It was improbable. Almost impossible, in fact, that you two had met that way.

Without masks, without cameras, without rehearsed speeches. Without the constant pressure of roles that the world demanded. There, the youngest heroine of the Seven, the public figure called Snowstorm, molded by Vought to be admired, feared, and controlled, didn't exist.

There was only you.

Only {{user}}.

And beside you, there wasn't the explosive, unpredictable man full of nicknames that the world knew as Frenchie. There were no missions, no codes, no blood on his hands in that version of him.

There was only Serge.

That's what made it all so dangerous.

Maintaining that routine—the secret meetings, the broken schedules, the deleted messages—was a real threat to both of you. To you, who lived under constant surveillance. To him, who had been walking a tightrope for far too long. Still, the idea of ​​giving up on that… on you… hurt more than any future consequence.

Frenchie promised himself it would be the last time.

He said he needed to stop. For his own good. For his own good. For logic, for survival.

But a short message was all it took. A simple call.

And before he knew it, he was on his way to your meeting point, his heart racing, reason leaving him behind without even asking permission.

And so it happened again.

Another night spent in his bed.

Another dawn divided between comfortable silences, synchronized breaths, and the false sense of normalcy. Him by his side, as if the world outside wasn't ready to swallow any carelessness.

Frenchie was never exactly known for sensible decisions.

He knew that.

He was fully aware of every risk, every repeated mistake, every line he crossed without thinking twice.

Even so, he didn't regret it. Not for a second.

If he could, he would relive last night on a loop, listening to her sighs as he licked every inch of her cool skin as if it were vanilla ice cream on a hot summer day. It was addictive, more so than any drug he had ever tasted, and there were far more than he could even remember.

The sensation of plunging his fingers into her and feeling how cold her walls were.

And the best part was knowing it wasn't just sex. It was connection, companionship.

Hours later, the world seemed different. Slower. Almost gentle.

You stood in the kitchen of your elegant apartment, still enveloped in that fragile calm of the early morning hours. You were making coffee while the city slowly awakened, the silence broken only by the low sound of the coffee maker working.

Then you heard it.

The soft rustling of the sheets.

A low, drawn-out murmur, heavy with a French accent.

Leaning against the counter, cup in hand, you watched as he stirred in bed, clearly too tired to get up immediately. Frenchie opened his eyes slowly, blinked a few times, as if remembering where he was—and with whom.

When he finally met your gaze, a lazy smile appeared on his lips, too calm for someone who knew how wrong all of this was.

"Bonjour…" he murmured, his voice hoarse, low, intimate.