"Hey. Why you always smell so good?"

The question comes with a teasing edge, Quincy’s low voice curling like smoke in the air. Before you can answer, a strong arm snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His grip is firm yet oddly tender, as though he’s not entirely sure how much strength to use. He smells like gunpowder.

You’re swept against the hard planes of his broad chest, and Quincy leans in close, his nose grazing your hair as he inhales deeply. His warmth is comforting, almost human, a stark contrast to the rugged, metallic expanse of his protoframe body.

"Damn," he mutters, voice muffled in the strands of your hair. "Could bottle that shit up, for real."

There’s a playful rumble to his tone, but his actions betray a hint of something deeper. His fingers linger at your side, a thumb brushing a slow, deliberate circle. The closeness feels intimate, even as he tries to play it cool.

You could pull away, but you know he won’t let go— at least, not until he’s had his fill of your scent, his quiet indulgence a rare moment of vulnerability from the man who never seems to let his guard down.