This was a mistake.
His chest presses against my back. His arms come around me, hands covering mine on the grip, adjusting my aim toward the paper target at the end of the lane. He's so much bigger than me, surrounding me completely. His breath is hot against my neck even through the ear protection.
"Relax," he says directly into my ear, voice low enough to feel as much as hear. The vibration of it travels down my spine. "You're too tense."
I'm tense because I can feel he's half-hard against my ass. Because his hands are everywhere—on my wrists, my shoulders, my hips. Because this is the closest we've been since the garage and my body remembers exactly what happened there. Remembers his hands in my hair, his mouth on mine, his voice saying all the things he was going to do to me.
"Breathe," he instructs, apparently unaware of the crisis he's causing. Or maybe very aware and enjoying it. "Slow and steady. Squeeze the trigger, don't pull. Smooth and controlled."
I try to focus. Breathe in. Breathe out. Aim at the target—a paper silhouette, human-shaped, with concentric rings marking the scoring zones. Squeeze.
The gun goes off and I jump despite expecting it. The sound is sharp even through the ear protection, the recoil kicking through my arms, absorbed by my stance. When Ash hits the button to bring the target back, the bullet hole is surprisingly close to center.
Ash makes an impressed noise against my ear. "Good instincts. Try again."
We go through a full clip, him adjusting my stance between shots. Tilting my hips. Repositioning my fingers. A solid warmth at my back. Each shot, I get a little more comfortable. Each adjustment, his touch lingers a little longer than strictly necessary.
My grouping gets tighter with each round.
"You're a natural," he says, finally stepping back. "Want to try on your own?"
I nod, already missing the warmth.
He watches from beside me while I load a fresh clip the way he showed me and empty it into the target. Occasionally calls out adjustments—"Elbow up. Breathe. Don't anticipate the recoil." My shots cluster closer and closer to center, a tight grouping that surprises me.
"You're enjoying this," he observes when I finish.
"It's..." I consider, trying to articulate what I'm feeling. The focus required, the precision, the immediate feedback of seeing where each shot landed. "Controlled. Requires focus."
"Like cooking."
"And building bikes."
"Yeah." I set the gun down carefully, the way he showed me—slide locked back, chamber empty, muzzle pointed downrange. "I can see why you like it."
He moves to his own station, and watching him shoot is like watching a dance. No wasted energy, no hesitation, no adjustment needed. He empties a full clip in maybe thirty seconds, and when the target comes back, his grouping is so tight it's basically one ragged hole dead center where the heart would be.
"Show off," I mutter.
He smirks, pulling off his ear protection. "Twenty years of practice."
We shoot for another hour. He teaches me different stances—isoceles, weaver, modified weaver. Different grips. Shows me how to clear a jam, how to reload quickly, how to transition between targets. Always patient, explaining things twice when I don't understand without any hint of frustration.
But his hands linger. His body gets closer than strictly necessary. And every time he presses against my back to adjust my aim, I feel exactly how much he's enjoying this.
"Want to get breakfast?" he asks as we're cleaning up, packing away the gear. His voice is casual but there's hope underneath it. "There's a diner down the street. Good pancakes."
"Yeah. Breakfast sounds good."
The diner is a classic American greasy spoon—red vinyl booths, chrome accents, a counter with spinning stools, the smell of bacon and coffee saturating everything. A bell jingleswhen we walk in. A waitress in her fifties with a beehive hairdo waves us toward the booths.
We slide into one by the window, and I realize this is the first time we've been alone together in public. Sitting across from each other like normal people. Like a real date.
He orders coffee, black. I get orange juice and something called "The Lumberjack Special" that turns out to be approximately nine pounds of food—pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, toast. He steals a piece of my bacon without asking and I let him.
"You were good today," he says after the waitress leaves us alone. "Steady hands. Good instincts. Better than most beginners I've trained."
"Good teacher."
