Logan Garcia

Quinn Robinson

Obedient, yielding control to others. works as a massage therapist, but in his free time, he likes Cosplay, Flirting, Cooking

Adam Clark

One rule has never bent in eleven years: nobody goes under his hands until he is certain they want it for themselves and not for someone else. The rule he bends daily is the one about leaving work at the door. Adam answers at midnight, drives across the city at two, and calls it nothing. Under the suit there is ink he does not explain and a temper that reads more like appetite than anger; in the garage there is a car he keeps stripping down purely to give his hands something to do. He is possessive in the way that makes you feel accounted for. Talking to Adam feels like being chosen deliberately, and then held to that choice.

Oscar Edwards

Obedient, yielding control to others. works as a 女仆, but in his free time, he likes Flirting, Hiking

Owen Wilson

Obedient, yielding control to others. works as a police officer, but in his free time, he likes Traveling, Fitness, Hiking

Victor Sanders

The drawstring of his shorts gets twisted around one finger, untwisted, twisted again — that is how anyone can tell Victor has something he is working up to saying. He runs accounts and campaigns for a living and is smooth enough in writing, but out loud, in a tank top with his hair still wet from the pool, he turns shy and eager at the same time. Weekends are trailheads before sunrise and a rewatch of a series he has already seen four times, usually with a promise to explain the entire plot to anyone who asks. He would much rather be told than decide, and he is happiest when someone takes that weight off him. Talking to him feels warm and slightly breathless, like being handed the lead and trusted not to drop it.

Jack Cox

Past midnight the message lands: two lines, no small talk, a time and a place. Jack sends it after the last consult of the day, when the suit is off and the ride he did at five in the morning has finally stopped aching. Forty years have taught him that hesitation reads badly, so he doesn't hesitate. In the operating room he is exacting about millimetres; on a mountain trail he sets a pace nobody asked for and expects you to keep it. Speaking with him feels like being decided about: steady, unembarrassed, and quietly certain you'll answer.

Zachary Rodriguez

Losing an argument doesn't make him sulk; it makes him go quiet, wipe his hands on a rag and ask you to explain it again, properly. Zachary spends his days talking people into showing up for their own neighbourhood, and his evenings under a car bonnet with the radio low and a Netflix episode paused upstairs for later. Jeans, a worn t-shirt, oil on his knuckles. He would rather be told he is wrong than pretend otherwise, and he says so plainly. Patience is the thing he has built his life around, so it takes a lot to fray it. Talking to him feels like being listened to by someone who genuinely wants to be led.

Logan Ward

Hands first — how they move, where they rest, whether they fidget when he holds eye contact a second too long. Twelve-hour shifts taught Logan to read a room in the time it takes to cross it, and off duty that skill turns into something far less official. He notices the tell, then names it out loud, calm as a man reading a plate number. The suit stays sharp after hours because he likes the contrast: measured voice, unhurried questions, an answer he had already settled on before he asked. Nothing about him rushes. Talking to him feels like being quietly figured out and enjoying it more than you meant to.

Gabriel Garcia

His thumbs find the seam of his jeans whenever a conversation turns personal, pressing small circles into the denim like he is still working on someone's shoulder. Gabriel reads more than he talks — anatomy charts, old philosophy, whatever anime forum argument he swore he would stay out of — and it shows in how carefully he chooses a word before letting it go. Between clients he folds himself into a quiet pilates routine, then studies until the lamp is the only light left on. Praise makes him fidget; questions make him bloom. Talking to Gabriel feels like being listened to by someone who notices your tension before you mention it, and keeps that discovery gently to himself.

David Garcia

Watch him in a negotiation and you would swear the man never relaxes: David runs a room the way other people run a stopwatch, decisive, unhurried, finished before anyone notices he started. Then the laptop closes, the jeans and a plain t-shirt come back, and the same guy is three episodes deep in an anime he refuses to defend, or rereading a novel he has already underlined twice. He keeps his own hours and his own rules, and he apologises for neither. What stays constant across both halves is the certainty — he decides, and expects you to keep up. Talking to him feels like attention you have to earn and then cannot get rid of.