Archive of Our Own

Saturday mornings aren’t so bad. In fact, Marinette’s pretty sure they’re the only days she gets to relax. Weekday mornings are already hectic as it is, what with having to be on time for school and the bakery opening up so early. But at least on a Saturday, she can sleep in a little more, check her messages from her bed and hug her pillow a little closer and go on something for breakfast besides a cup of yogurt or a bowl of cereal. And probably most importantly, she doesn’t have to go all the way down to the bakery—in her robe and slippers—just to say good morning to her parents.

In fact, they’re waiting for her by the kitchen, the news already blaring and the apartment smelling of toasted bread, when she comes downstairs, still in her pajamas and phone in hand. There’s still an hour or so until the bakery-patisserie opens, which means there’s a little longer than that until Ms. Chamack comes by. She’s got some time to relax.

“What’s on the agenda for today?” her father says, greeting her with a kiss to the top of her head as her mother sets a couple of jars on jam on the table.

Marinette gives him a sleepy smile. “Oh, the usual.”

“Aha.” Her father grins right back; he knows her too well. “Is it the ‘Kitty Section’ usual? Or the ‘hanging out with Alya’ usual? No, wait, don’t tell me—it’s ‘Jagged Stone and Miss Rolling!’ A plot twist!”

“No, Papa,” she laughs. But before she can say anything else or even take a seat, her phone starts to buzz in her hand, the screen lighting up with a photo of Luka performing at the café. Her stomach jolts; he’s video-calling, and she’s pretty sure she still has some leftover bedhead, and she’s also pretty sure that for all the naps they’ve taken together he’s never actually seen her in her pajamas. Not that he’ll be offended if she doesn’t pick up right away—he’s nothing if not patient, and he’s reassured her countless times that she doesn’t need to be at his beck and call every second of every day just because they’re dating. But there’s still the pressure of wanting to look somewhat presentable and the pressure of not wanting to spend too much time away from her parents, and sometimes it’s hard to decide which one wins out when you haven’t even had breakfast yet.

Still, her father gives her a little smile and a wave just as the call times out and the screen goes dim. He doesn’t need to say it out loud, but they’re both thinking it: Aha. Kitty Section it is. It isn’t, exactly, but it is close enough, and she isn’t about to get into technicalities to correct him so early in the morning.

“Make it quick,” he says, “and not at the breakfast table.”

With a nod, she takes up space on the couch, combing her fingers through her hair and at least trying to look casual when she dials his number again. In moments, Luka picks up—still in bed, from the looks of it, and his bedhead is no better than hers. His whole face lights up with a smile, and he rolls onto his stomach. “Morning, beautiful,” he mumbles, and it comes out as a soft growl as he brushes his hair back and rubs the leftover sleep from his eyes. “Looks like you got a headstart on me.”

The sight and sound of him—and especially the pet name—make her beam and tear a giggle out of her. All this time, and he still makes her feel like this. “Hi, sleepy. Did you just wake up?”

“I’m not even sure I’m awake yet.” Luka shifts, props himself up on his elbow and his phone up against the wall. Marinette can’t help lying back on the couch to join him, but not without dropping her phone on her face in the process. And of course he’s laughing at her, and she’d pout if it didn’t sound so deep and so musical. It’s not fair. He’s not fair sometimes, but at least it’s in the good way. “Oh—yep. I’m awake.”

At the very least, she scrunches up her nose. “How do you figure?”

“Well… You’re a little more graceful in my dreams.”

“You… dream about me?”

Luka smiles, half-lidded and absolutely gorgeous. “Yeah. A lot.”

She has to suppress the urge to scream, even though she’s pretty sure her parents heard it all already. “S-so! Um. What’s—what’s up?”

He blinks slow, almost like a cat; isn’t that how they tell people they trust them? “Just wondering if you had plans today. I was thinking about taking you out somewhere, if you wanted.”

