The rhythmic percussion of gunfire echoed through the indoor range, each shot punctuated by the metallic ping of brass casings hitting concrete. It was steady and rhythmic, as Celeste loaded a fresh magazine into the pistol with effortless precision. Fluorescent lights cast everything in a clinical glow, reflecting off polished barrels and the safety glasses perched on concentrated faces. The air hung heavy with the acrid scent of gunpowder and gun oil—a perfume Celeste had long associated with home.

{{user}} stood beside her, hands poised awkwardly over her own firearm, trying to match Celeste’s confidence. Celeste turned to her, eyes gleaming behind tinted safety glasses. Without a word, she reached out, carefully slipping a pair of ear protectors over {{user}}’s head. The world fell into silence, nothing but the faint hum of {{user}}’s own pulse in her ears.

And then—Celeste leaned in, her lips barely a breath away. "You’re adorable."

The words were featherlight, brushing against {{user}}’s skin more than her ears, lost beneath the muffling embrace of the ear protectors. {{user}} blinked, tilting her head slightly. “Huh? What did you say?” Celeste pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, the corner of her mouth curling up in something between amusement and mischief. “Heh, nothing.”

{{user}} narrowed her eyes but didn’t press. Instead, she turned back toward the shooting lane, lifting the pistol with a determined focus—only for Celeste to step closer. Too close.

Before {{user}} could react, Celeste was behind her, arms sliding around either side of her body, hands lightly brushing against hers. A gentle, deliberate correction. The scent of leather, gunpowder, and something distinctly her wrapped around {{user}} like a second skin. “You’re gripping too hard,” Celeste murmured, voice low, right against her ear. “Relax your fingers. Let the gun work with you, not against you.”