Hex’s voice drops lower. “Squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it.”
The double meaning isn’t lost on me, and heat pools low in my belly. I take a shaky breath, trying to focus on anything other than how perfectly I fit against him. I line up with the target and pull.
The shot cracks through the space, the power behind it vibrates through me. The kick surprises me, making me stumble back a step. Hex is there, steady hands catching my waist, pulling me against the solid wall of his chest.
For a moment, we’re frozen like that—his arms around me, my back pressed to his front, our breathing in sync.
I tilt my head back to look at him, and something dark flickers in his eyes. His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before rising again.
He leans in, voice smooth and amused. “Not bad.”
I twist my head to look up at him. “I missed completely, didn’t I?”
He bares more teeth than I’ve yet to see, and damn it, a little dimple makes its first appearance. “Maybe.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s already repositioning me, settling his hands over mine to correct my grip. His touch is firm, instructive, but there’s an undertone to it, a subtle tension coiling in the air between us.
As he helps me line up another shot, I glance at him. “You learned all this just because you wanted to?”
His brows dip. “Needed to.”
The weight of that answer catches me. I want to press, but something about his tone makes me hesitate.
I swallow hard, the dryness in my throat scraping like sandpaper. My eyes drift back to the target, that flimsy paper fluttering paces away. I picture it solid, three-dimensional, breathing. A person. Flesh and bone. Someone’s son. Someone’s friend. Someone who might’ve hurt me or might not have had the chance yet. The image settles heavy in my chest.
I can almost feel the recoil before I even pull the trigger. The sound. The flash. The way it would rip through something real. Someone real.
My grip tightens, but my stomach twists.
“I don’t think I could ever shoot someone,” I murmur, the words tasting like doubt and guilt and something just shy of fear.
Hex is quiet for a long beat. Then, his voice is calm and clear as day in my ear protection. “If someone you love is in danger—if it’s shoot or they get hurt, maybe even die—the choice gets a lot easier.”
A shiver traces down my spine. The way he says it, the certainty, makes me wonder. About his past. About what’s shaped him. If he has made that decision himself.
My eyes narrow, tracing the outline of the target until everything else fades—the other people, the sounds, the gnawing doubt. Just me and the target.
Hex doesn’t step away. He stays close, his chest at my back, steady and solid. His presence threads through me like a second spine, anchoring the nerves that had scattered through my limbs.
Somehow, I stop shaking. I stop thinking.
I think about Sabastian and what I wouldn’t do to assure his complete safety.
I pull the trigger.
And I don’t miss.
We empty a few magazines, and I surprise myself by not completely sucking. Hex lingers behind me, his hands staying on my hips, but I don’t complain. He’s patient, offering just enough praise when I land a shot and smirking in that way that makes me want to try harder when I miss.
Eventually, I graduate to the bigger gun. My aim sharpens. My confidence builds. And when I finally hit dead center, I don’t miss the way he looks at me. It’s as if he’s seeing something he wasn’t expecting. Something he likes.
When we wrap up, he turns to me, tilting his head. “Hungry?”
“Yes.” I exhale, only just realizing I’ve been running on the sad remains of an old yogurt I grabbed in a rush this morning. “Starving, actually.”
Hex nods and leads me outside. When we get back on the bike, I expect him to head for a diner or some tucked-away breakfast joint.
Instead, we pull up to a place that seems to have sprung from a child’s sugar-fueled fever dream with bright colors, a ridiculous sign that readsPancake Panic, and cartoonishly oversized stacks of waffles and bacon decorating the windows.
