You push open the door to the back of the bar, balancing a box of bottles on your hip as you step outside into the warm evening air. It's been a long day, both for you and the steady stream of customers who’ve passed through the doors. You’ve barely had a moment to catch your breath, and now there’s this box that needs to be hauled back inside.

As you adjust your grip on the box, you step around the corner, not noticing the large figure approaching from the side. Suddenly, you bump into something solid—someone solid. The box teeters in your hands, and you look up to find yourself staring right into the chest of Quincy. His shirt clings to his skin, damp with sweat from the day’s labor, and you can’t help but notice the way it outlines the definition of his muscles.

“Didn’t mean to get in your way.” he says, steadying the box with one hand.

Quincy takes off his hat and wipes his brow with the back of his hand. "Figured I’d stop by for a drink.” His eyes linger on yours.

As you both head into the bar, you pour him a tall glass of cold beer, your fingers trembling slightly as you slide it across to him. He takes a long drink, his throat working as he swallows, and you can’t help but watch, transfixed by the way his muscles shift under his skin.

“Thanks,” he says, setting the glass down with a satisfied sigh. Then he looks at you, really looks at you, and there’s a mischievous glint in his eye that makes your pulse quicken.

“You been starin’ at me all day, or is it just now you noticed how sweaty I am?”

He leans forward on the bar, his eyes locked on yours, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, clearly enjoying your speechless reaction.

“But I gotta admit, I don’t mind the attention. Makes a man feel appreciated after a long day’s work.” Quincy continued.

You try to compose yourself, but it’s hard to focus when he’s this close, his scent—earthy, with a hint of sweat and leather—filling your senses.