Chapter 1 

The inside of U-Shoot-It Firing Range and Supply smelled like oil, sweat, and scorched earth, like the air after a lightning storm, but heavier. Will Reed hesitated outside the doorway, one hand resting awkwardly on his hip like he didn’t know what to do with it. The front desk guy had given him a clipboard and a set of eye and hearing protection without looking up. Standing outside the range’s heavy double doors, he realized he had no idea what came next. The rules were pinned bold, red, and unapologetic to the wall: No rapid fire. Always point downrange. Cross-lane shooting is explicitly forbidden. 

The flannel shirt he’d pulled from the rack at the discount store itched against his skin. It still smelled of sizing spray and had the price tag on the inside of the left armpit. He owned the shirt since he paid for it, but it was still just a costume for him. Instead of wearing it, the shirt wore him. He stretched the hearing protection over his head and settled the pads over his ears, then adjusted the baseball cap he’d bought on a whim last week. The brim was too stiff, and the logo too clean. 

He looked wrong in this place, and he knew it. 

Here goes nothing, he thought as he pushed the door open and entered the range floor. 

A row of men stood along the stalls, hearing protection clamped down, brass shells clinking to the floor with every shot. Will’s fingers curled around the handle of the gun case like it might jump out of his hands. He walked to his assigned lane, set the case on the table, then clipped his paper target to the line and pushed it out to seven yards. 

Showtime. 

He opened the case, removing the Glock 19 he’d rented at the front desk. The gun’s weight surprised him. It was heavier than he expected. Honest, with no ambiguity in this kind of object. No subtlety. No room for interpretation. Will loaded five rounds into the magazine. With the heel of his hand, he slid it into the magazine well with a satisfying click. He pulled the slide, putting one in the chamber. Loaded and ready to fire. 

He’d had a few lessons, but this was his first time firing a gun unsupervised. Remembering everything he’d learned about stance and posture, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, aligned his sights, and fired. 

The shot rang out. Loud, brutal, and disorienting. 

His arms wobbled. He flinched hard as the slide jerked back with mechanical violence. The recoil nearly threw the pistol from his hands. The paper target downrange looked untouched. He cursed under his breath. 

From two lanes over, Burke Lawson was watching him. 

Broad shoulders. Gray in the beard. A face carved from quiet endurance. Burke stood with a calm that only came from years of practice and routine. His hands moved with precision, his body loose but focused. He hadn’t fired in the last few minutes, just watched the new guy settle in. 

Will glanced around, trying to pretend he didn’t notice the eyes on him. He adjusted his stance and fired again. 

Miss. 

And again. 

Still off target. His grip was wrong. His aim was worse. He hated how much he cared and wanted to be good at this. 

A shadow fell over him. First shoulders, denim, the scent of leather and aftershave, and then a voice that settled deep in his bones. 

“You’re choking the grip.” 

Anywhere else, it would have sounded like a barked order, but the noise of gunfire and the muffle of the hearing protection took the edge off. Will blinked and turned. Burke stood just behind him, close enough that Will could feel the heat of his body through the smoke-charged air. He spoke over the din, but his voice remained calm. It wasn’t a correction; it was an invitation. 

“Holding it like a teacup limits your control over the recoil. Move your left hand up onto the grip so your thumbs touch side by side.” 

Will nodded. 

“And you don’t need to muscle it. Let the gun do the work.” 

Will’s throat was dry. “Okay,” he croaked. 

Burke didn’t ask permission. He stepped in behind Will, large hands closing over Will’s wrists, guiding him with a firm, measured touch. Will’s pulse hammered in his ears. He was too aware of Burke’s breath near his ear, how his chest pressed subtly into Will’s back, and the quiet dominance of his movements. 

“Relax your elbows,” Burke said. “Widen your stance. That’s it.” 

Will obeyed without thinking. It felt good to be told what to do. To let go. The gun suddenly felt… steadier. 

“Now fire.” 

Will squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out again, but this time the kick felt different. Controlled. He hit the edge of the target. The human silhouette on the paper had a bullet hole in its left shoulder. If he had been shooting for points, Will wouldn’t be anywhere near the top of the leaderboard. 

He exhaled a shaky breath, almost laughing, the adrenaline high and strange in his bloodstream. 

Burke backed away. “Better,” he said, then paused. “You’re teachable.” 

That word hit Will in a place no one had touched in years. He turned, trying to read Burke’s expression, but the older man had already gone back to his own lane. He was quiet, composed, and unreadable. 

