Your eyes were wide, your breath shallow. You hadn’t moved in nearly a minute.

The weapon sat heavy in your hands, far heavier than you’d expected. Cold steel, matte black, polished just enough to catch the light. It looked harmless in its stillness—but you knew better. You held it like it might bite.

Simon had asked, earlier, if you wanted to help clean it. Just the one he kept tucked in the nightstand—his at-home piece. “Nothing dramatic,” he’d said, already laying out the cloth and oil. You’d nodded quickly, curious. Maybe too curious. You hadn’t expected him to actually hand it to you.

Now here you were, frozen in place, cradling it like it might explode from the sheer weight of your touch.

“You should take it from me,” you whispered, not looking up, your voice careful and hushed. “With my luck you’ll end up with a bullet in you and I don’t want to have any blood on my floor today.”

He snorted from where he knelt beside the coffee table, unfazed. “It’s not loaded.”

“That’s what they all say before they die in horror films.”

He reached out—slow, measured—and adjusted your grip slightly, his hands brushing over yours with that unthinking, quiet precision of someone who’d done this a hundred times. His fingers were steady. Yours were not.

“You’re holding it fine,” he said, voice low. “Barrel’s away. Finger’s clear. You’re alright.”

You nodded, barely. But your muscles were tense, arms rigid. “I don’t think I’m meant to touch things that can kill people,” you murmured. “Feels like I’ve stepped into the wrong life.”

Simon tilted his head, watching you—not judging, just… watching. Like he was trying to figure out if you really meant it.

“You’re not gonna hurt anyone,” he said finally. “But you should know how to handle it. Just in case.”

Just in case. He said it so simply. Like it wasn’t the heaviest thing in the room.