Sienna’s POV
Turns out improvement doesn't have to feel like slow-motion torture. Who fucking knew?
I used to think you had to bleed for every breakthrough, that progress only counted if it came with a side of psychological damage.
George's greatest hits on repeat: Pain equals gain. Suffering builds character. If you're not miserable, you're not working hard enough.
But standing on this beam, executing a triple turn that actually feels controlled instead of like I'm playing deadly roulette with my ankles, I'm starting to think maybe George was full of shit.
"Try it again, but slower this time," Ford says, voice calm in that way that used to piss me off but now feels oddly reassuring.
Slower. Not weaker, not lazier—slower. It's taken me weeks to wrap my head around that distinction, but here we are.
I reset, heart hammering against my ribs for reasons that have less to do with the routine and more to do with the way Ford's watching me. Not like he's waiting for me to fuck up, but like he's genuinely invested in seeing me succeed.
Weird feeling. But not entirely unpleasant.
The triple turn flows instead of forcing itself. My foot stays solid, balance doesn't wobble, and when I dismount, I stick the landing clean enough to make my old self weep with envy.
"Better," Ford says, breaking the silence. "You're using your core to guide your center now instead of just hoping physics works in your favor."
I catch his eye in the mirror. He's not smiling—Ford doesn't do dramatic displays of emotion—but there's something in his expression that makes my stomach do complicated things.
"Didn't feel terrible," I mutter, wiping sweat from my forehead because apparently I need to downplay every success like it's a character flaw.
"That's because it wasn't terrible. It was controlled. Fluid."
“You mean I didn’t look like I was drunk?”
He huffed a laugh. “Less like a tequila shot, more like a smooth whiskey.”
Progress.
I roll my eyes but can't hide the smile tugging at my lips. These moments, quick, light, completely unforced, keep catching me off guard.
Still, every step forward makes my gut twist with guilt.
I'm not used to progressing without punishment, not used to feeling capable without George's voice reminding me I'm never enough. It's like learning to walk again, except the ground keeps shifting under my feet.
After practice, I linger at the mirror longer than usual. Not checking form this time—just looking.
My shoulders aren't bunched around my ears, my ankle doesn't throb like it's staging a rebellion, and my reflection actually looks... strong.
The heat creeping up my neck when I think about Ford's hands correcting my positioning definitely isn't from exertion.
I catch him behind me in the mirror, watching with that unreadable expression that makes me want to either run away or step closer.
Our eyes meet briefly before he looks away.
"Are you ever going to tell me what's changed?" he asks, walking over.
"What do you mean?"
"You're not fighting me as much as before. Not flinching every time I make a correction like I'm about to start screaming about your body fat percentage."
Ouch. Direct hit.
I shrug, grabbing my water bottle. "Maybe I just got tired of wasting energy on being pissed off all the time."
He studies me for a second. "Or maybe you realized I'm not trying to break you down and rebuild you in someone else's image."
His words hit harder than expected. Part of me wants to push back, prove I'm still the same defensive asshole who walked into this gym months ago.
But the truth has been simmering under my skin for days, and denial is exhausting.
Ford isn't like George and it pisses me off how much I'm starting to believe that.
"Your technique is cleaner," he says, moving toward the uneven bars. "You're not muscling your way through routines anymore like you're trying to intimidate the equipment into submission."
"You're saying I was a hot mess before?"
"I'm saying you've always had raw power," he replies. "Now you're using it strategically instead of just throwing it around and hoping for the best. That’s the difference.”
The compliment makes my chest tight—not because it feels fake, but because it doesn't. Because someone's finally seeing improvement without demanding I destroy myself to earn it.
"I don't know how to be okay with that," I admit quietly.
"With what?"
"Being coached without being psychologically eviscerated. Feeling like I'm actually getting better without having to hate myself in the process."
Ford leans against the wall, arms crossed. "That's not weakness, Sienna. That's what normal training is supposed to look like."
I let out a short laugh. “You sound like a TED Talk.”
"I'll take that as a win," he says, smirking.
The silence that follows isn't awkward—just loaded with things neither of us wants to dissect out loud.
"I used to think the only way to be elite was to be miserable," I say finally. "Like if you weren't suffering constantly, you weren't working hard enough. Like happiness and excellence were mutually exclusive."
Ford nods slowly. "Yeah. I know that voice."
"George was that voice."
His expression darkens slightly. "He still is, in your head."
I don't deny it because we both know it's true. George's greatest hits playlist runs on repeat in my brain, and some days the volume is louder than others.
Ford steps closer, voice softer now. "You're not wrong for wanting to unlearn that programming. And you're not betraying anyone by getting better without destroying yourself."
Fuck. It's like he reached into my brain and pulled out the exact thought I've been avoiding.
"I don't want to feel like I'm letting him go," I say. "But every time I nail something without wanting to die afterward, it feels like I am."
Ford holds my gaze steadily. "You're not letting go of everything. Just the damage. You can keep what made you strong without holding onto what broke you."
My throat tightens, but I manage to hold it together. Barely.
"Why do you care so much?" I ask, because the intensity of his investment in my wellbeing is starting to feel like something I need to understand.
He doesn't answer right away. His jaw flexes, and he looks down, then back up with something vulnerable flickering across his face.
"Because I've been where you are," he says quietly. "And no one pulled me out of it. I had to claw my way back to believing I was worth more than my worst moments."
Jesus.
I swallow hard, blinking fast against the heat behind my eyes. I don't want to cry—not here, not like this, not when everything feels so raw and complicated.
"Thanks," I whisper, because apparently my vocabulary has been reduced to single syllables.
"I’m here for you, Sienna," he says simply. “Always would.”
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I actually believe it.