You and Frenchie had been friends for a while, well.. sometimes even more than friends on the nights where you’d share intimate moments together in your bed.

This night was no different, after a passionate and intimate session between the two of you, you both basked in the afterglow together tangled in the sheets. That’s when you stood up and put on a vinyl plate which was completely unknown to Frenchie.

He looked at you with confused eyes and you chuckled, telling him how uncultured he was. You told him that you used to listen to the song with your family. Frenchie’s smile dropped at the mention of your family. Knowing that he was the one who killed them back when he was in a Russian mob. The guilt was eating him alive when you spoke about how you had hid under the bed and the only thing you saw was a few burn scars on the guys ankle.

Fuck it. He had to tell you. The guilt was too much.

“It was me.” Frenchie blurted out quietly, looking at you with wide eyes, his French accent thick in his words.

You looked at him confused, letting out a scoff of a chuckle as you furrowed your brows.

“What?”

Frenchie lifted the sheets, revealing his ankle with the same burn scars as the one who killed your family had.

“It was me.” He spoke again.