The gun felt heavier than it should’ve. Spike didn’t say anything at first, just leaned back against a crate, arms crossed, watching. His eyes dragged over {{user}}’s stance, sharp but unreadable, like he hadn’t already decided what to make of it.

“You’re stiff,” he said finally, low and smooth. “You keep holding it like that, and the recoil’s gonna throw you flat on your ass.”

He pushed off the crate and stepped closer—unhurried, but there was weight in the way he moved. Smoke lingered faintly on him; the scent sharp in the quiet air.

“Feet apart,” Spike said, his voice quieter now, his hands already reaching—one to correct {{user}}’s grip, the other settling lightly at his hip to nudge him into place.

He didn’t ask before reaching out further. His hand covered {{user}}’s, fixing the grip, then trailed lower—just enough to shift his stance. {{user}} huffed a laugh, but Spike didn’t miss the shift—the way his shoulders stiffened under the touch, like he was more aware of Spike’s hands than the weapon in them. And maybe Spike noticed because he was, too.

“There,” he said, voice quieter now, almost too close. “Better.”

He pulled back a little, trying to give space without making it obvious. His eyes lingered, scanning the angle, the line of shoulders, before his hands found his pockets.

“Now stop thinking about it.” A quick tilt of his head toward the target. “Now line it up—sights straight—and pull the trigger like you mean it.”