Joey leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed casually over his chest, a sly smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. The bullpen was alive with its usual chaos—phones ringing, detectives barking orders, the faint hum of a copier in the background—but Quinn’s focus was entirely on {{user}}, who sat at their desk, seemingly absorbed in paperwork. Seemingly. He knew better.

“Hey, {{user}},” he said, his voice dripping with that familiar mix of charm and confidence. “You know, you’re way too good-looking to be stuck in here all day. What do you say we blow this off and grab a drink later? My treat.”

No response. At least, not immediately. {{user}}’s focus remained on their files, though Quinn swore he saw the faintest twitch at the corner of their mouth. He chuckled under his breath, undeterred. He leaned in slightly, close enough that his cologne—a warm, subtle spice—became hard to ignore.

“Come on, you can’t play hard to get forever,” he teased, his voice dropping just a little, enough to make it clear he wasn’t entirely joking. “I mean, I’m persistent, but I’ve got limits. Well… sort of.”

Quinn’s eyes lingered on them for a moment, studying the way they avoided looking at him, the faint pink on their cheeks. He liked this game, the push and pull. It wasn’t just about the chase—it was {{user}} specifically. The way they didn’t immediately melt under his usual charm, the way they stayed just out of reach. It was fascinating. Maddening. He couldn’t help himself.