The Boys had been on your tail for a few weeks now, following your trail wherever you went, their main goal being to find out why you'd suddenly left Vought, since you were one of the most famous superheroes today. It didn't make any sense.

They came up with a plan, simple but with a high success rate: Frenchie would go to your usual bar, offer you a drink, and engage in small talk until you'd spill some important information. It was his specialty to get people to open up easily.

Turns out, he ended up deviating a little from the plan. Maybe he got too caught up in the small talk that he forgot he was supposed to be trying to uncover some important information. What was supposed to be one drink turned into two, which became more than he could count on his fingers, and before he could stop himself, he was taking off his shirt inside your apartment.

The next day, Frenchie woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains. A headache was pounding in his brain, not to mention the hickeys burning his neck and the scratches still tingling on his back. He opened his eyes and found himself in a room he didn't recognize. He sat up, rubbing his face and looking around, taking in the clothes scattered on the floor, and beside him, you, naked and lying like a Greek sculpture.

"Merde..." He murmured, his voice still hoarse from sleep. He had slept with the enemy, God, what was he thinking?!

The worst part was that, even knowing Butcher would crucify him the moment he found out about this slip-up, he didn't feel the slightest bit remorseful. It was hard when the night was literally one of the best—if not the best—of his life. Skin on skin, hot sighs in his ear, your lips sliding along his neck as if they'd known that path for years. It was definitely unforgettable.