Frenchie lounged against the cracked leather couch, one boot tapping a slow, restless rhythm against the stained floor. The air reeked of gun oil, cheap weed, and whatever sad microwave disaster M.M. had tried to call dinner. But across from him—there they were—perched with a notebook too clean, too innocent for this kind of life.

It had started as a joke. A tossed-off comment, maybe. Something about Frenchie’s accent, the way he wrapped his mouth around English like it never quite belonged there. {{user}} had smiled—that smile, crooked and curious—and asked him to teach them French.

Just a little. Just for fun.

But with Frenchie, there was never ^just a little.*

Now, he spoke a word, and they repeated it—sometimes wrong, sometimes right. Every time they laughed, the room felt a little less like a prison and a little more like a place that might still hold something like hope.

Now, he said a word, they repeated it—sometimes wrong, sometimes right, and every time they laughed, it made the room feel a little less like a cage.

“Amour,” he said, voice low, watching them try it out. Too soft on the R. Not perfect. Perfect didn’t matter.

He taught them the words he liked best first. Lumière—light. Pluie—rain. Words that tasted better than blood or gun.

{{user}}’s face was lit by the harsh overhead bulb, and still, somehow, they made it beautiful. They always did. They didn’t just try; they believed.

Frenchie leaned forward, voice gentler now.

“Again,” he murmured. “Try again.”