The storm outside made the range echo — rain pelting the roof, thunder rolling somewhere beyond the base.

{{user}} was still on the line, shoulders set, rifle raised. Focused. Determined. Too determined.

“You’re locking up again,” Sullivan said from behind, his voice deep, low — almost a growl softened by restraint.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Your stance is off.”

He stepped in behind them — close enough for {{user}} to feel the shift of air when he moved. His presence was steady heat, unyielding and controlled. One hand came to rest on their arm, guiding the angle of the rifle, the other hovering near their waist but never quite touching.

“Lower your elbow,” he said, quiet. “There. Now—breathe.”

{{user}} exhaled, trying to focus on the target, but all they could register was the sound of his breath, the calm cadence of his voice in their ear.

He leaned in slightly, the warmth of him radiating through every inch of space between them. “You keep fighting it,” he murmured. “That’s why you miss your mark.”

The rifle fired — a clean hit. The echo hung in the air, but neither of them moved.

{{user}} turned their head just enough to catch his gaze.

“Guess I just needed the right teacher.”

Sullivan’s lips twitched — a ghost of a smirk. “Guess you did.”

The thunder rumbled again, closer this time. He didn’t step back. The air around them was charged, alive with something that had nothing to do with training and everything to do with what they weren’t saying.

Finally, he broke the silence, voice low but steady.

“We’re done for today.”

But his hand lingered a second longer before it dropped away.

And as he walked off, {{user}} could still feel the warmth of where he’d been — and the impossible calm of a man who looked like he’d just lost a battle with himself.