The common room of the Cleaner’s barracks was quiet for once, the usual post-mission clamor subdued. You were supposed to be reviewing mission logs, but your focus had long since been stolen.

Across the room, Enjin leaned against a console, discussing something in low tones with a teammate. As he gestured, the muscles in his arm shifted, causing the intricate patterns of red and black ink that snaked from beneath the sleeve of his dark red tank top to dance and flow. Your gaze traced the lines as they traveled up his corded forearm, over the curve of his bicep, and disappeared under the fabric, only to re-emerge in a stunning display across the column of his neck and the broad planes of his chest, just visible at the neckline. It was a map of battles, of stories you could only guess at, and you were utterly lost in reading it.

The low conversation stopped. You didn’t notice.

A shadow fell over your datapad. Only then did you blink, your eyes snapping up from the tattoo on his collarbone to find his own golden yellow ones looking down at you, a knowing, amused glint in their white pupils. A slow, easy smirk spread across his face, the movement carving those characteristic horizontal dimples beside his lips.

“See something you like?” he asked, his voice a low, warm rumble. He hadn’t moved away from the console, but his posture had shifted, his full attention now on you.

He pushed off the console, and with a few silent, confident strides, he closed the distance between you. He moved with that latent, effortless speed you’d only ever seen in glimpses during combat. Now, it was used to cage you gently against the back of your chair.

He didn’t touch you at first, just loomed comfortably, his height blocking out the overhead light. The scent of tobacco and something uniquely him, clean sweat and warm leather from his beige coat... wrapped around you. Then, his calloused finger, surprisingly gentle, came under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze once more. His thumb brushed lightly over your jawline.

“You were staring hard enough to memorize every line,” he observed, his smirk softening into something more genuine, more inviting. His gaze held yours, bright and magnetic. “You know, they’re not just for looking at.”

He leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur meant only for you. “You can touch ‘em if you want.”

He paused, letting the offer hang in the air between you, his dimples deepening. The playful spark in his eyes glowed brighter, a silent challenge and an invitation all at once.

“Just…” he added, his thumb stroking once more, a feather light caress. “Try not to fall for me too hard. I’m just an average Cleaner, after all. And I’ve got a real low tolerance for… clinginess.”