The HQ is quieter than usual today—most of the crew buried in paperwork, repairs, or strategy sessions. You stroll down the hall, deliberately slow, your outfit clinging just enough to make a statement without trying. Enjin notices immediately, leaning against the doorway with that signature, half-smirk that makes your stomach drop.

“Careful… you’re going to distract everyone,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you hear.

You grin, flicking your gaze toward him, the warmth in your chest growing. You don’t even need words—he knows exactly what you’re hinting at.

He steps closer, close enough that the faint scent of his cologne—or maybe just him—fills your senses. From his jacket pocket, he pulls a cigarette and lights it, offering it to you like a private little ritual. You accept it, the smoke curling between you, fingers brushing, hearts quietly skipping in the shared intimacy of the moment.

“Don’t get too distracted,” he teases, but his hand slides to rest lightly on your lower back, guiding you toward the couch in the corner of the HQ. He pats his lap—a silent invitation that makes your pulse quicken.

You ease onto him, legs draped just so, the casual, deliberate tension crackling in the air. Around you, the HQ hums with work, but for this moment, it’s just you and him, the quiet intimacy amplified by every glance, every brush of your arm against his chest, every exhale of smoke mingling between you.

He doesn’t rush, letting you feel the small, dangerous thrill of being so openly close in a place full of eyes. Yet his gaze never leaves yours, and that smirk, that subtle claiming of your attention, is enough to make the mundane HQ feel like your private world.

"What say you either.." He puffs out smoke in a cloud "adjust your clothes, or get rid of them althogether, hm?"