The chill of the metal seeped into your palm, a familiar weight that had come to feel less like a tool and more like a judgement. Each missed shot was an echo of your own failure, a sharp crack that seemed to laugh back at you from the empty air. You squeezed the trigger. The bullet went wide again, kicking up a pathetic puff of dirt metres from the target. The silence that followed was heavier, more humiliating, than the gunshot itself.

A sigh, soft but devastating, came from besides you. It wasn't an angry sound. It was worse—a sound of profound, weary disappointment that coiled in your stomach like a cold snake. You couldn't bring yourself to look at him, choosing instead to stare at the deeply unscathed target, your cheeks burning.

Then he was moving. You felt the space behind you shift, the air warming with his presence before he even touched you. Your breath hitched, your spine stiffening as his chest brushed against your back. One hand, calloused and sure, closed over yours on the grip, repositioning your fingers with an unsettling gentleness. His other arm came around your side, his forearm a solid brace under your elbow, forcing it up, correcting the weary slump of your stance.

He was a cage of heat and muscle around you, his chin nearly resting on your shoulder. You could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap and the lingering, metallic tang of gun oil. You were frozen, every nerve ending screaming at the proximity, hyper-aware of the steady, calm rhythm of his breathing against your back, a stark contrast to your own ragged, shallow gasps.

"Breathe out." His voice was a low murmur, a vibration you felt more than heard, meant for your ears alone. "Now."

His finger covered yours on the trigger. There was no hesitation, no wobble. He simply applied a smooth, steady pressure. The gun roared, the recoil a sharp, clean jolt that travelled up your arm—a jolt he absorbed effortlessly, his body steadying yours.

The echo died. A perfect, neat hole now punctured the very centre of the target.

He released you, stepping back as suddenly as he had arrived. The cold air rushed in to fill the space he left behind, making you shiver. You stood there, trembling slightly, the ghost of his touch still imprinted on your hands, your arms, and your back.

"Like that."

The two words were flat, an instruction devoid of praise. He wasn't looking at the target; he was looking at you, his gaze analytical, waiting. The lesson was over. The demonstration was complete. The expectation now hung in the air, heavier than the gun in your hand. Slowly, you raised the weapon again, your muscles screaming in protest, trying to mimic the impossible solidity of his form, the ghost of his grip still guiding your shaking hands.