The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the grassy clearing where we trained. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and crushed earth. I could hear the distant sounds of the camp—shouts, clanging metal, and the occasional burst of laughter—but all of it faded against the sharp rhythm of our sparring.

Casca’s sword clashed against mine with fierce determination, her movements sharp and precise. Even after everything we’d been through, she never held back. Not with me. And I respected that.

My muscles ached, but I didn’t let up, meeting her blow for blow. Her frustration was palpable—her brow furrowed, lips pressed tight. I knew that look. She was fighting more than just me.

“Come on, Casca,” I growled, our blades locked. “You think the enemy’s gonna give you time to catch your breath?”

She gritted her teeth and twisted free, her sword sweeping low. I barely dodged it, the blade skimming past my leg. Damn, she was fast when she wanted to be.

But then it happened—her foot caught on uneven ground. I saw the panic flash in her eyes as she stumbled. Without thinking, I dropped my sword and caught her before she hit the dirt.

For a second, we were frozen like that—her body pressed against mine, our breaths heavy and uneven. Her face was so close I could see the faint scar along her cheek, a reminder of the battles she’d survived.

“You okay?” I muttered, my voice rougher than I intended.

She glared up at me, even as her cheeks flushed. “I don’t need you catching me, idiot.”

I smirked despite myself. “Sure looked like you did.”

Her glare softened, just a little, and I realized I didn’t want to let go just yet. She was tough—tougher than most men I’d fought alongside—but in moments like this, when the weight of everything pressed down on her shoulders, I wanted to be the one who caught her.

“You’re tougher than most guys I know,” I said quietly, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “Don’t forget that.”