Will stood there for another minute, heart still pounding, hands trembling. He fired another shot. A little closer to the bull’s eye this time, but that didn’t matter as much anymore. Something had shifted. 

He walked out of the range twenty minutes later, spent shell casings rattling in his thoughts. The late afternoon light had gone flat and colorless, bleeding the sky into a dull sheet of iron. The air outside the range was cold in a way that quickly settled into Will’s bones. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and walked toward his car. The flannel shirt didn’t itch as much as it had earlier. 

You’re teachable. The words echoed louder in his head with every step. 

He reached for the car door handle when— 

“Hey.” 

Will turned. Burke was walking toward him, long strides across the cracked, faded asphalt. He’d swapped out the goggles and ear protection for a worn trucker hat and a soft flannel jacket stretched over wide shoulders. He carried the scent of oil and sweat out of the range with him. 

Burke stopped a few feet away, hands in his own jacket pockets, mouth a half inch from a smile. 

“Didn’t mean to spook you inside. Hope that was okay.” 

Will blinked, caught off guard by the sudden casualness. Was the guy who had pressed himself into his back and rearranged him with military precision now shy about overstepping? 

He shook his head. “No, it was… good. Helpful.” He hesitated. “I’m new to all this.” 

Burke raised an eyebrow. “Figured. But you didn’t flinch.” 

“I flinched a little.” 

“Maybe. But you stuck it out. That’s what counts.” 

Will laughed under his breath, surprised at the warmth that bloomed in his chest. He leaned against the car door, suddenly unwilling to leave just yet. 

“I, uh… I used to be in a very different kind of life,” Will said. He wasn’t sure why he was telling Burke this, but it came out anyway. “My ex… he hated guns. Thought they were a moral failing or something. Everything in our lives had to be so curated. So political. So… sanitized. We had all the same friends, same conversations, same fucking dinner parties.” He looked down. “I never felt like I fit in with that life. I guess this—” he gestured vaguely toward the range, the mountains in the distance, “this is me trying something else. Something more… honest.” 

Burke nodded, gaze steady. He didn’t laugh, didn’t judge. He just let the silence sit between them like something sacred. 

“Sometimes it takes walking away from the noise to figure out who you really are.” 

Will looked at him, curious. “Is that what you did?” 

Burke gave the smallest shrug. “Let’s just say I got tired of other people’s stories.” 

The words felt like a door that had been left slightly ajar, but not enough to see through. Still, Will got the message: this man’s life was a closed room, and he wasn’t ready to hand over the key. 

And that made Will want it even more. 

Burke reached into his pocket and pulled out a battered leather wallet. He slid out a plain white business card. No logo, just his name, BURKE LAWSON, and a phone number. He held it out between two fingers. 

“If you ever want another lesson. Or just want to shoot sometime.” 

Will took it, fingers brushing Burke’s for a fraction too long. 

“Thanks,” he said, tucking the card into his wallet like it meant something more than just ink and numbers. 

Burke nodded once, then turned to go. A clean exit. But just before he reached the door, he looked back over his shoulder. 

“You wear that shirt better than you think.” 

Then he was gone. 

Will stood there a few more seconds, watching the empty doorway. The wind stirred around him, sharp and cold. 

The flannel still didn’t itch. 

Chapter 2 

Will’s apartment didn’t feel like his anymore. 

The succulents by the window, the abstract prints on the wall, the skinny-legged mid-century furniture—all of it had been picked out during his relationship with Adam, back when everything had to be Instagram worthy and ethically sourced, whatever that was supposed to mean. The whole place smelled faintly of eucalyptus and lavender. The diffuser was working overtime like it was trying to mask something. 

He opened the closet and stared down the enemy: rows of pastel button ups, tight-cut jeans, and sweaters soft enough to pet. They looked theatrical now, like pieces of someone else’s drag. After five minutes of flipping through hangers, frustration growing all the while, he reached down into the laundry pile, pulled out the flannel shirt he’d worn to the range, and pulled it on like armor. It still smelled faintly of gunpowder and brass shells, but it fit a little more snugly than he remembered. Or maybe he just wore it differently. 

While folding the collar over, Will’s hand brushed against the stubble on his jaw. Instinctively, he padded into the bathroom and picked up the electric trimmer on the counter. He’d kept it constantly charging for years and was used to running it like clockwork. Every few days, every stray hair that rebelled against the curated version of queer masculinity he was expected to maintain—soft, tidy, and ironic—he unthinkingly and unceremoniously sheared off. 

