The training session had been intense, your focus honed in on blocking every one of Simon’s strikes. His movements were quick, calculated, testing your limits. Sweat dripped down your face as you dodged and parried each punch, your muscles burning from the effort. Simon’s eyes never left yours, a silent challenge in the way he pushed you to your edge.

“You’re doing well,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and filled with approval, but it only made you push harder.

The adrenaline coursed through your veins, keeping you sharp, blocking out the fatigue as you met each of his blows with precision. But as the minutes passed, the weight of the effort began to pull at you. Your body started to slow, the strain becoming too much, but you kept going, determined to hold your ground.

Simon threw another punch, and you blocked it—barely. The room seemed to spin for a moment, the edges of your vision blurring. Your heartbeat thundered in your chest, louder than the sound of your own breath. Then, out of nowhere, your legs gave out beneath you. The adrenaline that had been fueling you ran dry, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake.

Before you could hit the ground, Simon was there. His strong arms wrapped around you, catching you as you collapsed against his chest. His grip was firm but careful, holding you up with ease.

“Hey, easy,” he murmured, his tone softening as he steadied you.