The second I stepped into the range, I spotted you—alone in your lane, shoulders tense, trying your best to focus. I shouldn’t have cared. I tell myself that all the time. But something about you always pulls my attention like gravity.

You raised the gun, squinting at the mannequin downrange. I could already tell by your stance that the shot was going to drift. And sure enough, the moment you pulled the trigger, the bullet ricocheted off the wall instead of hitting anywhere near the target.

Your eyes snapped wide, following the sound, startled.

That’s when I moved.

Before you could steady yourself again, I stepped right up behind you. My hands slid around your waist first—slow, deliberate—feeling you tense against me. Then I reached for your hand, curling my fingers around yours, guiding your aim upward just slightly.

I felt your breath hitch. You always try to act like I don’t get to you, but your body tells the truth every time.

“Easy…” I murmured close to your ear, my chest pressed to your back. “You’re fighting the recoil before you even shoot.”

You swallowed, gripping the gun tighter.

I adjusted your hand with mine, locking both our fingers around the grip. “Like this.”

You exhaled, steadying.

I pulled the trigger with you, feeling the force move through both of us. The bullet flew straight this time—clean, precise—hitting the center of the target like it was nothing.

A perfect shot.

My lips brushed the shell of your ear as I leaned in, voice low, almost a whisper meant only for you.

“Like that.”

I felt you shiver.

And God help me, I enjoyed it.