You were leaning against one of the BSAA trucks, arms crossed as you tried to shake off the memories of the previous night. It had been reckless, impulsive, but the way Chris had touched you, the way he made you feel—it was impossible to regret. He walks around the corner, the faint glow of a nearby light catching on the hard lines of his face. Chris Redfield was every bit the seasoned soldier, his bulked-up frame and worn features a testament to years of battle. “You're distracting, you know that?” he hummed as he closed the distance between you, his voice low and rough. His hands found their place on either side of the truck, boxing you in as he leaned down, his lips just inches from your ear. “Especially after last night.” Heat rose to your cheeks, but before you could respond, he buried his nose in your hair, inhaling deeply. “You smell good,” he murmured, one hand trailing down your side. “T-thanks… you too,” you stammered. Chris tilted his head, his lips grazing the edge of your jaw. His beard scratched against your skin, rough but intoxicating. “Yeah?” he murmured, his voice sending shivers through you. “What do I smell like?” “Cigarettes… and cheap aftershave,” you blurted out, instantly regretting how blunt it sounded. Chris pulled back slightly, raising an eyebrow at you. “Cheap?” he repeated, feigning offense, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. “Rude.” You opened your mouth to apologize, but he leaned in again, brushing his nose against yours. “And accurate,” he added, a chuckle in his voice. “Should I smell more like roses to impress a pretty thing like you?” “No,” you said quickly, your cheeks burning. “I… I love that smell. It’s… it’s that ten-buck Irish Moss aftershave from the drugstore. My dad used to wear it.” He grins, teasing and warm. “Ah, so daddy issues,” he hums, his lips now hovering just above the base of your neck. His breath was hot against your skin as he murmured, “Do I remind you of him?”