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"You're holdin' it all wrong," Sadie chides, huffing in exasperation.
Taking the rifle from you—a beat-up old Springfield—she shows you how to aim for what feels like the fiftieth time in a row.
She says you need to learn to shoot to protect yourself from all kinds of things: men, bears, runaway wagons.
It still ain't stuck.
"You gotta hold it like this, else you ain't hittin' a damn thing."
"But you said—"
"Go on, try again," she says, pressing the gun back into your hands and stepping away to watch. "Elbows in!"
You aim—try to, at least—and shoot. The recoil nearly knocks you clean on your ass, your grip just barely managing to keep the rifle from tumbling to the ground.
You missed the can of beans entirely, instead hitting a tree trunk within an inch of its life, the bullet half-lodged in the bark.
She exhales sharply, your sheepish gaze finding hers.
"I hit somethin', at least," you mutter, but she's already snapping at you to try again.
"Keep it straight!"
"Gonna scare the girl off before she hits the damn thing," says a voice you know all too well.
Arthur Morgan, leaning against an old tree a few paces back with his hands on his belt, hat sitting low.
"She's doin' just fine. Don't you go distractin' her," Sadie objects, her attention returning back to you, but it's far too late for that.
You're already a flustered mess where he's concerned. You feel yourself going rosy the second you realize he's been watching the whole exchange, feel it creep up your neck, settling hard in your cheeks. No hiding it now.
Before you can gather yourself, you nearly take off your own foot and shoot poor Lenny in the backside all at once.
Through it all, Arthur doesn't laugh. Doesn't make a fuss like Sadie does.
He just watches you.
He's always watching you.
Lining up the next shot, you feel his gaze like a physical touch, trailing up your back and clinging to your nape. Worst of all, Sadie's got her sights trained on you, noticing when your eyes stray, searching for him.
"You plannin' on shootin', or just lookin' over your shoulder all day?" she asks bluntly, arms crossing.
She looks at Arthur, who shrugs. "Ain't doin' nothin'."
Swallowing hard, you shift your gaze forward. Your aim's all wrong, fingers trembling against the barrel. You pull the trigger anyway, the bullet whizzing through the trees and landing somewhere out of sight, recoil nearly tearing a hole clean through your chest.
"I can't do it, Mrs. Adler," you whine, face red with embarrassment as you lower the rifle. "It's too hard. I'm just wastin' bullets."
You feel it then—a knot in your chest at him seeing you flail like a fawn that's just found its legs. It's enough to make you look away, a frown curling your lips.
Sadie softens on you just then, like she knows what you're thinking about—why you suddenly can't focus.
She fixes Arthur with a pointed look, one that has him shifting uncomfortably where he stands. "Now hold on—"
"You're the one got her all turned around," she says, like that's the law of the land and she's merely enforcing it. "Might as well teach her somethin'."
She claps him on the back, already making her way to her tent across camp, muttering something to herself as she does.
He doesn't move right away. Neither do you.
The silence settles over you like a blanket. You can feel him there, the weight of him—can't bring yourself to look up at him.
"Don't trouble yourself none," you say softly, eyes on the dirt at your feet.
"You're alright," he says. "Just need a steady hand is all."
You blink, lifting your gaze to meet his, but he's already closing the distance, gently taking the rifle from your hands. He fiddles with it, some fancy adjustment you don't catch. You're too busy staring at his handsome face, wondering why he's bothering with you at all.
He hands it back when it's ready, slower than necessary, making sure you have a firm grip on it before he lets go.
You feel him before he steps closer, the steadiness of his presence at your back. He hasn't touched you, not yet anyway. Still, you realize how near he is.
"You're alright," he says, voice low as his hand clasps your shoulder, adjusting your posture with a careful touch. "Easy."
The rest is a blur, your mind fixated on him, him, him—every breath, every graze, every moment his skin brushes yours.
"You're off-balance," he notes, gesturing to your legs. "One foot forward."
You keep your eyes on his face, feet shifting on the dirt until he looks satisfied. Instead, he frowns a little, enough to make you do the same.
"You're too close together."
