The gun feels heavier than usual. It shouldn’t — it’s standard issue, something you’ve held countless times in training, but here, under Simon’s scrutiny, it suddenly feels like a foreign weight in your hands.

"Your grip’s off."

Simon’s voice comes from behind you, low and edged with something unreadable. His tone is steady, even, but there’s no mistaking the sharpness of his gaze as he watches your every movement. You adjust, fingers tightening around the pistol, but before you can fully settle, a gloved hand wraps over yours.

"Not like that," Simon mutters, stepping in closer.

His presence is a force of its own—solid, unyielding. The bulk of his chest brushes against your back, the scent of gunpowder and something faintly him settling in the air between you. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, the slow, steady rhythm of his breath against the side of your neck.

His fingers shift yours, his touch firm but patient. Guiding. His palm is warm through the fabric of his gloves, his grip confident as he corrects your hold. Your lieutenant corrects you easily, like always. Simon’s always doing this — adjusting you, helping you, making you a better soldier. You’d appreciated it, admired it even. Admired him. Somewhere along the way, admiration had begun to confuse itself with infatuation and now the feelings bloom in your stomach as he helps you and you have no goddamn clue if he even realises.

"Thumb here," he murmurs, nudging it into place. His voice is quieter now, as if meant just for you. "You don’t need to strangle the damn thing—keep your hold firm, but loose enough to control your shot."

His hands move down your arms next, adjusting your elbows, pressing lightly against your shoulders to ease the tension there.

“Feet shoulder-width apart," Simon continues, and his boot nudges yours slightly, correcting your stance. "You need balance. Can’t shoot for shit if you’re off-center.