“Oh…” Marinette can feel the frown coming before it even hits her face. “I would… I mean, I’d love to, really, but I’m babysitting today.”

“Oh?” He’s more intrigued than she expected; he sits up and everything, stretches this way and that, and she can’t help blushing and darting her eyes away. “Nino’s brother again? Or the twins?”

She shakes her head. “Manon—uh, Ms. Chamack’s daughter.”

She can’t see Luka’s face until he picks up his phone again, and she ends up following him into the bathroom while he washes up. There’s no picture, so the phone is probably face-down, but she can hear the running water and a faint humming echoing off the walls. When she sees him again, he looks a little more fresh. “Well,” he says, still shuffling about the cabin on his end. “Do you need a hand?” He grins, holding up his free one in a devil’s horn sign just at the corner of the screen. “I’ve got two. If your mom and dad are cool with me coming over, I mean.”

Marinette sits up, too, and looks over to her father, who’s buttering a hunk of toasted bread, and to her mother, who’s quietly sipping her morning tea. She gets her father’s attention, points to her phone and then to the floor as if to ask permission. In response, he shares a look with her mother, puts the bread down, and opens and closes his hands as if to mime a book. And he gives her the no buts look, so she knows he means business.

She sighs, and nods, and turns back to Luka. “If I finish my history homework.”

“Go finish your history homework.”

“I have to eat breakfast!”

“Then go eat breakfast,” he says with a grin that manages to be teasing and well-meaning all at once, and he sneaks in an I love you just before they hang up.

There are a few beats of silence before she cradles her phone to her chest and giggles her way off the couch and back to her seat. And it’s her father who sets a plate of food in front of her, who thumbs her cheek and looks at her with a soft, knowing sort of love before he turns back to his coffee.

Her brow furrows. “What is it, Papa?”

He only shakes his head, still smiling to himself before he drains his cup. “You seem happier these days,” he says in between bites of toast. “That’s all.”

Her parents leave her be soon enough, so that she can finish up that assignment, and so she’s decent and at least relatively prepared by the time Ms. Chamack comes around. Manon is already bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, and Marinette supposes that no matter how many times she agrees to babysit, she’ll never quite know what to do with someone like Manon. She can’t help it; she’s been an only child her whole life, and every so often she still has to rely on Alya’s or Nino’s expertise when any of the kids are struggling. And they’re all so different in the way they handle themselves and interact with her, too.

“The first thing you have to remember,” Alya told her once, “is that they’re not giving you a hard time. They’re going through their own hard time and don’t always know how to handle it. We were all like that when we were their age. But no one’s gonna learn anything from anyone if we’re all stressed out.”

Easy for her to say. She’s been handling the twins for ages. And she has an older sister to help her out sometimes, too.

Maybe Manon can’t help it, either. She doesn’t exactly have an older sister to look up to herself.

And maybe having Luka around will be even easier than she’s hoping. Even if Juleka seems like she was an easy little sister to grow up with.

“Marinette!” Manon’s already tugging on the hem of her shirt, and then at her hands. So much energy in such a little kid. So much want and need. “What are we doing today? We’re not gonna stay home all day and do nothing again, are we? It’s so boring, staying here all the time…”

Marinette sighs, taps her chin. “I have an idea,” she says after a moment. “Let’s make a list of the things we want to do today. That way, it’s easier for us to decide.”

Manon is already rattling off ideas before Marinette can so much as grab a pen and a sheet of paper—coloring, a blanket fort, a movie, a sock puppet show about Ladybug and Chat Noir. Marinette’s barely got the first one or two down before there’s a knock at the door, and she hops up to her feet a little too fast with a smile that stretches from ear to ear.

“Say,” she says, “would you like to meet one of my very good friends? I think that’s him at the door.”

“But I already know Nino! And Adrien!”

“It’s not Nino, or Adrien.” Marinette’s stomach drops a little, but she manages a faint smile all the same. “Let’s go see who it is, okay?”

