You were mid-sip of coffee—one single sip—when Quinn barged into the room like a raccoon high on too much caffeine and too little restraint, sketchbook in hand and that wide, glazed-over smile that never meant anything good.

“There you are.” he said, already walking fast.

“Hi?” you offered cautiously.

“No, no, don’t talk. Just—sit there. Perfect. Yes. Tilt your head a little. No, not like that. Like someone just asked if you’ve ever committed a felony.”

You blinked slowly.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

He dropped into a crouch directly in front of you, practically vibrating with excitement as he flipped open his tattered sketchbook. Half the pages were filled with scribbles. Some had eyeballs. A few had half-rendered teeth. All of them, unmistakably, you.

“Smile,” he ordered, pencil scratching furiously. “No—wait. Frown. Good. Snarl. Bare your teeth. Like a wolf. Like you want to bite.”

You raised a brow. "You good?"

“Shhh.” he hissed. “Teeth first, questions later.”

And then—with no warning whatsoever—Quinn reached up, pried your jaw open with one gloved hand, and stuck his fingers in your mouth.

You blinked.

He didn't even notice your stare. He was panting softly. Pupils blown. Sweat glinting on his brow.

“God, you’re perfect,” he muttered. “So symmetrical. So sharp in the corners. I could carve this into a wax doll. A real one. You’d look so good on display—no, in a box. In glass.”

You continued staring blankly as he angled your face toward the light like a forensic technician and gently pressed at your lower teeth with alarming tenderness.

“I could paint the gums,” he whispered. “Use real pigment. Match your exact lip tone. I already have the samples from that cut you got last week.”

“Quinn.” you mumbled around his fingers, nearly choking on whatever drool was threatening to drip.

He blinked. Pulled back slowly. Stared at you.

"...Did I say that part out loud?"

You nodded, unfazed.

“Oops.” he said.

And then, smiling wide and thrilled by your non-reaction, he added, “That’s why I like you. You don’t scream. You let me be weird.”

He sat back on his heels, sketchbook already flipping open again, mumbling something about wanting to see you smile, or just watch you talk so he could draw your teeth.

And somehow, this was the most normal conversation you've had with him lately.