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"Two," Wyatt joins in, the anticipation sharp in his tone.
"One," Emrys finishes, and damn if it isn't the sweetest sound I've ever heard.
In unison, we emerge from our hiding spots, guns blazing. Paint flies through the air like a hailstorm of rainbows, each ball a note in the crescendo of our triumph. Brody spins, caught in the crossfire, the rat-tat-tat of our guns sounding his defeat.
"Argh!" He yelps, a dance of frustration and resignation as he takes the hits, color blooming across his gear like wildflowers after a storm. “I’m hit! I’m hit! Stop!”
"Sorry, Brody! But this is Sharpe territory!" I yell, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep inside.
"Game over, man!" Wyatt chimes in, the glee unmistakable in his voice.
"Like shooting fish in a barrel," Emrys quips, materializing next to us with a grin that could slice through steel.
The buzzer sounds, long and loud, declaring us the undisputed champions. I lower my gun, chest heaving, sweat mingling with splatters of paint. I look over to Kat to witness her eyes alight with the fire of victory, and that’s when it hits me…
The high of battle. The thrill of success. It's nothing compared to the electric charge between us.
"Team Kat for the win!" Roger's announcement echoes, but it's background noise to the symphony playing in my chest.
"Damn straight," I echo, breathless, and throw a wink Kat's way. "And that's just the beginning."
"Can't wait for the encore," Wyatt says, clapping me on the shoulder.
"Neither can I," Emrys agrees, a mysterious twinkle in his dark eyes.
"Neither can I," I repeat, letting the words hang in the air like a promise, or maybe a prelude. Because this, right here, is just the overture to something much bigger, something none of us saw coming.
"Kat, you absolute legend!" I exclaim, my voice raw with the remnants of adrenaline as I scoop her up in an impromptu victory spin. Our own colored paint smears from her combat gear onto mine, a colorful testament to our triumph, seeing as it’s the only color on us.
"Put me down, Wilder, before you make me regret feeding you all those protein bars!" But her laugh, bright and unguarded, tells a different story—one where she's as elated as any of us.
"Wouldn't dream of it," I tease, finally setting her down amidst the chaos of cheers and residual excitement.
Wyatt steps forward, his smile wide enough to rival the Texas sky. He bends slightly, a playful bow before taking Kat's paint-stained glove and pressing a gentlemanly kiss upon her knuckles. "You led us to glory, Captain," he says, his tone laced with warmth and a touch of awe that only she can draw out.
Emrys, ever the enigma, slides in smoothly, his quiet presence a stark contrast to the frenzy around us. He offers Kat a single, perfect tropical flower–a stark anomaly amidst the battlefield's rainbow wreckage. "For our fearless leader," he murmurs, the corners of his mouth lifting just so.
"Thanks, Emrys," Kat's cheeks flush with pleasure as she accepts the flower, tucking it behind her ear with a grace that belies the grime of warfare on her face.
Around us, the post-tournament atmosphere buzzes like a hive stirred to life. The monstrous arena, now splattered with vibrant hues, echoes with laughter and the sound of backslapping congratulations. We're a mess of paint and sweat, but it feels like we've been dipped in glory, every drop a badge of honor.
"Let's hear it for Team Kat!" Roger's voice cuts through the noise, drawing whoops and hollers from the crowd of friends and family. Some are still wiping paint from their brows, but all wear the same expression of genuine joy as they disperse to go clean up or soak sore muscles.
"Here we are, guys," Kat says, scanning the paint-splattered chaos that was once a pristine battlefield. "The aftermath of Sharpe Shootout—looks like a unicorn threw up all over it."
"Or a clown's birthday party gone rogue," I chime in, drawing a laugh from her. “Hey, Kat, reckon your dad will let us turn this into an annual tradition?"
"Only if he gets to show off his latest arsenal of paintball gadgets." She nudges me playfully, fingers lingering on my arm just a tad longer than necessary.
"Then count me in for next year–gadgets or not," I grin, wiping a drop of pink off her cheek with a thumb. "As long as you're there, darlin'."
"Smooth, Doc," Wyatt quips from behind, his own brand of dry wit never far behind. "You planning to charm all the paint away?"
"Charm, brute force, whatever works." I shrug, flexing an arm in mock seriousness. We laugh, and even Emrys cracks a rare smile, his silent presence a calming shadow among our vibrant troop.
"Speaking of brute force, anyone else feel like they've been tenderized by a meat hammer?" I ask, rolling my shoulder where a particularly zealous paintball–sent my way by Kat herself–had made its mark.
"Battle scars, Doc. Wear 'em with pride," Emrys whispers, his quiet voice somehow cutting through the noise around us.