Manon’s eyes go wide with curiosity, and then with excitement, and she jumps to her feet, too. She’s already scampering toward the door and stumbling over her little backpack in the process, standing on tiptoe to turn the knob. Sure enough, Luka is standing in the hallway, mild-mannered as always and with his classical guitar strapped across his chest. He peeks into the apartment, looks around with a confused expression even though he practically makes eye contact with Marinette first thing. Then he draws his attention to the little girl who’s standing, still wide-eyed in awe, in front of him. His face breaks into an amused smile, brow furrowed playfully, as he bends over with his hands on his hips and his head tilted just so.

“Marinette, is that you?” he teases. “Something looks different about you today… did you get a haircut?”

Immediately, Manon giggles behind her hands. “I’m not Marinette! She’s over there!”

She jerks a pudgy thumb behind her, and Luka meets her eyes again, and the way his eyes light up looks so much better in person than it does over video chat.

“She sure is,” he breathes, and her stomach flutters again. “But if you’re not Marinette, then who are you?”

“I’m Manon.” She smiles, all front teeth, and puffs up her chest. “I’m five, and my maman is on TV.”

“On TV?” Luka feigns surprise. “She must be pretty special if she gets to be on TV.”

“She is! She’s very special.” Manon scrunches up her nose. “Who are you, anyway?”

With a smile, he presses his hand to his chest and closes his eyes in apology. “My name’s Luka. My little sister is in Marinette’s class. And Marinette is my…” He pauses for a moment, a question in his eye, and then he shakes his head and clears his throat. “We’re very close. Say, Manon, do you think I could come in?”

Seemingly suspicious, Manon looks back to Marinette, who can feel a smile on her face that’s so dopey that her cheeks are starting to hurt. It’s definitely not a maybe situation anymore; it’s an absolutely situation. She gives a nod, short but shy, and Manon reaches to take Luka’s hand in both of her little ones, still a little wary. He stumbles in after her, toes the door shut behind him, and she gestures for Marinette to pick her up.

“Hey, hey, Marinette,” Manon tries to whisper, though it doesn’t come out very much like a whisper. “Is Luka your boyfriend? Is he?”

Almost instantly, Marinette’s face flares up, and she tries to come up with an explanation, or an excuse. But her reaction probably gives her away enough, and Luka ends up taking the wheel. Which she doesn’t terribly mind, not when he lets out a delicately awkward laugh and says, “You know, a boy and a girl can be friends without being boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“I know,” Manon mutters. “Noel’s my friend, and he’s not my boyfriend. And Nino is Marinette’s friend, and he’s not her boyfriend. But are you her boyfriend?”

Luka gives Marinette a look and a shrug that says, Oh, well, more than anything. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I am. How did you know?”

Manon fumbles a little, and nestles closer into Marinette’s arms. “‘Cause one time, Maman showed me pictures of her and Papa when they got married. And you look at Marinette the way Papa looked at Maman.”

Thank goodness for Luka, because Marinette is entirely too flustered to look at either of them, let alone, speak. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him reach out slowly to ruffle her hair. “Well, what do you think? Do you approve of me being Marinette’s boyfriend?”

Manon looks a little confused herself, and with every passing second Marinette wishes the ground would swallow her up, and maybe this is more of a maybe situation after all. “But I thought you wanted Adrien to be your boyfriend,” she says, and Marinette quite possibly regrets literally everything. Even if Luka doesn’t look totally offended by the question, and probably wouldn’t be totally offended by the answer, either.

“Well…” she starts slowly, looking around at the list, the TV and video game console, the floor, Luka’s patient expression, back to Manon. “I… did. But not anymore. Adrien and I are friends, and that’s okay.”

“How come? How come not anymore?”

“I just don’t, Manon.”

