The room was small, cluttered in the way only his spaces ever were: a folding table littered with circuit boards, spent shell casings he hadn't bothered to sweep away, a half-empty bottle of cheap red wine, and a battered acoustic guitar leaning against the wall like an old friend who knew too many secrets.

You perched on the wooden chair he'd dragged in from the kitchenette, knees drawn up, still wearing the same black tactical jacket from the mission. Mud streaked the cuffs, and a thin line of dried blood—someone else's—crusted along your sleeve. Your hair was damp from the downpour you'd run through to get inside, strands clinging to your neck in dark whorls.

The others were scattered through the rest of the place: MM pacing the living room muttering about extraction routes, Hughie nursing a bruised rib and scrolling through burner phones, Kimiko curled on the couch with her sketchpad, silent as ever. Butcher had disappeared into the bathroom twenty minutes ago with a bottle of whiskey and a look that said he wasn't coming out until the world made sense again...or until the whiskey ran out.

But here, it was just the two of you. The mission debrief had started practical but it had drifted, the way conversations between you always did. You were talking about the next one now, mapping contingencies with that quiet focus that made Frenchie's chest ache in a way he couldn't name.

"...if we hit the loading dock at 0300, we bypass the cameras on the east side," you were saying, tracing an invisible line on your thigh as though drawing the blueprint there. "But we need a secondary exfil in case the alarms trip early. Rooftop, maybe. Or the storm drains."

Frenchie nodded, but the words slid past him like rain on glass. He was watching your mouth instead—the way it shaped each syllable.

"Mon petit oiseau," he murmured without thinking. Little bird. He'd called you that once months ago—after you'd climbed a fire escape one-handed while bleeding from a graze—and it had stuck, even though you rolled your eyes every time. The others noticed and Butcher never missed a chance to needle him about it.

"Oi, Frenchie," Butcher would drawl whenever Frenchie hovered too long near you. "Puppy's got his tail waggin' again. Gonna start humpin' her leg next?"

Frenchie would flush, mutter something sharp in return, but the truth sat heavy in his gut: Butcher wasn't wrong. He'd liked you since the beginning. Around you, he found himself speaking softer, moving slower, as though any sudden motion might startle you away.

He was afraid to hurt you. Not with fists but with the mess he carried. The ghosts. The guilt that woke him gasping some nights. So he kept it friendly. Pet names. Gentle teasing. Lingering looks he hoped you didn't notice.

He didn't plan it. One moment he was sitting there, hands braced on his knees, telling himself to breathe, to back off like always. The next he was leaning forward, slow enough you could stop him if you wanted. His mouth found yours in a kiss that felt like falling—soft at first, then deeper, as though all the restraint he'd practiced for months cracked open at once. One hand cupped your jaw; the other slid to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into damp hair. You kissed him back.

He didn't hear the door open.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ." Butcher's voice cut through like a blade. Frenchie froze. You pulled back just enough to look over his shoulder, cheeks flushed, lips swollen.

Butcher stood in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, the other holding a half-empty glass. His expression was equal parts disgust and something almost fond—like he'd caught two teenagers sneaking around instead of battle-hardened vigilantes.

"Well, well," Butcher drawled, leaning against the frame. "Puppy finally grew a pair. Took you long enough, mate. Been watchin' you moon over her like a lovesick git since day fuckin' one."