Not today, he thought as he unplugged the trimmer and dropped it into the drawer. 

The bell above the U-Shoot-It shop door let out a tired jingle as Will stepped inside. It was quieter than the night before, just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional clatter of salesmen restocking shelves in the back. The familiar scent of metal, dust, leather, and a hint of old tobacco curled in his lungs like a memory. 

Behind the counter stood the same man from yesterday. He was thick bodied and weathered, with a shaved head and a .45 holstered on his hip that looked more like an extension of his body than an accessory. His name tag read Clay, scrawled in black Sharpie—no last name, just Clay. 

Clay looked up, eyes narrowing slightly in recognition. 

“Ah, you’re back. Couldn’t stay away, huh?” 

Will offered a tight smile. “Guess not.” 

“You shootin’ today, or shoppin’?” 

Will hesitated. “Looking to buy. A handgun.” 

Clay’s eyes flicked over him, taking in the slight forward hunch of a man still unsure of the ground he was walking on. 

“First piece?” 

Will nodded. Clay motioned to the display cases to his left, lined with black, matte, gleaming metal. “You want something simple? Glock 17, solid choice. Everyone and their mama can strip and clean one. Or do you want something heavier? Full frame, steel, carries like a real gun?” 

Will’s eyes drifted to a SIG Sauer P226 mounted on the display behind the glass. Its weight spoke to him. Clean lines, unapologetic design. Serious. 

“That one.” 

Clay nodded slowly like he approved. “Good taste.” 

As he opened the case, he asked casually, “What’s the plan? Carrying or just range use?” 

Will paused. “Just range. For now.” 

“You got a permit yet?” 

“Working on it.” 

“Home defense?” 

Will hesitated again. The old part of his brain, the part that still heard Adam’s disapproving voice in the background, wanted to hedge. He sat in the discomfort for a moment and then pushed it aside. 

“Yeah.” 

Clay gave a low chuckle. “Takes balls to say that in this state.” 

Will felt a flush rise under his stubbled jaw. “Yeah, well… I think I’m done pretending I don’t have a pair.” 

Clay’s laugh cracked the silence. “Shit, man. You keep talkin’ like that, you’ll be buying a shotgun in time for deer season.” 

That got a smile out of Will. But it also made something shift in his stomach. He’d never said that kind of thing out loud before. Never gave himself permission to. 

Clay set the SIG on the counter. “Here. Feel it. See if it talks to you.” 

Will picked it up. The weight settled into his hand like it belonged there. It didn’t feel foreign. It didn’t feel like overcompensation. It felt right. 

“I’ll take it,” he said. 

Clay nodded once. “Attaboy.” 

Will walked out of U-Shoot-It with the SIG boxed under one arm and a box of target ammo in a plain brown bag. The wind whipped through the parking lot, but he didn’t feel the cold. He felt clarity. There wasn’t a single lavender-scented thing about this moment. No recycled hashtags or ethical irony, just steel, grit, and decision. 

And for the first time in years, Will Reed didn’t feel like a fraud. 

He started coming to the range three times a week. Burke always happened to be there, too. Sometimes they’d shoot in silence. Other times, Burke would stand beside him, watching his aim, murmuring tips that slipped straight beneath Will’s skin. 

“You’re rushing the shot. Breathe slower.” 

“Shoulders are better today. Looser.” 

“You keep looking at me when you drop the magazine. You nervous, Reed?” 

Each comment hit differently than it should have. They weren’t just instructional—they were personal. Sometimes praise, sometimes testing. Burke had a way of speaking that made everything sound loaded. Time seemed to fly when they were shooting together, and more often than not, the staff had to remind them to wrap it up at closing time. Their camaraderie spilled out into the parking lot, where they leaned against Will’s car or Burke’s truck, talking as dusk gave way to night. 

Burke never offered much about himself, only that he used to work “in service,” and now he didn’t. He’d lived in the hinterlands outside the city for a long time. Alone. 

Will, by contrast, found himself telling Burke everything. 

“Adam didn’t like it when I did anything too masculine. He said it made other people uncomfortable. That it sent the wrong message.” 

“Wrong message to who?” Burke asked, picking a splinter out of his thumb. 

“I don’t know. Adam’s friends, I guess. He always called them ‘the queer police.’” 

That earned a small laugh from Burke. Barely there, but it was real. 

“You like shooting?” 