“But Adrien—”

“Manon,” Luka cuts in, quiet and patient and reasoning and firm all at once. Thank goodness for him, again and again and again. “Sometimes feelings are very hard to have, or explain, or talk to other people about. For now, let’s let Marinette feel how she feels, and not ask her too many questions so she doesn’t get too sad.” He meets her at eye level, even when Marinette lowers her to the floor, and rests a hand on top of her head, nodding to the guitar on his back. “Do you want to help me play her a song to make her smile? Do you think she’d like that?”

Manon doesn’t look entirely satisfied—Marinette’s pretty sure no five-year-old is, when they have an abundance of questions like that. But she studies Marinette’s expression all the same, and then looks back to Luka with a shy, pigeon-toed nod, and she toddles and hops up after him as he settles on the couch and takes his guitar out to tune.

“Do you think Marinette likes me?” Luka asks Manon in the same not-whisper whisper. “Because I really, really want her to like me.”

That puts the smile back on Manon’s face, and she looks between the two of them, hiding another quiet giggle behind her hands and nodding fast.

“What about you, Manon? Do you think I’m okay for her?” He grins. “Because I really, really want you to think I’m good enough, too.”

Manon hugs her knees to her chest, curled up into a little ball on the couch, and nods one more time. “Can you play ‘Au Clair de la Lune?’” she asks. “It’s my favorite favorite.”

Luka smiles warmly, plucking at the strings of the guitar to get used to them, though it takes him almost no time at all. “Well, now I’m gonna have to, if it’s your favorite favorite.”

It’s a welcome distraction, even as Marinette is picking up bits and pieces of the house—a couple of toys strewn across the floor, the list left abandoned. She’ll keep it on the coffee table, just in case Manon changes her mind yet again and wants to go back to the blanket fort, or the coloring, or the movie. And it’s sweet background noise, too, even as Manon struggles to remember the lyrics past the first verse, even as Luka chuckles and helps her out, and even as they play and sing a new song together. It takes a moment for Marinette to recognize it—‘À La Claire Fontaine’—and just a little longer for her to realize she’s singing along, too with her hand on her heart. The same line, over and over. Il y a longtemps que te t’aime; jamais je ne t’oublierai.

It’s not good by any stretch of the imagination; Clara Nightingale and Jagged Stone could definitely do a better job. But she knows the words, and she knows the melody, and she always did like this sad little song about birds and trees and roses and lost love.

“Look.” Luka’s whispering behind her, probably nudging Manon and pointing to her. Marinette can feel his smile drilling into her back. “Look, Manon. I think she likes it. I think we did it. Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Manon whispers back. “Hear what?”

“Listen, she’s singing it so sweetly,” Luka says, and his voice is so heavy with adoration that Marinette’s glad neither of them can see her blushing. “She knows the heart of the song. That’s how you know it’s really good.”

Well, Marinette thinks. He’s probably right.

“Do you know it too?” Manon asks.

Luka hums in thought. “I know her heart,” he says. “And I know it’s really good, too.”

In between Manon’s confused face and repetitive questions—“But what does that mean, Luka? What does that mean?”—Marinette’s heart flutters, because he’s probably right about that, too.

“Ooh, I like him, Marinette,” is Manon’s eventual verdict as she’s holding onto both of their hands, swinging them back and forth on their way to the park nearby. It’s probably all the songs, and the way he speaks to her, that help her decision along. Or maybe it’s because he told her he’s in a band where they get to wear cat masks and sing about oh, unicorns and stuff when they perform. Either way, Marinette is pretty sure this is the widest Manon’s ever smile in the time she’s been taking care of her. She really will have to find a way to thank Luka later. Maybe with a date. Maybe when they’re alone.

Almost instantly, Manon busies herself with running around, giggling and playing make-believe all the while. With how busy her mother is, she must not get to come here very often, or at all. Marinette has to wonder if she’s ever had to make some kind of playground out of the TV station—and how much it must have disturbed the studios and the hallways. So maybe it’s nice to take her out here after all.

