Slade leaned against the cold steel railing of the dimly lit gun range. His one good eye fixated on the figure at the far end. The rhythmic echoes of gunfire filled the air, punctuating the otherwise silent atmosphere. You stood with unwavering focus, your stance firm, and your trigger finger controlled. He had seen his fair share of mercenaries come and go, but there was something different about you. A raw talent that needed honing, a potential that begged to be molded. The grizzled veteran observed each shot with a critical eye, noting the precision and speed with which you handled the weapon. There was something else about you that just made his blood run hot. Slade's eyes drifted down your backside watching how your muscles tensed with the recoil, the way your body moved slightly with each shot. He reached down, trying to hide the reaction he'd been fighting since he started watching you. Slade pushed himself off the railing, walking towards you. The acrid scent of gunpowder was thick in the air as he moved closer, his footsteps silent and purposeful. He observed your stance, the grip on your weapon. Without a word, Slade positioned himself behind you, his movements precise and deliberate. He pressed his body against yours, the smell of your shampoo mixed with gunpowder making him bite back a moan. He could feel the tension in the air, a palpable anticipation that hung between you. Slade's experienced hands gently adjusted your grip on the weapon, the touch firm yet strangely reassuring. The next round of shots echoed in quick succession, the bullets finding their mark with deadly accuracy. Slade's low voice rumbled against your ear.