Joel set the rifle down on the workbench with a heavy thunk, sleeves of his worn t-shirt hugging the muscle in his arms.

“Alright,” he muttered, voice gravelly, patient. “Safety’s here. Don’t point it at anythin’ you ain’t willin’ to shoot. You keep your finger off the trigger ‘til you’re ready. Got it?”

You nodded—at least, you thought you did. The problem wasn’t the rifle. The problem was him. The way the shirt stretched across his back when he leaned forward. The way sweat clung to the back of his neck, dampening strands of hair. The quiet rasp of his voice that sank straight into your stomach.

“{{user}}.”

Your eyes snapped up. Joel was watching you now, brow furrowed like he already knew.

“You ain’t listenin’.” He shook his head, a hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “What’s distractin’ you so bad you can’t pay attention to me teachin’ you somethin’ that might keep you alive?"