"I know. That's why you're eating burritos on this bench instead of getting the shotgun talk." The ghost of a smile. "Just — be patient. And when it breaks, because it will break, be there."
"I will."
"Good." He finishes his coffee. Crushes the cup. "Now let's go shoot things. I need to work off some energy."
Delgado's Range is in the industrial area on the edge of town — long low concrete building, gravel lot, faded sign. Ash has been coming here since he was barely tall enough to see over the counter.
The smell hits me before we're through the door. Lion. Different pride, older male, territory soaked into the walls. I stop short, instincts prickling.
The owner — sixties, graying ponytail, weathered face — looks up from the counter and studies me with the calm assessment of a lion who's held this ground for decades.
"One of Knox's," he says. Not a question.
"Yes, sir."
"Good to see one of his boys here again. Jason was in with Ash a while back." He nods, something warm and territorial at once — professional courtesy between prides. "Lane six is open. Welcome."
Ash is already heading back like he owns the place. I follow, the old lion's gaze on my back until we round the corner.
"You could have warned me," I say.
"About Delgado? He's harmless. Known him my whole life. Didn't even know he was a shifter until Jason came here and they clocked each other." Ash shrugs. "He likes Knox's pride. You're fine."
The range is louder than I expected, even with the ear protection Ash hands me. He moves through the space like it's his living room — checking chambers, setting up targets, handling firearms with military precision. This is his element the way the garage is mine.
"Ever shot before?" he asks.
"Not really. It's not something we do."
"Lions and guns." He almost smiles. "Jason said the same thing. Come on, I'll show you the basics."
He's a good teacher — patient, specific, correcting my grip and stance without making it feel like criticism. I'm terrible. The grouping is everywhere, my hands aren't built for this kind of precision, and the recoil is a full-body surprise every time.
"Breathe out on the squeeze," Ash says. "Don't fight the recoil, just let it happen."
I adjust. The next few shots are closer together. Not good, but closer.
"Better," Ash says, which from him is practically a standing ovation.
We shoot for an hour. I don't improve much, but the rhythm of it is good — the focus, the repetition, the way it empties your head of everything except the next shot. I can see why Ash comes here. Not for the violence of it. For the silence it creates inside.
Back at the bar, Ash pulls off his helmet and says, "Jason's probably told the entire pride by now."
"Told them what?"
"That you stayed at Robin's. Jason can't keep a secret to save his life. It's his worst quality." He says this with open affection. "Expect commentary."
He's right.
Jason is in the garage when we pull in, and he starts grinning before I'm off the bike. He must have come from Ash's this morning, found the house empty, put it together.
"Don't," I say.
"I haven't said anything."
"Your face is saying everything."
He follows me into the garage, pulling up a stool, settling in. "So. You and Robin."