His boot carefully finds home beneath the hem of your dress, nudging lightly at your own. It makes you jolt halfway out of your skin, breath catching for no good reason. You forget all about what he just told you, suddenly too aware of your dress, your stance, yourself.
He's paying attention to you.
More than you're used to.
You adjust your feet, too focused on the contact to get it right. He doesn't seem to mind correcting you again. Doesn't rush, doesn't pester.
Just guides in that gentle, easy way of his.
He works on your hands next, trembling like a leaf around the rifle, barely gripping it enough.
"You're alright," he says simply, trying to ground you. "Just hold it."
Taking a breath, you relax your arms, the tension seeping out of them in waves. You let the butt of the gun rest on your shoulder, adjust your fingers around it.
You think you've got it down, holding still as he nudges it into place.
Until his fingers close around your own, sliding your hand further down the barrel, pressing flush against your back.
"Hold it here," he says, unmoving.
Oh.
Your pulse thrums, heart pounding loudly in your ears.
You feel him everywhere—the strength of his hand against yours, his fingers at your elbow to loosen where it's tucked rigid against your side, the solid lines of his chest.
"I got you," he murmurs, breath ghosting your ear.
You try to hone in on the hunk of metal in your hands—on aiming where you ought to be—but they don't listen, your grip slipping along the barrel, and your eyes won't leave his face long enough to let you.
He tells you what to do next, and you hear his instructions plain as day. You should respond—tell him you're listening, move your fingers the way he's telling you to.
But you feel the rumble of his words against your back, his chest shaking with them, enough to make you tremble.
"Hold it steady... there."
"That's it, just like that."
"Just look at it—right there."
Every word he utters lands heavy, stirring something in you that won't settle.
And when he tells you to pull the trigger, your finger moves before you can think better of it.
The shot cracks through the air, loud enough to knock the wind out of you, the recoil punching into your shoulder, sharp and sudden.
You don't see where it lands—don't know if you hit a damn thing until you open your eyes again. It's a long while before you get your bearings, staring at the barrel in a daze.
Still smoking, warm beneath your fingertips, his hand unmoving over yours.
"Knew you had it," he says then, the subtle hint of pride in his words pulling at something in your chest.
That's when you look, following where the shot could've gone. Surely you missed, what with not paying your aim any mind.
The can's gone from the post, knocked clean into the dirt, a neat hole split straight through its middle.
You stare at it longer than you ought to, like it might right itself if you wait.
"No... I did that?" You ask, glancing at him as you try to convince yourself of it. "I hit it?"
"Clean through," he says, nodding once.
He looks at the can—only for a second—before his attention drifts right back to you, like that's the part that matters.
A smile curves your lips then, a small, surprised laugh escaping your chest until you realize he hasn't moved. Still standing close enough you can feel the heat of him.
He doesn't step back, doesn't say a word. He just stays there, longer than he ought to, eyes not leaving yours.
He seems to remember himself, his shoulders squaring. He hesitates, long enough that you catch it.
He steps back, hands falling loose at his sides.
Clearing his throat, his fingers adjust the brim of his hat, thumb hooking his belt. He rubs at his neck, suddenly unable to hold your gaze, eyes locked somewhere off to the side.
"...You did good," he says.
You smile again, voice soft. "Couldn't have done it without you, Arthur."
He looks at you then—searching, waiting, staring straight through you.
You think he's going to speak again, say something you want to hear. He's got something on his mind, that much is certain.
He opens his mouth, starts to gather the words, until Dutch's voice booms from across camp.
"Arthur!"
He pauses, glances toward Dutch—hands on his hips in front of his tent—then back at you.
"Go on..." you murmur. "Don't leave him waitin' on you."
But his legs don't move, don't carry him off and leave you in the dust. No—he lingers, like he's considering staying.
"Yeah," he mutters.
He makes it halfway to Dutch before he looks back over his shoulder—like he didn't mean to, but he couldn't quite help it. Only when he disappears into the bustle of camp does your chest finally loosen.
You've always had it bad for Arthur Morgan.
Didn't figure a lesson like this would make it worse.