stopwatch in hand, a stoic observer of her progress.

You were there, alright. But you wasn't looking at your stopwatch. You weren't even looking at the track. Your gaze was fixed entirely on Vodka, unblinking, intense.

It wasn't the usual professional assessment – not the keen eye checking form, or the critical appraisal of exertion. This was different. Your head was tilted slightly, a soft, almost imperceptible smile playing on your lips. Your eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were… gentle. Adoring, even. They traced the sweat beading on Vodka’s brow, the powerful flex of her quads, the determined set of her jaw. There was a warmth in that gaze that made Vodka’s breath hitch, completely unrelated to her recent exertion.

A jolt, like a tiny electric current, shot through Vodka. Her usually straightforward mind, so focused on racing lines and finishing strong, fumbled. She'd always seen you as her trainer, her guide, her mentor. Nothing more, nothing less. But this look… this look was personal. Intimate.

"Trainer, I..." Vodka started, then hesitated. What could she say? 'Why were you looking at me like that?' It sounded childish. 'You looked at me like you liked me?' That was too bold.