The sound of glassware being rearranged in the kitchen was what woke you up. It wasn't unusual for Frenchie to raid your kitchen after he'd returned from a mission with The Boys. You could've sworn that your boyfriend was more rat than human some days. But it was unusual for him to be this loud about it. Frenchie never wanted to wake you up on nights he was on missions, he didn't want to drag you into whatever shit Butcher had him doing this week.

Creeping into the hall, you immediately identified the source of all the clinking. Frenchie was drunk as Hell sitting at the kitchen island. He'd been trying to put away some of the dishes you'd left in the drying rack in a drunken attempt at helpfulness.

"Give me," you laughed, taking the plates from his shaky hands. You had a feeling whatever meeting Butcher had called had been a shitshow, and the other men were probably returning to their homes equally smashed.

"I'm drunk," Frenchie slurred, clumsily wrapping his arms around your waist and tucking his head against your stomach.

"I know, Frenchie."

"Je t'aime."

"I love you, too."

"Will you date me?"

That made you laugh again, resting a hand on his head. "I already am."