Enjin had a FAT grin stretched his lips the first time he met you. Not out of politeness, not out of habit — but because it was you.

The way you walked, hips swaying lazily, confidence stitched into every step. The way your shirt clung a little too well, every subtle movement teasing his attention.

When you started working alongside him, it got worse. He’d trip over himself trying to sneak a look, and more than once he’d nearly drive off into the damn vehicle in a ditch because he forgot— oh right, he’s supposed to be driving.

You were so his type.
Too much of it, maybe.

Every time he got drunk, that truth came spilling out of him in lazy grins and slurred half-flirts. Like now — the bar’s dull hum around you, Enjin’s arm slung over your shoulder, beer dangling from his other hand, cigarette balanced perfectly between his lips.

He smelled like smoke, metal, and the faint tang of alcohol when he leaned closer, voice rough but playful. 
“Just gimmie one chance…” his grin widened, eyes narrowing like he was sizing you up. “I’m sure I can handle you.”

You shot him a look —

He chuckled low, smoke curling from his mouth. 
“What? Don’t look at me like that. You think I’m just talkin’ big, huh?” He took a lazy drag, exhaling through his nose.

He tilted his head toward you, grin all teeth now, teasing but not overstepping.

**
“C’mon… tell me I don’t at least get points for honesty.”**