You finally get the upper hand. For once.

Your forearm pins Cameron‘s throat lightly to the mat, your knee braced against his hip, the quiet training room filled only with the sound of your ragged breaths.

His hands are trapped. His chest rises under yours. He looks up at you.

And for the first time in days of this grueling, brutal midnight training… he’s not smirking.

He’s watching you.

Like he’s trying very, very hard not to think about the fact that you’re straddling him.

Your voice comes out a little breathless. “Looks like I win.”

Cameron huffs a laugh—quiet, low. “You sure about that?”

“You’re pinned.”

“Am I?”

His eyes drop to your lips for half a second. Just long enough for your stomach to flip. Just long enough for the air to tighten between you, electric and hot.

He lets you sit in that charged moment— lets you think you’ve bested him— lets you feel the power shift—

And then?

One sharp, fluid twist of his body.

You’re flipped onto your back before you even register movement, his weight caging you in, his hand hovering over your throat—not touching, just close enough that you feel the threat.

Close enough that you swallow.

Close enough that you know if this were the trials… you’d be dead.

He whispers, voice rough with adrenaline and something else he’s trying to bury.

“You got distracted.”

You glare. “You used that.”

“It worked.”

His breath ghosts over your cheek, warm and infuriating. He’s close enough that the lines between danger and something far more reckless blur for a heartbeat too long.

Then he pushes off you and stands, offering you a hand like nothing happened.

“Again,” he says, smirk returning. “Unless you’d rather admire me from the floor.”