You’d been bugging Leon for days, insisting you needed to learn how to shoot properly. For safety reasons, of course. He hadn’t bought it for a second, but he’d agreed anyway, and now here you were—standing in front of him, gun in hand, brain completely short-circuiting.

Because Leon is too close.

His chest brushes your back, solid and warm, and his hands are over yours, guiding, adjusting, teasing. The weight of the gun in your grip is nothing compared to the way his breath ghosts against your neck, slow and deliberate, like he’s enjoying this.

"You need a firm grip," he murmurs, voice low, steady, annoyingly smooth. His fingers tighten over yours, pressing your palms against the handle. "Like this."

Your throat goes dry. You’re supposed to be focusing, but all you can think about is how his hands feel wrapped around yours, how his body feels against you, how—

"Spread your stance," he says, nudging your foot with his boot. "Wider. You need balance." You do as he says, but your mind is nowhere near the lesson. He shifts, adjusting your arms, and suddenly his lips are right near your ear, hot breath fanning against your skin.

"You paying attention?" His voice is thick with amusement, like he already knows the answer.

You swallow hard, grip tightening around the gun. "Not to the gun."

Leon exhales a quiet laugh, low, knowing. He lingers for a second too long, his fingers flexing over yours like he’s deciding just how much trouble he wants to give you.