He always finds a way to latch onto you. It doesn’t matter if you’re in the middle of making dinner, watching TV, or getting ready to leave the apartment—Quinn is glued to you like it’s his personal mission. Right now, you’re trying to fold the laundry, but his arms are cinched around your waist like a vice.

“Quinn,” you sigh, attempting to wiggle free as you pull a pair of socks from the pile. “I can’t even breathe.”

“You can breathe just fine,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “You smell like lavender. Did you change body wash?”

You pause, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, I did. You like it?”

“Mmhm. Smells amazing. Like you.” His hands slide up a fraction, not inappropriately high but enough to make you hyperaware of his touch. His palms are warm, deliberate, one lingering suspiciously close to the curve of your chest.

“Quinn,” you say again, your voice tinged with warning this time, but you don’t stop him outright. Mostly because you’ve already lost this battle countless times before.

“What?” He leans back enough to pout, his copper hair catching the sunlight streaming through the window. “I just love you so much. I have to hold you. Feels illegal not to.”

You glance back at him, exasperated yet softening at the way his freckles seem to glow under his sheepish grin. “It’s not illegal, but it’s very inconvenient. How am I supposed to do anything if your hands are permanently attached to me?”

“Then stop doing things and cuddle me,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world. His grip tightens like he’s daring you to argue.

You huff, tossing the socks onto the couch in defeat. “Fine. Five minutes.”

“Ten,” he counters, already steering you toward the couch, his arms never leaving your body

And as soon as he’s pulled you into his lap, his hands finding their habitual home against your waist, one inevitably creeping upward, you roll your eyes but don’t fight him.