Page 27 of Catching Flynn

“Kitten.”

“Fine. A little.”

From behind, Zavier laid a hand over Flynn’s shoulder, his thumb pressing into the tense muscle. “Relax.”

The slow pressure and calm voice made Flynn moan. His eyelids fluttered close, letting out an exhale.

“There you go,” Zavier murmured. “Release the tension.”

Flynn’s eyes popped open when another pressure starting building. He stepped away from those magic fingers, positioned himself, and bent his knees just a touch.

“Pull.”

This time, when the clay launched, Flynn tracked it better. Fired. Orange burst against the leaden sky, and joy shot through him all over again. Flynn gave another strangled, delighted noise and did a little hop because evidently, he was incapable of winning gracefully. “Did you see that? I obliterated it! I’m incredible!”

At his side, Zavier’s grin came slow and devastating. “You just needed to relax.”

“That was talent. Raw talent. Natural-born excellence.” He lifted the gun a little, absurdly pleased with himself. “Say hello to my little friend—”

In less than a blink, the gun was gone from his hands.

Flynn stared, his fingers curled like he was still gripping the shotgun he’d held mere seconds ago.

Zavier had possession of it now, his expression flat with only the faintest edge of amusement. One hand was on the stock, the other on the barrel, and Flynn had not seen him move. At all.

“What the hell,” Flynn said, in awe of the elite-level training Zavier must’ve had. “Give it back.”

“Not while you’re channeling Antonio Montana.”

Flynn frowned. “Who?”

“Scarface.” Zavier arched a brow. “You quote him but don’t know his character’s name?”

“Okay, not the point.” Flynn reached for the shotgun. “Give it back. Also, teach me that move. That was hot and deeply disturbing.”

Trying to grab the gun from Zavier was useless and felt ridiculous. Not because Zavier played keep away. Because of the look in his eyes asking Flynn to back down. He could’ve easily demanded Flynn obey. Zavier outweighed him with at least eighty pounds of muscle.

But he was asking.

Wind tugged at the hem of Flynn’s shirt as he took a step back. Somewhere down the line, another shooter called for a target. The clay launched, then a shot rang out. They missed.

Then, very calmly, Zavier broke open the gun, checked it, and held it just out of Flynn’s reach. “You get it back when you stop threatening the atmosphere with movie quotes.”

“I was celebrating.”

“You were escalating.”

“On success.” Flynn pressed his hand to his stomach. “Which is healthy.”

Still refusing to hand it over, Zavier loaded fresh shells and stepped into position. “Watch.”

Oh, Flynn would. Happily. Religiously. Potentially with a candle lit. Zavier had an ass worth ogling. Patting too, but those muscly glutes weren’t Flynn’s to touch.

“Watch my aim, not my ass.”

Flynn’s gaze darted away. “Been watching the entire time.” Never said which.

At the line, Zavier settled the shotgun into place like it belonged there. No wasted movement. No fidgeting. Just a quiet shift of weight and the smooth alignment of shoulders, arms, and focus. The overcast light shimmered over the angles of his face, catching the dark stubble along his jaw.