For a moment, there was only the faint sound of wind brushing the leaves of the trees in the nearby orchard.
Logan became acutely aware of the ache in his own shoulders. The slight blister at the base of his palm. The memory of his thrust wavering earlier.
He replayed her motions in his mind.
Not a single correction.
Not a single flaw.
He felt heat crawl up his neck—sharp, humiliating. All his grinding effort, all his grim discipline, and she moved as though mastery were simply her natural state.
He had carved progress out of stubborn repetition.
She had made perfection look like grace.
His jaw tightened.
It wasn't envy alone.
It was the quiet, uncomfortable realization that he had been measuring himself against a standard he hadn't fully understood.
And now he had seen it.
Logan looked down at his hands.
For the first time, they didn't feel strong.
They felt inadequate.
He turned away before she could read his face.
The motion was subtle—but deliberate.
