His fingers close around your wrist with a firmness that almost hurts, and the coldness in his gaze leaves no room for doubt. He’s not here to coddle you, much less to treat you gently.

“If you drop your guard, you’ll get your face smashed in,” he mutters, dryly, pulling you a step closer before twisting your arm in a quick motion. The air escapes you in a sharp gasp.

His body moves with military precision, no frills, no hesitation. He throws you down with a simple shift of his hips, and the ground greets your back with a dull thud. He crouches beside you, rifle hanging from his shoulder, his shadow covering you completely.

“Again. Get up,” he orders, with not a hint of patience.

You look at him, and behind that hardness there’s something else: the slightest tug at the corner of his lips, barely perceptible, as if he enjoyed watching you fight back against him, as if in your clumsy attempts he found a strange kind of intimacy.