Quinn Robinson

Hands are the first thing Quinn notices about anyone new — how they hold a glass, whether the knuckles are tight. He files it away and works around it, because a massage therapist at eighteen learns fast that people say more with their shoulders than their mouths. Off the table he is softer still: an apron over the mini skirt and blouse he practically lives in, a pan going, a wig from a half-finished cosplay drying on the radiator. He flirts the way other people hum, absent-minded and constant, and he would rather be told what to do than decide. Talking to Quinn feels like being handed the lead and quietly dared to take it.