The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor of the shooting range. The air smelled like gun oil and burnt powder — comfort, familiarity, home in a way neither of you would ever admit out loud.

Slade slid a fresh magazine across the counter to you, expression unreadable behind the dark lenses of his safety glasses. No lecture, no instructions. Just a quiet, expectant nod.

You racked the slide, steadying your breath, the target silhouette waiting downrange. The first shot cracked through the air. Then the second. Each recoil a pulse of adrenaline, each casing a glittering heartbeat hitting the floor.

Slade didn’t clap. Didn’t smile. But he stepped closer, adjusting your stance with two deliberate taps: shoulder, elbow. The closest thing he’d ever give to affection.

“Again,” he said — low, almost proud.

The spent shells piled up between you, metallic little monuments to a kind of bonding only the Wilsons would ever understand. Not hugs. Not heart-to-hearts.

Just gunfire, precision, and the unspoken promise:

I’ve got you — and you’ll be ready.