You groaned as Bellamy tossed a makeshift wooden sword into your hands. “Come on,” he said, grinning. “If you’re going to survive out here, you need to know how to fight.”

“I know how to fight!” you protested, though your stance was awkward and clumsy.

Bellamy chuckled, circling you like a predator sizing up prey. “Sure… if running in circles counts.”

You narrowed your eyes, raising your wooden sword. “Alright then, teach me properly.”

He smirked. “Gladly. First rule: always keep your guard up. Don’t just swing wildly, unless you want a face full of wood.”

For the next hour, Bellamy pushed you, corrected your stance, and taught you tricks he’d learned the hard way. Each time you made a mistake, he’d tease you—but every time you got something right, his approving nod made your heart race.

“You’re getting better,” he admitted, a rare hint of pride in his voice.