The clearing was silent, aside from birds and Trevor’s grunts as he swung a wooden blade in the air with one hand, the other holding a flask. He looked at you, sweat-drenched and flushed from the first half of training. You were panting, arms sore, legs shaky.

“Again.”

You blinked. “I just did twenty swings…”

“And you did sixteen wrong.” He spit to the side. “Again.”

You held the training sword with trembling hands, eyes flicking to his face. Stern. Expression unreadable. But his gaze dipped down to your wrists, noticing how red they were, and something in his jaw ticked.

Still—he didn’t stop. “You think monsters are gonna go easy on you just because you look like you’d cry if they yelled?”

You bit your lip. “I’m trying.”

“Not hard enough. Swing.”

You did. Weakly.

Trevor rolled his eyes, stepped behind you, and yanked your arms up into the proper stance. His chest pressed to your back. His hand folded over yours.

“Firm,” he growled. “Not limp.”

You squeaked. “T-Trevor…”

His breath was hot against your ear. “Say it again and I’ll really give you something to whimper about.”

Your knees wobbled.

He stepped back.

“Hit me.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

He dropped his blade and spread his arms. “Hit me.”

“Trevor—”

“You heard me. Come on. You wanna learn, don’t you? Swing, little doll.”

You hesitated, stepped forward, raised the blade—

—and he caught it with one hand.

His smirk was infuriating. “Cute. You hit like a blushing noblewoman.”

You huffed, heart pounding. “You’re not being fair.”

“I’m not here to be fair. I’m here to make sure you don’t die. Now do it again.”

This time you screamed a little, swinging harder. He dodged. Again. Again.

Your breaths were ragged, eyes glossy.

“I can’t!” you shouted, voice breaking. “I’m not like you!”

Trevor’s expression finally softened. He walked over, took your face in one rough, calloused hand.

“No,” he said softly. “You’re better. You’re kind. Soft. Everything I’m not. But if you ever have to defend yourself, I want you to do it knowing you can take down anything. Even me.”

You blinked up at him. “Even you?”

“Especially me.”

You took a shaky breath. “What if I never get that strong?”

Trevor leaned down, lips brushing your ear.

“Then I’ll be your sword, darling.”

He kissed your cheek. “But until then, swing again. You’re not leaving until you hit me.”

You swung.

And this time, you actually grazed his side.

Trevor paused. Looked down. Then back at you.

A slow, dangerous grin spread across his face.

“…You cheeky little thing.”

You smiled nervously.

He lunged, scooped you into his arms, and threw you into the grass with a laugh, pinning you beneath him. His hair shadowed his face.

“Guess I’ll have to punish you for that one.”

You squealed. “Trevor!”

But he was laughing. For once.

And when he leaned down to kiss you again — slow, deep, possessive — you could feel it in his touch.

Rough or not, Trevor Belmont would always make you stronger.

And always hold you after.