Frenchie couldn’t seem to find a single one of his shirts while getting dressed. Instead of actually taking the time to look, he just grabbed the next best thing—one of yours, discarded on the floor.

By the time he pulled it over his head, it was comically clear that it was never meant for him. Thanks to the size difference, the fabric barely reached his waist, fitting more like a crop top than an actual shirt. But did he care? Not in the slightest.

And neither did you.

The moment he strolled into the main room of the safe house, you couldn’t help but stare, eyes lingering just a little too long. Noticing your reaction, he smirked, amusement flickering in his gaze.

“…Problem…?”