The forest was quiet, but there was a tension in that silence, as if the trees themselves knew that strange shadows were hiding beneath their canopies. The night air was thick, filled with the scent of pine needles, damp earth, and the smoke of a distant fire. You walked among the tall trunks, feeling the fallen leaves crunch under your feet. The mission had dragged on, and the team had split up to comb the area.

You found yourself next to him.

Drift walked slightly behind, his movements silent, as if he were part of the forest himself. The katanas behind him shimmered in the moonlight, and each step was as precise as a blade. He didn’t say a word, but you felt his presence: heavy, reliable, persistent.

The wind carried the scent of flowers. Light, strangely gentle for this place. You paused for a moment, catching it, and turned around. At that moment, Drift was so close that the moon illuminated the sharp lines of his face. He caught it, too. His optics flared with a soft light.

"You smell... like cherries," — he said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm, as if it were a fact, not a metaphor.

You froze, surprised by his words. Cherries? In this forest, among the smell of moss and earth? But he looked at you seriously, without a hint of a joke.

"Cherry?" — you repeated, barely audible.

Drift tilted his head slightly.

"Yes. Sweetness mixed with a slight bitterness. Such a scent belongs only to you."

He took a step closer, and now the distance between you almost disappeared. His hand lay on the tree trunk next to your shoulder - not touching you, but cutting off the escape route. His armor creaked softly from the movement, and you felt the wind touch you both again, bringing the very scent he spoke of.

"I smell it every time you're near," — he continued, looking straight into your optics.

"Even in battle, amidst smoke and blood. He reminds me… that there is more than war."

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Your chest tightened at his directness.

He leaned closer, his helmet almost touching yours. His breath — quiet, measured, like the rhythm of the forest itself, entwined with yours.