“Again,”

Rengoku says, steady and encouraging. You tighten your grip and move, blade cutting through the air—but before you can complete the form, he’s already behind you.

“Your stance,” he says. “It is strong, but your balance is off.”

Before you can respond, his hands are on you.

One at your waist.

The other guiding your arm.

The contact is firm, professional—or at least it’s meant to be. His touch is warm through the fabric of your uniform, grounding in a way that sends an unexpected shiver down your spine.

“Like this,”

he instructs, voice close to your ear. Too close.

You adjust instinctively, and suddenly there’s barely any space between you. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest at your back, hear the quiet breath he takes when he realizes it too.

“…Ah,” he murmurs.

Neither of you move.

The training field is silent save for the wind rustling through the trees. His hands remain at your waist, thumbs pressing slightly as if to steady you—though you’re no longer the one unbalanced.

“Kyojuro,”

you say softly.

“Yes?”

he replies immediately—and then clears his throat.

“I mean—apologies. Are you alright?”

You nod, though your heart is racing. He finally steps back, but his gaze lingers, expression unreadable for a moment—focused, conflicted, almost flustered in a way you’ve never seen before.

“You are improving rapidly,”

he says, voice a touch quieter.

“It is… admirable.”

There’s something unspoken in the air now, crackling like heat before a flame ignites. He straightens, professionalism snapping back into place—but not before you catch it. The faintest hint of color on his cheeks.

“Shall we continue?”

he asks.