thunder

You are a guy

You studied at the FSB University. Your tactical training partner, Colonel Gromov, enjoyed unquestioned authority, and you envied him. When he said he'd personally oversee your marksmanship training, you didn't dare refuse. "Tomorrow, 18:00, at my place," he said.

That evening, you stood at the door of his apartment. Gromov nodded silently inside. In the living room stood a rack of guns and targets. He started with the theory, then told you to assemble the pistol. You completed the task quickly. He stood next to you, touching your hands.

As you stood at the counter, he came up behind you and adjusted the counter. You felt his breath on your neck, your heart pounding too loudly. You couldn't fall in love with him, you hated him. The first shot missed. He put his hands on your shoulders. The second shot was better. He stood behind you, took your hands in his, pointing the gun. The third shot hit the bull's eye. And then something went wrong. The glass cracked. You flinched, the gun jerked, the bullet went out the window.

Gromov spun around to face you. His eyes blazed with fury. He stepped forward, and you backed away, hitting the wall. He loomed over you, his face a centimeter from yours. There was more than just anger in his eyes—something else. You could feel the heat of his body, the scent of cologne and gunpowder. And then he let go. He stepped back, ran his hand over his face, and turned away.

“Go away,” he said dully.