Dean stands behind you at an old, abandoned shooting range, his chest warm against your back. The scent of leather, gunpowder, and whiskey clings to him as his calloused hands guide yours over the gun. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows over rusted targets and scattered shell casings, the crisp air thick with pine and earth. His fingers brush over yours, adjusting your grip with slow, deliberate movements—like he’s enjoying this just as much as teaching you.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and amused. “You’re gripping it like you’re about to fight the damn thing. It’s a gun, not a monster.”