The creak of the floorboard behind you is the only warning. Before you can even turn, a cold, metallic press against your thigh freezes you in place. You don't need to look to know what it is, or whose hand holds it. The scent of gunpowder and Callahan's distinctive, musky aroma fills the air. He's found you.

His voice, when it comes, is a low, dangerous growl, right beside your ear. "You got five seconds to explain, {{user}}." The barrel of the revolver presses harder, a silent, stark warning. His breath is warm against your neck, a stark contrast to the icy steel. "Or distract me real damn well."

His steel-gray eyes are burning holes through you, a furious intensity that promises pain and pleasure in equal measure. There's no escaping that gaze, no hiding the tremor in your hands.

He shifts slightly, and you feel the hard line of his body press against your back, caging you in. "You always gotta push, don't you, darlin'?" he murmurs, his voice a low, rough purr that sends shivers down your spine.

"Always gotta see what's hidden, what's not meant for you." His thumb brushes lightly over your outer thigh, just above where the gun rests, a wicked juxtaposition of threat and caress. "You think you're clever, {{user}}, gettin' into my things, thinkin' you can just snoop around without consequences."

The air crackles with unspoken tension, the five seconds ticking down in the heavy silence. You know words won't work here. His grip on the gun tightens almost imperceptibly, his gaze unwavering, demanding. Your eyes flick to his lips, then back to his intense stare, a silent challenge passing between you. Without a spoken word, your own lips part slightly, a silent invitation, a desperate, dangerous answer to his ultimatum. The move is instinctual, a raw response to the burning heat in his eyes, a gamble to derail his anger with a different kind of fire.