In the meantime, Luka leads the way toward a circle of benches, sprawls out on one of them with his arm slung over the back. He gives Marinette a smile, and nods his head toward himself as if to say, come here, and she’ll never figure out how he makes the most casual little things seem so ridiculously smooth. As if attached to a string, she stumbles over and sinks down next to him, crossing her legs tight and taking what feels like all the time in the world to get used to the warmth of him next to her. It’s not that she’s embarrassed, or ashamed to be around him—God, it’s totally the opposite. It’s more that, for all their time together, most of their intimacies happen when they feel like they’re alone. When they’re cooped up in her room or his, or when they’re leaning on each other in the school courtyard or the corner of the art room with their fingers laced out of sight. Or in the background of strangers they’re half-sure they’ll never see again.

It’s never felt so… public before. So open or on display. Which is sort of funny, because she’s pretty sure that everyone in her class knows she’s dating, depending on who you ask, Juleka’s cute older brother or that guy with the blue hair who always carries his guitar around everywhere or that kid who, you know, looks like a bad-boy punk type but probably rescues stray cats from trees in his spare time.

Honestly, that last one isn’t terribly far off. He still has the scars of claw marks on his arms from a past date to prove it.

“You want to come closer?” he asks, just as casual as the rest of him, and Marinette finds herself shifting closer and closer to him, jittery from the butterflies in her stomach and the way his guitar fingers dance over her shoulder. Now they must look like one of those couples she always used to see before, the ones who would walk way too slowly with their hands in each other’s back pockets, or who would steal so many kisses that she’d have to look away with a blush.

…They don’t do that now, do they?

No, no way. Luka’s never even had his had lower than the middle of her back. And he’d ask if he actually wanted to put his hand in her pocket anyway; she would have remembered, and she’s not even totally sure if she would have said yes. And she doesn’t even have back pockets on her pants, anyway.

Which is, quite frankly, incredibly stupid and one of the many reasons she’s going to take the fashion industry by the horns: because she. Deserves. Pockets.

“Hey, Marinette!”

Huh. Speak of the devil.

From a distance, Alya is waving her down, hand-in-hand with Nino. The two of them must be on a date, because Noel and the twins are nowhere to be found, and they usually make themselves known with a series of giggles hidden behind hands or complaints of boredom or “little kid things.” Marinette bolts up straight before she can get too comfortable, even though she can still feel Luka’s arm behind her, looping her in without touching her. It doesn’t seem to matter how fast she does it; Alya is still all knowing grins by the time the two of them approach the bench.

“Stuck babysitting again?” she says by way of greeting, exchanging cheek kisses with her while Nino taps the brim of his cap in their direction.

“I wouldn’t say ‘stuck,’” Marinette replies with a shrug. “It’s not so bad today. Manon is having a blast.”

“Looks like she’s not the only one.” Alya’s grin goes just a touch wider. “Hey, Luka.”

A low, drawling “Hey” is all Luka says in response, even though he gives Alya a lazy smile of his own. in the meantime, he busies himself with tracing slow, mindless patterns with his fingertips on Marinette’s shoulder. She tries not to shiver, or lean into the touch too much, even though she falls into the quiet hope that he’ll do it all day.

“Still,” Alya goes on, “if the two of you wanted to spend time together, why not ask Lila to cover for you?” She flicks a glance Nino’s way, and he hums contentedly and drapes his arm over her shoulder. “That’s what we do sometimes. She’s been a saint about it. Even gets along with Noel, and you know how Noel can get sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Beside her, Nino laughs. “No, but yeah. He never wants her to go home when she babysits, you know?”

At the mention of Lila’s name, Marinette’s blood chills, stings like acid under her skin with each passing word. She swallows thickly, brow pinched together and lips parted in offense as she tries to find just the right words to say, tries to hold her tongue instead of spilling her most sour thoughts about Lila and handling her own responsibilities and how that must explain everything she knows about the future somehow. But it’s Luka who cuts in, squeezing her shoulder to soothe her mind. Who looks to Marinette when he says, “I don’t mind tagging along. It’s nice, watching you do your thing. I’ve always felt that way.”

