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I tilt my head, study him. "You didn't come back. Do you regret it?"

I already know the answer. It's written all over him. Even before the word exits his mouth. "No."

Of course not.

"Then don't sell it like it's a warning," I chastise softly. "Sell it like it's the truth."

Something shifts in his eyes. Darkens. Tightens. His other hand lifts, brushing a piece of hair away from my face. The touch is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. My breath catches. I hate that it does. I hate that I don't move. I hate that Iwanthim to do it again.

"I should stop this," he says, looking thoughtful.

"Then stop." I give him the out.

I even mean it. Maybe.

He doesn't take it. Neither do I. The space between us disappears. I can feel the heat of him now. The weight of his presence. The pull. God, the pull. My lips part before I can stop them. And for a second—just one—I forget everything. Pete. Grief. Right and wrong. All of it. There's only this. Him. Us. And how easy it would be to lean forward that last inch. His breath shifts. So does mine. He pulls back. Not far. Just enough to break it. The loss of that almost-contact hits harder than it should.

"Not like this," he mutters.

Confusion flares, sharp and immediate. "Like what?"

"While you're still bleeding," he states quietly. "Even if you don't see it."

The words land like a slap. My chest tightens. For a split second, something cracks. Something raw. Vulnerable. I hate it. I shut it down immediately. "You don't get to decide what I feel."

"No," he agrees. His thumb brushes once over my cheek before he drops it. The absence of his touch is immediate. Cold. "But I decide what I take."

Of course he does. Control. Power. That's who he is. A different silence stretches before he puts more distance between us and steps back. Like none of that just happened. Like I didn't almost…

I shove the thought down hard.

"Again," he commands, nodding toward the target.

Like this is just training. Like my world didn't just tilt on its axis—again. Like I didn't just give in to some deeper animal impulse inside me. I stare at him for a long moment, trying to understand him. Trying to understand myself. Trying to figure out if he'd just been a gentleman or an ass. I turn away. Because that's safer. Because if I keep looking at him, I might do something I can't take back. "Give me the Desert Eagle."

The words come out sharp. Not a request. A demand.

I feel him staring at me. Assessing. Measuring. Slowly, I turn my head just enough to catch him in my peripheral vision. He's looking me over like he's recalculating something. Like I just shifted categories in his head. Danger. Not liability. Not victim. Something else. A beat passes before he moves toward the case where the heavier weapon sits. His hand reaches for the Desert Eagle.

I step forward and take it from him before he can hand it over. I'm neither hesitant nor aggressive. I just need to… feel it again. It's just… mine. I grab a magazine from the table without asking. My fingers move on instinct, slide, click, lock. The weight settles into my hand.

His brows lift a fraction in surprise. I don't look at him again. I walk back to the line. And let the world narrow.

Target.

Gun.

Breath.

Until… the range disappears. In its place, sun and heat appear.

Endless desert stretches in every direction. Dust sticks to my skin, my boots, the inside of my mouth. I'm young and completely reckless. Alive in a way that has nothing to do with safety.

"How does it feel?" Razor's voice sounds in my ear.

Low. Amused. Watching me like I'm something unpredictable. Which I try to be. For him. I glance at him, squinting against the sun. He's leaning against the truck, arms crossed, tattoos catching the light. He's wearing that dangerous half-smirk like he already knows my answer.

"It kicks." I grin. It does.