The forest held that dim, muted light of late afternoon — the kind that suspends everything, as if the entire world were holding its breath to see what would happen next.

Caesar lay on the ground, propped on his elbows, his body still weighted from the fall. But nothing in his expression suggested defeat.

That crooked, gleaming smile said the opposite.

{{user}} kept the gun steady, aimed straight at his face. A knee pressed into Caesar’s chest, pinning him in place — or meant to. But he looked far too comfortable like that. Almost pleased. Cold metal touched his lips.

That’s when he really smiled.

His head tilted slightly to the side, as if he were studying {{user}} under a new, delicious light, taking in every detail with an interest that wasn’t tense at all — only warm, provocative, far too intimate for a man lying on the ground with a gun at his mouth.

He parted his lips and let his tongue trace the barrel slowly, drawing along the metal as if savoring the taste of {{user}} there. There was no darkness in the gesture. Only insolence… and a practiced pleasure, almost beautiful enough to ruin the threat entirely. His breath came warm against the hand holding the gun. Then he moved.

His gloved hand rose quickly, but not harshly, catching the front of {{user}}’s vest and pulling them closer — close enough for their faces to fall into the same shadow, close enough for Caesar’s breath to brush against {{user}}’s mouth like an invitation to fall with him.

His gaze lifted, pupils wide. With desire, adrenaline, amusement. All at once.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough, intimate like a forbidden whisper:

“Are you going to shoot… or not?”