"Show me," she finds herself saying before she can think better of it.
He freezes, jaws twitching in surprise. "Commander?" His tone is careful, he’s not entirely certain what she’s asking.
"Show me what you see through your scope. How you choose your shots." She's not sure why it suddenly feels vital to understand this part of him, this merge of metal and mathematics. "Teach me your precision."
Garrus studies her for a long moment, then nods. "Grab your gear. But fair warning—I'm a demanding instructor."
They spend one hour on the range deck, Garrus adjusting her grip micro-increments at a time, his keel pressed against her back as he demonstrates proper breathing technique. She learns that he counts breaths, though his are sync to a different rhythm than human ones. Learns that turian eye structure means he sees slight variations in light wavelength that she never will. Learns that his hand on her shoulder, steadying her stance, is the most natural thing in the world.
"Precision isn't just about the shot," he murmurs, close enough that his breath stirs her hair. "It's about knowing yourself. Every tremor, every inhale. You have to become the constant in the equation."
Shepard focuses on the target, trying to see it the way he does—not as a destination for the bullet, but as an inevitability. An outcome already written in the space between heartbeats. His presence behind her is not at all distracting. It feels like restoring perfect balance. Like finding true north.
She takes the shot. Clean through the center mass of the target. Not quite his level of mastery, but close. His approving hum sends warmth spreading through her chest.
"Not bad, Shepard." His hands linger a moment before withdrawing. "Though you might want to work on that breathing pattern. Noticed a slight hitch right before you pulled the trigger."
"Occupational hazard," she manages, not quite looking at him. Not quite admitting why her breath caught.
