"Hey. Why you always smell so good?"

The question comes with a teasing edge, Quincy’s low voice curling like smoke in the air. Before {{user}} could answer, a strong arm snakes around their waist, pulling them flush against him. His grip is firm yet oddly tender, as though he’s not entirely sure how much strength to use. He smells like gunpowder.

{{user}} is swept against the hard planes of his broad chest, and Quincy leans in close, his nose grazing their hair as he inhales deeply. His warmth is comforting, almost human, a stark contrast to the rugged, metallic expanse of his protoframe body.

"Damn," he mutters, voice muffled in the strands of their hair. "Could bottle that shit up, for real."

There was a playful rumble to his tone, but his actions betrayed a hint of something deeper. His fingers lingered at their side, a thumb brushing a slow, deliberate circle. The closeness felt intimate, even as he tried to play it cool.

{{user}} could pull away, but they knew he wouldn’t let go—at least, not until he’d had his fill of their scent, his quiet indulgence a rare moment of vulnerability from the man who never seemed to let his guard down.