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When I was old enough, I started using it.

I never told anyone about it, not even Hayzel. Most of the time I went there stressed, and I didn’t want to explain why it felt necessary.

It wasn’t a hobby, or confidence, it was insurance.

I never thought of it as fear, it felt like preparation.

Standing outside the training grounds now, waiting to go in, that same reasoning settled in my head. I was doing what I’d always done, making sure I wouldn’t be caught off guard and imagining what it would feel like to have to protect Milo from dad if one day he loses patience.

“I’m nervous,” Hayzel whispers in front of me.

My hand finds its way to her shoulder as I squeeze there before replying, “We’re just training, it’s gonna be okay.”

All the main instructors were there, moving between lanes, targets lined up, ear protection on, every student was ready and groups were formed per supervisors.

Hayzel was fussing over her straps, laughing, and Ethan was checking his weapon, tossing a grin my way.

I was loading my magazine when he stopped behind me. Mister Caldwell was here, leaning slightly over my shoulder as he helped adjust my gear.

“So,” he said quietly, voice just low enough for me, “are you still completely closed at the idea of helping me with the case?”

“Sir,” I replied flatly, “Harassing a student you barely know, really?”

There was a pause, followed by a quiet and deep laugh.

“I’m discussing a case with a student I think is brilliant,” he said, adjusting the strap of my vest with a quick movement. “Nothing more.”

“Of course,” I muttered, stepping half a pace forward, “Still a no.”

We took position on the line and he moved behind me to observe, posture straight, hands clasped behind his back like the others.

I raised the weapon, focused on the first target, breathing calmly. After my first shots, he leaned in slightly again toward me. Mister Caldwell is tall, he’s impressively tall and muscular. So, I’m sure no one is even noticing that he’s actually talking to me.

“You’re good,” he said quietly. “Who taught you that?”

I exhaled, finger off the trigger. “Professor, I have a gun in my hands. Wouldn’t you prefer asking personal questions when I’d be less of a danger to your life?”

He laughed under his breath, just once. “Fair point," and then stepped closer, still careful, still covering us to anyone watching. His foot nudged mine outward, firm and quick, opening my stance by a few inches.

“Wider, Miss Vitelli,” he murmured. “You’re locking your hips. Let the recoil travel.”

I adjusted without looking at him.

“Relax your shoulders,” he continued. “Try again.”

I fired again. Better grouping this time.

“See?” He said. “You listen.”

“Only when it’s useful,” I replied.

A corner of his mouth lifted, and he moved away, correcting another student, but I felt his attention even when he wasn’t there. A glance when I reset. A nod when I adjusted my grip on my own.

Hayzel caught my eye two lanes over and mouthed, ‘showoff.’

The session wrapped quickly after that, weapons cleared, targets lowered, and instructors called time.

As I slung my bag over my shoulder, I felt his gaze again. Then he turned away.