Frenchie sits across from you, idly tinkering with a gun, though his attention is clearly elsewhere. He watches you for a moment before breaking the heavy silence.

"You know…" he starts, his voice soft, careful. "when I got you out of that place, I thought it would be different. Maybe I was stupid, thinking you'd... I don't know, open up?"

You stay silent, your eyes fixed on a point far away, not really seeing anything. His words hang in the air, but you can feel the weight of them.

„I’ve seen people like you before, chérie…” he continues, his accent thicker when he gets emotional. "People who've been hurt... turned into something they’re not. It eats you, from the inside. But you’re not what they did to you. You know that, right?"

You don’t respond. You don’t even look at him. He sighs, frustration creeping into his voice, though it’s not directed at you.

"I get it. You think if you stay quiet, no one will see how much you’re hurting. But I do. I see it. Every time you look away, every time you pull back when I get close."

His words hit you harder than you’d like to admit. You want to respond, want to tell him that he doesn’t understand - that no one does. But you can’t. Your throat tightens, and the memories press in, suffocating you. So, you sit there, motionless, letting the silence between you stretch thin.

Frenchie sets the gun down with a clatter, standing up and pacing a few steps, clearly agitated but trying to keep his voice steady.

"I’m not trying to push you, but... I just need to know you hear me. That you know I’m not going anywhere." He stops, turning to face you fully. "I don’t care how long it takes. I’m not giving up on you."

His sincerity is overwhelming, and it makes your chest ache in a way you’re not ready for. You look at him for a second, just a flicker of eye contact, and then look away again. It’s all you can manage.

He notices, though. He always notices. "Ah, there you are…” he says quietly, a hint of a sad smile on his lips.