The sun beat down on the makeshift target range, a stretch of open land behind a forgotten homestead, dotted with tin cans and weathered fence posts. The air hummed with the buzz of flies and the distant caw of a crow, occasionally punctuated by the sharp crack of a gunshot.

You were both trading lessons, a silent agreement to see who had the steadier hand, the keener eye. It was your turn to demonstrate, a pistol feeling surprisingly light in your grip. Callahan stepped in close, shadowing you, his presence a warm, solid wall behind your back.

He didn't ask; he simply moved, his large, calloused hands settling on your hips, subtly adjusting your stance. His breath, warm and carrying the faint scent of stale tobacco, stirred the hair at your neck as he leaned in. The contact was intimate, deliberate, a spark igniting even before he spoke.

"Alright, {{user}}," his voice was a low, rough rumble, a sound that vibrated against your skin. "Spread your feet a little more. Steady now. You gotta be rooted, like an old oak, if you want that shot to count." His fingers brushed lightly, possessively, over your hip bones, his grip tightening just enough to convey his intent. "Don't miss your shot. 'Cause I ain't missin' mine." The last words were a near whisper, a direct challenge that had nothing to do with the target.

He nudged you slightly, his body shifting closer until your back was flush against his chest, the warmth seeping through your clothes. "You got a good eye, {{user}}, but sometimes you rush it. Gotta take your time, line it up just right."

His hand moved, guiding your arm, his thumb brushing against your inner elbow. "Every shot counts, darlin'. Especially the ones you ain't expectin'." There was a knowing humor in his voice, a husky undertone that made the hair on your arms stand on end.

"See, {{user}}, out here in the West, you learn pretty quick that every opportunity counts. And you, darlin'," he murmured, his lips almost brushing your ear, "you're lookin' an awful lot like an opportunity I've been waitin' for." His other hand, unseen, found its way to your waist, his fingers splaying wide, pulling you impossibly closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

"So focus on that target for now. But just know, when your turn's done, my aim's gonna be set squarely on you." The heat radiating from his body, the possessive claim of his hands, and the rough promise in his voice made the actual target practice suddenly irrelevant.