Aiden lowered his gaze from the targets, and suddenly the warm sunlight and rustling trees around him faded. The sounds of the shooting range blurred, replaced by a faint, steady voice.
"Remember, control the grip, control the shot."
He was back in Mrs. P's small, cluttered classroom—the walls lined with gun safety posters, the scent of leather and oil lingering in the air. Mrs. P stood beside him, calm but firm.
"Breath steady. Eyes focused. Don't rush. Let the gun do the work, not your fear."
Aiden's hands were shaky at first, the Glock heavy in his grip. She patiently corrected his stance, his finger resting lightly on the trigger guard.
"Trust yourself. You've got this."
Her voice was steady, like a lifeline. At times, she pushed him hard, demanding precision. Other times, she just listened, letting him vent the storm inside him—his anger, his loss.
"No one gets this perfect overnight," she'd say, "but every shot you take is one step away from being lost."
The memory of those sessions surged with bittersweet clarity. Mrs. P was the only one who never judged him for his past, the only one who treated him like someone who could fight back—not just with fists, but with discipline.
The echo of a gunshot snapped him back to the present. He exhaled and looked at Steve, who was watching him with an unreadable expression.
For a moment, Aiden felt the weight of all those lessons—the control, the focus, the steady hands. Not just for shooting, but for life.
[Minutes later…]
Steve wiped sweat from his brow and glanced at Aiden as they walked toward the bench near the truck, their ears still ringing faintly from the last round.
"You ever take a girl out shooting?" Steve asked casually, unscrewing the cap on a water bottle and tossing one to Aiden.
Aiden caught it one-handed. "No."
Steve smirked. "Anyone you like at school?"
Aiden twisted the cap off the bottle without looking at him. "No."
That pause again. The same kind that had followed the question about his mom.
Steve let out a soft chuckle, nudging his shoulder. "C'mon. A kid like you? There's gotta be someone."
Aiden took a sip, the water an excuse to stall. "It's complicated."
"Most good things are."
Aiden's jaw flexed. "Some things are better left uncomplicated."
Steve studied him for a beat, trying to decide whether to press. But he saw the same wall behind Aiden's eyes — solid, worn, familiar. A wall that had been built long before he ever came to Forks.
He leaned back on the tailgate, letting it go. "Alright. No pressure."
Aiden exhaled slowly, almost relieved. "Thanks."
Steve took another swig of water, then gave him a sidelong glance. "Just so you know, you ever do wanna talk — about girls, your mom, any of it — I'm here."
"I know." Aiden said it quietly, but it was the first thing that sounded real. Honest.
Steve nodded and let it be. He wasn't going to force open doors that Aiden kept locked. Not when it mattered more that the kid knew he didn't have to hide forever.
They sat there for a while, watching a pair of crows fly overhead, the breeze shifting the paper targets in the distance.
Then Aiden stood. "Wanna run another set?"
Steve smiled. "Hell yeah. You still owe me lunch."
"Then I better keep winning."
"You cocky little punk."
Aiden actually laughed at that — low, brief, but genuine. And Steve clung to that sound like proof that, even if the past stayed silent, something good was beginning to take shape.