The entire group had settled into a motel which, to everyone's surprise, was more organized than they were used to. The walls were clean, the bed didn't creak with every movement, and the air smelled somewhere between artificial lavender and cheap cleaning product—which, considering their standard of accommodation, was practically a luxury.

With a tight budget and not a penny left for separate rooms, they decided to split into pairs. Annie stayed with Hughie, MM shared a room with Butcher (much to the frustration of both), and finally, it was just you and Frenchie left.

He didn't complain. Quite the opposite.

Frenchie practically lit up when he realized he'd be sharing a room with you. Despite you being a relatively new member of the group, you'd become the person he was closest to—the kind who steals each other's clothes without asking and nobody cares, who shares bracelets, earrings, coats, and even a pack of cigarettes when the situation calls for it. A camaraderie so natural it bordered on the comfort of many years.

But that night… sleeping wasn't so simple.

Insomnia came accompanied by old ghosts that insisted on scratching at his mind whenever he closed his eyes. He tossed and turned, restless, until finally giving up. He sat on the edge of the bed, ran a hand over his face, and straightened his torso, cracking his bare back as he stretched as if trying to banish memories.

Then he picked up the crumpled pack of cigarettes from the bedside table.

The gesture was automatic—cigarette to his lips, lighter struck, flame lit illuminating his tired face for a second. He took the first deep drag with the fatalistic tranquility of someone who had already lived too much and now did everything automatically, almost cinematically.

It was then that he noticed the detail that had previously escaped him: his bed was empty.

From the bathroom came the soft, clean scent of soap, mixed with the steam escaping through the crack in the door. At this point in the night—almost two in the morning—he deduced that you had woken from a nightmare, since you had a habit of “washing away the fear” by showering after bad dreams dragged you out of bed.

Frenchie opened the window, carefully pushing the glass aside so as not to wake anyone in the other rooms. The cold morning breeze entered, mixing with the smoke he blew out while resting his forearm on the doorframe. Outside, some bats cut across the sky in low flights, and the moon seemed larger and paler from that angle—perhaps it was just the nicotine creating poetry where there was none.

The bathroom door opened with a discreet creak.

You came out still drying your arms, wearing pants that hung loosely at the waist and a simple top that resembled gym clothes. Your hair tied back left your expression more exposed—eyes a little tired, but not frightened. Water still trickled down some unruly strands near the nape of your neck.

Frenchie let out a crooked smile—half playful, half exhausted—as he sensed her presence behind him. He turned just enough to look over his shoulder, cigarette between his fingers, smoke slowly escaping from his lips.

"Next time, have the decency to invite me, chéri…" he murmured, in that teasing yet gentle tone he always used when he wanted to break the tension of the night—or elicit a smile from her.