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You’re, what, twenty? Twenty-two? Too young for this, for sure. That’s the first thing he thought when he first laid eyes on you, followed shortly after by something filthy he won’t repeat. (Not today. Not yet.) But you wouldn’t leave no matter what he said, so here you are again in the back room of Devil May Cry trying to convince him you’ve got what it takes to make it in this business.He’s not trying to be an asshole when he calls you “kid” and knocks you on your ass during a sparring match without offering a hand to help you up, but...well, actually he is, because he doesn’t really want you running around out there trying to get yourself killed. Devil hunting’s a fast way to the grave if you don’t know what you’re doing and you, kid—you have no fucking clue what you’re doing.Case in point—today you show up bright and early and he ushers you into the storage room in the back of the shop, because today’s gonna be different. You’re not gonna lift weights or practice your blocks against him, not even gonna get to practice with that cute little box cutter you call a knife. No, today you’re pressed together like you’re dancing, your back to his chest, except you’re wound as tight as a coiled spring and he’s trying to get you to hold the gun.And he knew, he just knew you’d get like this at the sight of it, civilians always get squeamish around firearms. You’re just looking at it and you’re not gonna be able to kill anything like that. He should tell you to go home and try looking for a regular job for regular people, but he doesn’t because you’ve got this look in your eyes. That’s what made him pause when you walked in weeks ago. That’s what kept him from sending you packing every time before this. Regular people don’t come in here asking for the things you do.“C’mon, it’s not gonna bite you,” he says.His hand grazes the joints of your fingers, the little crevices and the too soft joints, when he presses the pistol into your palm. (No roughness, no calluses, just smooth skin, and that worries him a little. Your hands are too pretty for work like this.) And they linger, greedy, closing your grip around the black handle with a patient pressure. He curls them into the proper not-too-loose-not-too-firm wrap around shape. Snug. Just right. He lets out a breath right next to your ear. Is that a nervous shudder or an excited one he feels run down your spine? Slowly, easing, his other hand crawls down to your dangling arm and closes around your wrist.“Both hands, kid. It’s your first time.”“Don’t call me kid,” you mutter. You breathe in, breathe out, and you do as he asks. Trigger discipline, check, and he’s doing his best to focus on the task at hand and not how close you’re standing, all the body heat you’re giving off.His hand wraps around yours like a total eclipse and you’re holding this pistol together. “How’s it feel?” he asks.“Good,” you say. You try to sound steady but he hears that little tremor in your voice, sees the fat droplet of sweat that slides down the back of your neck and disappears beneath the folds of your jacket. He sees the blush at the tips of your ears, hears the muted, wet sound of a nervous swallow. “It feels good.”“Alright,” he says, and moves you, firm but gentle, guiding. You let him do it, tense, not limp but eager. He’s the one with the experience here and you’re counting on him. He makes you aim at the target on the back wall and he’s right up against you, stubble brushing your cheek, pelvis to pelvis. He smells gunmetal, Ebony and Ivory mid-disassembly on a desk somewhere in this cluttered hoarder’s paradise of a storage room because you’ve got just the damndest timing, and the sharp stench of sweat when you swallow again, harder this time. He’s not gonna tell you that his half-devil nose can tell that acrid scent rolling off of you means you want to fuck right here in the shop. It makes him suck in a harsh breath and close his eyes again. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Demons aren’t built to withstand temptation, three Mississippi.The air conditioning’s broken. Must be.“Safety off,” he tells you. Your fingers move. He lets them. A muted click and you’re lethal to any bottomfeeder demon you might come across. But that’s not good enough. There are bigger things out there, worse things. (He’s one of them.) “Now. Six o’clock aim.”You squint. Your hands, with his hands over them, lower ever so slightly. You’re smaller and softer than him in all the ways that make him nervous. Is this really a good idea, he’s thinking, is this really what he should be doing? Getting you trained to poke hornet’s nests and throw yourself to the wolves? But there it is, the bullseye balanced atop the front sight like the sinking sun at the horizon line. You actually read that Firearms For Dummies he sent you home with, didn’t you?