“Yeah. I always thought I would, but I’m surprised how much. It makes sense to me. Feels honest.” 

Burke finally looked up, locking eyes with Will. 

“Then fuck the rules. Make your own.” 

U-Shoot-It had gone dark behind them, fluorescent lights flickering off one by one like the building was exhaling. Burke leaned against his truck, arms crossed, flannel sleeves rolled not quite to the elbow. He looked at Will with that same unreadable gaze, like he was mentally weighing two options. 

“You hungry?” 

Will blinked. “Uh… yeah.” 

Burke tapped the passenger door. “C’mon, get in. I know a place.” 

Will didn’t ask questions. 

They drove in silence, heading north out of the city. The highway narrowed to four lanes, then two. Buildings and homes gave way to trees and the occasional rusted-out tractor, left to die under a blanket of blackberry bramble. Burke’s truck smelled like cedar and leather, which made Will want to lean closer to breathe it in. 

It was thirty minutes before they pulled off onto a gravel road and parked outside a squat brick building with no sign. Just a single naked bulb above the door. The windows were boarded up from the inside. A faded decal on the door read Joe’s. 

“Seriously?” Will asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Burke smiled. “Best chicken wings in the goddamn state. Don’t let the murder-shack look fool you.” 

Inside, the place looked like it had time traveled from 1983 and refused to go back. A few booths spanned one wall, a long, scarred bar on the other, and one old tube TV bolted precariously above the liquor shelf, playing an old action movie on mute. Three other patrons, older men with thick beards and camo jackets, nursed their drinks like religion. No one looked up when they walked in. 

Burke led them to the booth at the back, the vinyl seat cracked and warm from a vent blasting hot air overhead. He slid in first. Will followed opposite. They ordered beers and a platter of wings. The bartender didn’t ask what kind; he just nodded and disappeared. 

Ten minutes later, the wings arrived, steaming and coated in a fire-engine red sauce that promised pain. Will took one bite and almost groaned. 

“Holy shit,” he muttered, licking sauce from his fingers. “You weren’t kidding.” 

Burke gave a small, satisfied nod, beer bottle resting between his hands. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Will since they sat down. 

“Told you. No one believes me until they try ’em.” 

The beer hit fast. Cheap, cold, and strong. Will felt it in the back of his throat, in the fuzz at the edges of his vision. It softened him and made the space between them feel smaller. 

“So you always bring guys here?” he asked, voice lighter than he meant it to be. 

Burke’s mouth twitched at the corner. “Nah. Usually just come alone.” 

“Why me, then?” 

A pause. Burke took a slow drink, the bottle lingering near his lips. His voice dropped a notch lower. 

“You don’t talk like someone new to this.” 

“New to what?” 

“Shooting. Guns. Guys come to the range for all the wrong reasons. I don’t get that sense from you.” 

Will shrugged. “Guess it was just buried under all the shit I used to pretend to be.” 

“You’re not pretending now?” 

Will met Burke’s eyes over the mouth of his beer bottle. “No.” 

They sat in silence for a minute, wings half eaten, glass sweating on the table between them. The only sound was the muted buzz from the TV and the occasional creak of someone shifting at the bar. Will’s heart hammered under his shirt. The warmth of the food, the beer, and the closeness were too much and not enough at the same time. His knees brushed against Burke’s under the table. He didn’t move. Burke didn’t either. 

Their eyes locked, and for a moment—just a breath—Will thought it was going to happen. Burke would lean across the table, hook a hand behind his neck, and take the kiss that had been burning between them since they met. 

Instead, Burke looked away, swallowed hard, and ran a hand down his beard like he needed to collect himself. 

“I should get you back,” he said, voice rough. “It’s late.” 

Will sat back, disappointment flickering between his ribs. He nodded. “Yeah. Sure.” 

Burke pulled three twenties from his wallet and dropped them on the table between them. They left without another word. 

Outside, the air was freezing, and the silence between them was heavier than ever. Burke walked Will to the truck without touching him and didn’t look at him until they were both inside again, seatbelts fastened. 

“You’re easy to be around, Reed. It’s rare.” 

Will turn toward him, pulse still tripping. “You’re not.” 

A small, unexpected laugh escaped Burke’s lips, but there was something behind his eyes now. A tightness, a tension barely restrained. Wanting. 

“I know.” 

Will stared out the window on the drive back, every bump in the road making his jaw clench. He wanted Burke. Worse than that—he wanted to undo him. But Burke was holding something back. 

And Will was going to find out what. 

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