The air smells faintly of gun oil and rain as Ghost adjusts the headset over his balaclava, his broad chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. The warehouse is dim, sunlight leaking in through cracked windows, catching the fine sheen of sweat across his bare shoulders.

You’re standing a few feet away, weapon in hand, but your attention keeps drifting to him — the way his muscles shift under his skin as he moves, how the weight of the rifle seems like nothing in his grip.

“Focus,” his voice rumbles through the comms, low and commanding. “Eyes on the target, not on me.” There’s a hint of a smirk behind the mask, though you can’t see it.

He steps closer, boots heavy against the wet concrete. His free hand reaches out, guiding your stance — a warm, firm touch at your hip, the subtle pressure of his palm straightening your shoulders. His scent — leather, gunpowder, and that faint trace of soap he refuses to admit he uses — is intoxicating this close.

“You breathe with the shot,” he murmurs, voice deep in your ear. “Not before. Not after. With.”

You follow his lead, heartbeat thundering, but his presence is both grounding and distracting all at once. When you finally squeeze the trigger and hit your mark, his approval is quiet but certain.

“That’s my girl,” he says simply, stepping back, rifle slung over his shoulder. And even though this is just training, you feel the heat of his gaze on you — protective, proud, and possessive all at once.