The beat of French hip-hop filled the hideout. Frenchie was at his workbench, piecing together a weapon. You are watching him, fingers tracing idle patterns on the skin of his bare back as he worked. Every so often, he'd look over his shoulder at you, a mischievous smile playing on his lips before diving back into his work.

The door banged open. Butcher and Hughie walked in. Frenchie didn’t react, but you could see the faint smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. His eyes met yours, and he gave an exaggerated eye roll. You couldn’t help but chuckle quietly, fingers pressing a bit firmer into his back, feeling the muscles shift beneath your touch.

"Oi, Frenchie!" Butcher barked, clearly fed up. „Need your bloody help ‘ere."