Somehow, he always knows exactly what to say to make her flutter. She’s never going to believe him again if he ever insists that he’s bad with words.

“Besides,” he adds, “Manon makes a great backup singer.” Which makes all four of them laugh.

Alya and Nino leave them alone soon enough, with another set of cheek kisses and the sentiment that neither of them will intrude on each other’s quality time. It isn’t until they disappear down the park path that Marinette slumps back with an aggravated sigh and presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. Luka must know just what’s eating at her, because he immediately rubs comforting circles between her shoulder blades, and kisses her temple when Manon isn’t looking, and murmurs against it, “Is she still bothering you?”

“Not even actively.” Marinette folds her arms tight across her chest. It’s not that the threat from before slipped her mind; it’s just that Lila always has this insidious way of going about this, which is such a contrast from all the ways that Chloe’s tormented her in the past that in some respects she almost forgets it. Almost. Even though she shouldn’t, because it seems practically impossible to forget when someone tries to ruin you by looking like they have the best of intentions. “It’s just something I feel, all the time, like this black cloud that’s always just behind your head, even when your days are super sunny. It’s just… off.”

Luka hums in thought, or maybe agreement. “I don’t like her energy,” he says. “And I’m sorry that it’s something you always have to deal with. And we don’t have to talk about it anymore.” Which is the closest anyone’s ever come to solidarity with her on this, and she latches onto it instantly. She all but buries her face in his shoulder and breathes him in, body going slack with each relaxing, comforting second.

“Does stuff always feel like this?” she asks. “Where you wanna be done with it, and you think you’re done with it, but there’s always something that drags you back in and makes you hurt all over again?”

Beside her, Luka pulls her a touch closer and laughs weakly. “Sounds like my anxiety,” he tries to joke, but neither of them laughs. Not even when Manon scurries over to them with her hands cupped in the air, gently toeing Marinette’s shoe with her own.

“Hey,” Manon says with her lips twisted in a frown. “Hey, I found a frog by the fountain, but it’s not changing.”

Upon further examination, there really is a small frog hiding in her hands—alive, but perfectly still. It’s not that Marinette hates frogs, or is scared of them, but she recoils all the same even as she’s peering into Manon’s hands. Luka must feel how tightly her fingers curl into his sleeve, or maybe he’s just amused by Manon’s discovery, or maybe he gets to see frogs all the time considering he literally lives on the water, because he lets out a chuckle through closed lips and leans in to get a better look. “He’s a little guy, isn’t he?” he says.

“Yeah.” Manon’s still pouting. “But he’s not changing.”

“What do you mean, he’s not changing?”

“Like the story, Luka!” she whines. “He’s s’posed to turn into a prince or something!”

“Manon,” Marinette says, eyes going wide with horror, “did you… don’t tell me you actually kissed it—?”

“No! Ew!” Manon sticks out her tongue in disgust. “I just wanted to hold it. I thought it could turn into a prince if I held it.”

“Well,” Luka says thoughtfully, “what about an air kiss? You want me to give it a try?”

Manon blinks a couple of times, evidently confused. “You?” she says, surprised but not totally incredulous, and she digs the ball of her foot into the dirt. “But it’s a girl who’s s’posed to do it…”

“Says who?” Luka leans forward, chin in his hand, and raises an eyebrow at her with a knowing smile. “Boys can kiss princes too, you know. If they want to. Some boys even kiss princes and princesses. Or people who don’t want to be either. And some don’t kiss them at all.” His eyes are practically sparkling; it makes Marinette’s stomach turn so, so pleasantly. “Isn’t it awesome how everybody gets to be so different and so happy?”

Manon starts to look a little convinced, even as she scuffs her heel against the ground, even as she continues to cradle the frog close and let it explore her cupped hands. “Um…” She pauses to chew her lip. “Do girls get to kiss princesses, too? And stuff like that?”

