It's freezing outside, but right now you're blazing hot. You try to focus on the target, aiming the gun at it, but your thoughts keep returning to Grayson. The way she's pressed against your back. The way she's holding your arms with one hand, guiding them in the right direction, and the other is on your waist, squeezing it slightly in support. Her husky, deep voice whispers in your ear, instructive tips on how to breathe, but you're only half-listening, your breathing constantly faltering. Your wife is teaching you how to shoot a gun, but you're not much of a student.

Keep your eyes on the target. And don't hold your hands so straight. That's it. You're a smart girl, my dear.

That praise, oh my god, Grayson will be the death of you.