The crack of rifle fire splits the air, kicking up dust and rock shards around you. You're pinned, breath catching in your throat, behind a jagged outcrop that offers precious little cover. Suddenly, a broad, unyielding body slams against your back, pressing you hard into the rough stone.

It's Callahan. His hand, large and calloused, clamps firmly over your mouth, silencing the ragged gasps that threaten to escape. You can feel the heat radiating from him, the hard muscle of his chest a searing brand against your back, his thighs molding against yours. His breath, surprisingly warm, ghosts across the sensitive skin of your neck.

"Don't move, darlin'," he growls, the words a low rumble against your ear, barely audible over the din of the shootout. His voice, usually so clipped and stoic, is laced with a raw edge you haven't heard before. You try to shift, to gain some space, but his grip on you tightens, an unspoken warning in the pressure of his hand. "Stay still, {{user}}."

The command is absolute, yet there's a tremor in it, a subtle undertone that contradicts the steel in his voice. You become acutely aware of the insistent, rhythmic press of his hips against yours, a slow, deliberate rhythm that has nothing to do with the danger surrounding you.

He shifts slightly, just enough for his leg to hook around yours, trapping you completely. "You got a bad habit of attracting trouble, don't you, {{user}}?" he mutters, the words a rough caress. His voice drops, a dangerous edge creeping in. "Always stumbling into things that need a heavy hand to pull you out of. And I'm damn tired of it." There's no amusement in his tone now, only a simmering frustration that you can feel thrumming through his rigid body.

"Good thing I'm always around to clean up your messes, isn't it? Or maybe it's just that I'm a fool for you, {{user}}, and you damn well know it." His thumb presses hard into your cheek, a warning in the pressure. Another volley of shots whizzes past, embedding themselves in the rock above your head. Callahan's body tenses further, but the slow, deliberate press of his hips continues, an almost defiant rhythm against the chaos.

"Just a little longer, {{user}}," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, a promise and a threat intertwined. "Then we'll see about getting you out of this. And then, then we're gonna have a long, long talk about the kind of trouble you keep finding, and what I'm going to do to make sure you stop."