Luka’s smile only grows, his whole expression warm and loving. “My little sister is a girl,” he says, “and she gets to kiss a princess all the time.”

Marinette beams.

And then it fades.

Manon probably didn’t mean anything by it. It was just a question. Every five-year-old has questions. Every little kid who knows everything they know about love from reading fairy tales has questions like this. It’s just that Marinette couldn’t help freezing up when Manon said she was going to put the frog back—to find a girl frog that could kiss it, or another boy frog—and then asked, “Are you and Luka gonna get married one day? Like a real prince and princess?”

To say she froze up then would be an understatement. It was more like her mind went blank, and she stumbled over her words the way she used to all those times before. And Luka seemed to know that she was struggling with a capital S Something, even if he didn’t know exactly what that capital S Something was, because he took over with another laugh and said, “Well, you never know. We’re still pretty young.”

“Well,” Manon said, “‘cause if Marinette doesn’t, I’m gonna.”

Marinette wishes that were the phrase she could repeat in her head and laugh off with Luka, because Manon is five and she’s very clearly not going to marry someone who’s at least ten or eleven years older than she is. But that’s not the line stuck in her head. It’s the question. It’s the marriage thing.

She’s fourteen years old, and she’s panicking over marriage things again.

“She’s a funny kid,” Luka says to start up a new conversation. He’s looking toward the fountain, where Manon is releasing her frog friend back into the water, telling it stories about herself and her maman and the prince and princess she knows for real. “I guess all kids that age are pretty funny, huh?”

Marinette shifts uncomfortably on the bench. Crosses her legs and wishes she had something to fidget with, too. “Yeah. Funny.”

It must be something in her voice that he picks up on—which she shouldn’t really surprised about, because even she hears it in herself. He turns her way, lips quirked and brow knit in the middle. Makes sure to look her in the eyes and everything. He mentioned it once, that he likes to do that when he speaks to people sometimes, or at least when he’s about to say something he thinks is meaningful. That way, they know he cares.

Luka doesn’t have to look Marinette in the eyes for her to know that she cares about him. But he does anyway. “Hey…” he says, so softly that if she were on the verge of tears she probably would start crying. “What’s on your mind?”

“Sorry, just.” If she could huddle up on this whole bench the way she does on her bed or the chaise-longue back home, she would. “Just what Manon said… got to me.”

He hums. “I’m gonna take a stab and say it’s not getting to you in the good way.”

Marinette doesn’t answer at first. Only folds her arms tight and wishes, for a split-second, that they were back home. But she guesses this is as alone as they’re going to get before she dips into the real panic of it, so she might as well get it off her chest now. That’s the point, isn’t it? For them to share with each other? “I…” She sighs. “I used to have this, like. Super Mega Crush on Adrien.”

“Really?” A grin snails its way across his lips. “I had no idea.”

“Oh, ha ha. Very funny.” Marinette kicks at the dirt. Stretches out her legs. It should be easier to talk about the things that have passed—laugh them off like jokes, can you believe I really did this? or can you believe I really felt that way? But it isn’t. “It was… really bad.” She rubs the back of her neck, feeling her voice grow small, and shudders to herself. “I guess you could even call it obsessive.”

Luka chews on his lip for a thoughtful moment, tongue stud coming to poke out between them. It’s steadily becoming a tic of his, almost up there with the spinner ring. He doesn’t sound irritated or disappointed when he says, “Mmhmm.” He just sounds like he’s listening. And knowing he’s just listening makes it a little easier to talk about, and she doesn’t have to spit out all her thoughts at once and rewind the tape to organize them all over again.

“I did weird things,” she says. “Really weird things, I can’t—I don’t even want to talk about them all. It was… it was bad. Like, in general, and for me, and… and I guess for him, too. And I thought about weird stuff, too. Getting married. Having a house and kids. Having pets together.”

