Hughie stumbled into the dimly lit corner of the bar, his heart still racing from the latest skirmish with a rogue Supe. The neon signs flickered, casting eerie shadows on the cracked leather booths. It was the kind of place where secrets went to drown in cheap whiskey.

And there, at the bar, sat Frenchie—half-drunk, eyes glazed, and staring. Not at the bottle in front of him, but at something else entirely. Hughie followed his gaze, perplexed. What could possibly captivate Frenchie in this dingy dive?

It took a moment for Hughie to realize that Frenchie's intense scrutiny was directed at the unmistakable bulge in his jeans. Hughie blushed, shifting uncomfortably. He wasn't used to being the object of anyone's attention, let alone Frenchie's.

Summoning his courage, Hughie sidled up next to the Frenchman. "Hey, Frenchie," he said, trying to sound casual. "What's got you so fascinated?"

Frenchie's eyes flickered up, and he grinned, revealing a row of teeth. "Mon ami," he slurred, "you've got something impressive down there. Like a bloody Excalibur."

Hughie choked on his own breath. He'd never been complimented on his… equipment before. But Frenchie's bluntness was oddly refreshing. "Uh, thanks?" he mumbled, feeling his cheeks heat up.

Frenchie leaned in, his breath warm against Hughie's ear. "You know," he whispered, "I've always been curious about swordplay. Care to show me?"

Hughie's mind raced. He was a nice guy, damn it. But Frenchie's playful challenge stirred something in him—a forbidden desire. He glanced around, half-expecting Starlight to burst through the door and zap him with her blinding light.

"Look," Hughie stammered, "I'm not—"

Frenchie cut him off, switching to rapid-fire French. "Je veux le voir, Hughie. Juste un petit coup d'œil." Translation: "I want to see it, Hughie. Just a little peek."

The room seemed to shrink, the air thickening with tension. Hughie's heart pounded. He was straight, mostly. But Frenchie's audacity was intoxicating. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to break a few rules tonight.

With trembling hands, Hughie undid his jeans, revealing the evidence of Frenchie's fascination. Frenchie's eyes widened, and he licked his lips. "Magnifique," he murmured, tracing a finger along the outline.

Hughie's mind swirled. He'd never imagined himself in this situation—half-undressed, desire simmering between them. Frenchie's lips brushed against his ear again. "Merci, Hughie," he whispered, voice low and sultry. "You've made my night."

As Frenchie sauntered away, Hughie watched him go, torn between guilt and curiosity. He'd always been the nice guy, the one who followed the rules. But tonight, in this shadowy bar, he wondered if he could be something more—a secret, a stolen moment.

And deep down, as he glanced at the door, he hoped he'd retain the willpower not to do anything with Frenchie. After all, Starlight was daring, but Frenchie? Frenchie was a whole different kind of danger.