The low thump of gunfire echoed through the reinforced walls of the range. Brass casings littered the floor near Nell's feet. She stood at one of the stalls, lips pressed in a thin line, frustration simmering beneath her usually calm expression.

She lowered her weapon slowly, removed her ear protection, and pressed the button to reel in the target.

It rolled toward her, inch by inch, revealing a silhouette riddled with scattered, inconsistent holes—none of them where she needed them to be.

Nell let out a soft groan. "Ugh."

The door to the range swung open behind her with a faint hiss of air pressure.

She didn't turn—just exhaled sharply and muttered, "Unless you're bringing snacks or mercy, turn around."

A familiar voice floated in behind her. "Wow. And here I was about to compliment your modern art...or is it abstract expressionism?"

Nell turned with a groan to see Callen, leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed, a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. His eyes flicked to the shot-up paper target and then back to her.

"Don't sugarcoat it," she said, arching a brow. "It's terrible."

He sauntered in slowly, all calm confidence and mischief. "Let's just say if you were aiming for center mass, your target's left shoulder should probably file a complaint."

Nell snorted, unable to stop the laugh that slipped out. "That bad, huh?"

"You tell me," he said, stopping beside her as the target stopped with a final click. "You've been down here long?"

"Hour and a half." She rolled her shoulders and leaned against the partition. "I've gone through almost a full box of rounds and I've only gotten worse. If I don't fix this by tomorrow, my re-qual's gonna be a disaster."

Callen glanced at the gun on the bench. "You're thinking too hard."

"I'm thinking just enough to avoid failing in front of Hetty."

He reached for the headphones on the wall and pulled them on. "You mind?"

Nell gave him a skeptical look. "You sure you're up for watching this trainwreck?"

He shrugged. "I've seen worse."

"When?"

He gave her a look. "You did let Eric try to make espresso with a soldering iron once."

Nell laughed. "Touché."

Callen chuckled then picked up the weapon she'd set down, inspecting it with idle precision. Then he passed it back, his fingers brushing hers in the handoff—warm, brief, but enough.

"Show me."

Nell hesitated, but nodded, stepping back into position.

Callen moved in closer behind her, just enough to fill the space at her shoulder. He didn't crowd her, didn't push—but he was there, solid and still. The kind of presence that took the edge off everything else.

She raised the gun again.

He watched for a beat, then stepped to her side, slow and careful, and reached forward. His fingers slid lightly over her wrist, correcting the angle, then trailed up to gently adjust the bend in her elbow. Her skin tingled beneath the pressure, light but focused. He didn't linger—but he didn't rush either.

Then his hand closed over hers, warm and firm. He guided her fingers on the grip, easing tension without a word. His thumb brushed the inside of her palm as he shifted her stance subtly, like tuning an instrument—close enough to feel, not close enough to call out.

Behind her now, he reached around, placing a hand just beneath her collarbone—not pressing, just stabilizing. The other hovered near her hip, shifting her weight with the lightest pressure. Every movement felt deliberate, but never intrusive. Like he'd done this a hundred times—but it was different now, because it was her.

Nell held her breath.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Now shoot."

She did.

Bang.

The shot landed near center.

A beat passed. She could feel him still behind her—close enough that his breath just brushed her shoulder as he spoke, "There she is," he murmured. "Again."

Bang.

Another—closer still to the bullseye.

She exhaled, slow.

"See? Not rocket science. Just rhythm. And a little trust."

"You trying to be Zen or just show off?" She quipped.

"Little of both," he said, stepping back with a grin. "Mostly, I just don't want you to shoot Deeks by accident tomorrow."

She laughed. "I think I'd earn points for that."

"Not from IA."

She glanced at him, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Thanks, Callen."

He nodded once, more serious now. "You're solid, Nell. You've got the instinct. Just need to stop treating the gun like it's a test you're going to fail."

She raised it again, this time with less hesitation, less weight in her shoulders.

"You sticking around to keep judging my groupings?"

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed again. "Only if you promise not to shoot my silhouette."

She smirked. "No promises."

And she fired again—this time, dead center.

Callen didn't say anything. Just watched with quiet approval, the corner of his mouth curving up slightly as she reloaded, more confident now, shoulders back.

Yeah. She had this. But maybe his voice in her ear hadn't hurt either.