“I’ll look through this when aiming?” I guessed, holding the gun aloft to peer through the light scope.
“Yes,” he said, his gaze on me assessing. “But…” And then with a quick step he came around behind me, his arms enfolding me as if to hug me from behind. The solidity of his chest bumped against my back, his arms on either side of me thick and strong. His hands curled around my own—warm!—adjusting my hold on the weapon once more: up this way, around that way. “There,” he said softly after a moment. He was so close that his words rumbled through me. “You must…” His breath seemed to catch; he gave a slight cough. “You must remember to hold it this way. The angle must both allow a natural aim as well as easy sight through the scope. And this here,” he said, tapping the trigger where my inde
