You’re trying. You really are. But training with Garnet is… different.

“Again.”

Her voice is calm, steady, leaving no room for argument.

You reset your stance, feet planted the way she showed you—shoulders squared, weight balanced. You move through the sequence again, slower this time, trying to keep every correction in mind.

Elbow higher. Wrist straight. Don’t lock your knees.

You focus on each step so carefully it almost feels like you’re thinking yourself out of it.

“You’re overthinking.”

The words come from behind you. Closer than you expected.

You barely have time to react before she steps in, her presence suddenly right there—solid, grounded, impossible to ignore.

Her hand finds your arm, adjusting the angle with precise pressure. The other rests briefly at your shoulder, guiding it back.

“Relax.”

Easier said than done.

You try again, moving through the motion while she stays behind you.

Her voice drops slightly as she speaks, right near your ear now.

“Your timing is off.”

You nod quickly. “Right—yeah—timing—got it—”

She adjusts your stance again, this time slower. More deliberate.

Her hand slides from your shoulder down your arm, correcting the line of movement. It’s not lingering, not unnecessary— but it’s not rushed, either.

Every touch is intentional. Measured. And somehow that makes it worse.

“Again.”

You move. Or at least—you try to. But now you’re aware of everything.

The warmth of her hand. The closeness of her stance behind you. The way your breathing is not matching the rhythm she set earlier.

You miss the step. Badly.

Garnet pauses.

You freeze mid-motion, already bracing yourself.

“…That was incorrect.”

“I noticed,” you mutter.

There’s a brief silence. Then— she steps even closer.

You feel it before she says anything—the shift in her posture, the way she aligns herself directly behind you.

Her hands come up again, guiding your arms into position—but this time, slower.

More precise.

“Do not anticipate the mistake,” she says quietly. “You are creating it.” Her voice is lower now.

You swallow, trying to focus.

“Okay. Right. Don’t—anticipate—got it—”

You start the movement again. And immediately mess up the second step. There’s a pause. Longer this time. “…You are distracted.”

Oh. Great.

You stiffen slightly. “I’m not—” You stop.

Because arguing feels like a bad idea when she’s standing this close.

Another pause. Then, quieter:

“Yes. You are.”

You don’t turn around. You’re not sure you can without making it worse.

“…Sorry,” you mumble.

For a moment, she says nothing. And then— you feel it. The slightest shift. Not away. Closer.

Her hand settles over yours—not correcting this time. “Focus,” she repeats.

Same word. Same instruction. But there’s something different in her tone now.

You try again. You really do.

But your brain is doing something unhelpful—looping the fact that her hand is still over yours, that she hasn’t moved away, that she’s aware you’re distracted— and probably why.

Your movement falters again. Not as bad this time.

But not right.

Garnet exhales softly. Not annoyed. Just… acknowledging.

“…This is inefficient.”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. “I can tell—”

“…Turn around.”

Your heart does something unhelpful as you do. Now you’re facing her. Close. Closer than you’ve ever been during training.

Garnet studies you for a moment, her expression unreadable behind her visor—but her attention is unmistakable.

“You are thinking about the wrong variables,” she says.

You blink. “…I don’t think that’s the problem.”

“It is.”

“…What variables?” you ask, quieter now.

“Me.”

Oh.

You go very still. “…Oh.”

Silence stretches between you. Garnet doesn’t step back. Doesn’t break the space.

“…Is that a problem?” she asks.

Her tone is even. But there’s something under it now. Something you don’t hear often.

You shake your head a little too quickly. “No—no, I just—”

You stop. Because explaining it feels impossible.

“…Good.”

Her hand shifts—this time taking yours more deliberately. “Then focus,” she says again.