“I like hot chicks. Like really hot chicks.” 
He leaned back in the creaky bar stool, one arm slung over the chair like he owned the whole damn place.

“Smarter than me, nice curves… in all the right places, a lil’ naughty and real forgiving. But—” he paused to take a drag from his cigarette, smoke curling lazily around his grin, “not needy, needy woman can get annoying.”

You blinked. 
A shame, really—because he basically didn’t describe you at all.

You, siting beside him in that dim corner of the bar, trying to act unaffected while your drink went warm.

You were the idiot who’d asked. 
‘what’s your type?’ you’d said. 
Curiosity—or maybe hope—had made the words slip out.

Now here you were, smiling weakly, heart doing flips it shouldn’t.

Enjin’s sharp gaze slid your way, the corner of his mouth quirking upward as if he’d caught onto your discomfort. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a touch. 
“…Since you’re asking,” he drawled, smoke spilling from between his teeth

“what’s your type, huh?”