“Good,” he says, definitely not fixating on how you shudder at the praise. He’s not growling in your ear on purpose or anything, definitely not enjoying every sharp breath and shiver. “Now test it out.”Ah, kid, you really are an amateur. No finesse, no patience, but he’ll give you points for enthusiasm. You do it quick like ripping off a bandaid. The noise, the recoil, the way the wall cracks and spurts dust makes you let out a little squeak and you’re there, right there pressed against him because he’s a solid wall against your back. The hot smell of gunpowder fills his nostrils and you catch a whiff, he knows you do. You’re looking at the little black circle punched through the bullseye target, just left of the yellow target at the center, and when the shiver down your spine travels from you to him, he gets that secondhand rush of raw power just like the first time he ever shot a gun.“Nice shootin’, Tex.”“Dante,” you groan. He’s embarrassing you. He can’t help but smile.“Alright, now try it without me.”You hesitate. “I’m gonna suck.”“Oh, really? Hand it back, then. Can’t hunt demons if you suck.”Your grip tightens. The M1911 you’re holding is a relic of his early hunting days, a retired weapon with a corrugated wooden panel in the handle carved with intricate, swirling patterns he can only guess the meaning of. It’s a handsome weapon and it looks downright sexy in your hands, the kind of treasure that belongs on a bed of red velvet in a museum display case. “I’ll practice,” you say. He smirks, bumps your shoulder playfully as he steps back and gives you space.You’re stiff, all textbook, no experience. Legs apart, shoulders squared, arms out and fingers too rigid. He fit there, against the curve of your back. He fit perfectly, even with all of your clothes between you. You’re swaying, uncertain, and your breathing’s not even. Ten seconds. Twenty. Half a minute. You’re frowning, your face beaded with sweat. He wants to push you up against that bullseye at the back of the room and feel you everywhere, and he counts to five in his head and wills the heat in his body away. You’re too young for this, for him, but he catches himself thinking about the what ifs.A minute goes by and you haven’t done anything, so he starts talking. Just tries to get you to relax. “I think that gun’s older than you are.”“Yeah?” you say absently.“It’s got a name, you know. Amator. Was a gift from a good friend. Only took it out for special occasions.” A minute and a half and you’re still just standing there, so he takes a deep breath. “What’s the holdup?” he asks. “You making a figure eight?”“Mhm,” you mutter.“Let it happen. Wait till you get to the bottom. Then shoot.”He follows the imperceptibly little loop with his eyes. Once to get a feel for it. Twice for the timing. Third and you’re pulling, pulling, bracing yourself, and the crack is thunderous, all storm and power. You aren’t ready. You shrink back from it and the shot goes wide, a black pockmark at the very edge of the target, nowhere near the bullseye circle.“This is harder than it looks.” Now you’re giving him a look, a little annoyed and a little impressed. The demon in him is preening.“Do a few more,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “Just to get a feel for it. We can try another gun if it’s just not your style, but you should be able to shoot anything.”“Right,” you say. But you hesitate, again. You clutch the gun at your side in one uncertain hand and look at the floor with lidded eyes. But then you look back over your shoulder, gazing up at him through your lashes, and you’re definitely doing it on purpose. “Dante?” you say, his name coming out sweet and silky.You’re both waiting now. He’s holding his breath, watching your lips wrap around words you can’t seem to make yourself say. You’re still holding that gun but you look so vulnerable right now, unsteady as the moment you pulled the trigger and clumsily riding that high, but it’s still not enough. He’s only known you for a few weeks but he knows you get timid like this right at the last second, you shrink back, you hesitate, wait for him to make the first move so you feel right again, and that’s going to get you killed out in the field. He should’ve told you to stop coming back weeks ago but he didn’t, and now he can only break you of the habit.“Yeah, kid?” he says gruffly.That does it, that ruins the magic, and you tear your eyes away with a nervous stutter of, “Uh, never mind.” You turn away from him and he resists the urge to bend you over on the floor right there and give you both what you want, because you need to be bold in the heat of the moment, capable of pushing through that hesitation and taking the first step yourself. He wants you to prove this whole thing wasn’t a huge mistake.You’re so young, he reminds himself, gaze traveling up your legs. Your jacket hangs off your shoulders and the flash of skin gives off a maddeningly sweet scent, and he realizes he doesn’t really know what the fuck he’s doing, either. He’s not a teacher. He’d like to think this is all about getting you certified to kill demons and not at all about getting you in bed but he’s not the type to live in denial; it’s obviously both.Amator swims in slow, interlocking circles, a dance that gets smoother the longer it goes. Figure eight. Inhale. Figure eight. Exhale. Figure eight and blam! The air conditioning might be broken after all. He tells you he’s getting a drink. If you hear, you don’t react, and he takes his sweet time coming back.