“Ah,” Luka says, as though some part of him suddenly understands everything. “The hamsters.”

“Yeah.” Marinette laughs nervously. “The hamsters. You remember that?”

“C’mon, babe. You say that like I don’t think about our first kiss.”

It’s probably not the best time to smile, so at least she tries to hide it behind a hand. “You… you still think about that?”

Luka’s a little less hesitant to hide his own, but he does run his hand through his hair, and he does look away. Shy earnest is a good look on him. “Yeah,” he says. “All the time.”

She relaxes a little, next to him. Reaches for his hand. Revels in how slowly his fingers slide between her own, how gentle they are for all their roughness from playing, and how willing they are to stay there with her. “Can I tell you something, Luka?”

“Anything.”

“I’m…” God, she’s hoping she words this correctly, and that he doesn’t take it the wrong way. “I’m glad I’m not like that with you.”

There are a couple of beats of silence that follow, accompanied only by the unintelligible conversation Manon is still having with that tiny frog, and it makes her nervous. Enough that she can’t tell if she should be looking at him and quietly begging him to say something, or if she should be looking away and apologizing for saying anything like that at all.

“It’s just,” she goes on, partly to fill that silence and partly because some part of her is afraid he won’t understand what she means unless she over-explains it. “I… I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to think about that stuff, ever, ‘cause I do, and I know people who are married and happy. Really happy. But I—I like not thinking so much about it with you. I like you, and… I like going slow with you. About everything. I want to do this right, and doing it like this feels right. Really right.” She’s biting her lip so hard now she’s pretty sure it’ll be swollen, and she won’t know how to explain it. Maybe she can use the sewing machine as an excuse. “I just like liking you,” she says. “I like loving you. Is that bad?”

It doesn’t feel bad to her. It actually feels kind of funny, how a boy who lent her an umbrella once had her all gooey and stumbling over herself. And how another boy who tells her he loves her and means it, who plays her a song he thinks lives in her heart, who naps with her and wants her close by and gives her the best kisses—even if she doesn’t exactly have any other point of reference—doesn’t make her think about what they’ll be like ten years out. Maybe it’s just because he gives her so much in the present that she wants to enjoy it for every second it’s worth.

Without many words, Luka studies her up and down, his gaze drifting back and forth between her eyes and her hands. There’s something in the way he looks at her that’s so familiar to her. That want to be closer, to do just a little bit more, coupled with the unfortunate awareness of just where they are. Eventually, he shakes his head, and brushes her hair back from her face, and his face breaks out into a soft, affectionate smile. “Nah,” he says. “I like loving you, too.”

Luka left his guitar back at her place, but he still manages to find something to do with his hands. Even if it means holding hers. Even if it means spinning his ring again and again, or cracking his knuckles to no discernible rhythm, or catching a lock of her hair between his fingers before letting it slip away. Most of the time he inevitably goes back to tracing cloudy patterns over her palms with his nails. It tickles a little, not so much in the way that she wants to pull back but more in the way that she’s glad she can feel it at all.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” he says to break the silence between them. It’s abrupt, but it doesn’t startle her much. More than anything, it feels like a casual scene out of a movie she saw once, where there’s this quiet moment between a boy and a girl before she blurts out, I think I love you? Question mark and everything. Like she’s afraid to say it. But it’s hard to think of Luka being afraid to say anything. Even if he feels sometimes like his words aren’t right. Even if it could be the most vulnerable thing he’s ever said to someone.

What is the most vulnerable thing he’s ever said to someone? Was it I love you? Or was it I’m scared? And did he say it to her? First, or ever?

“For what?” she asks, pressing her thumb between his knuckles.

His hand goes still in both of hers, and then shifts only so their fingers are laced again, settled in her lap. “For saying all that. Because it must have been scary to say it out loud.”

Scarier than I love you? Scarier than I’m scared?

“I mean,” he goes on, “to say out loud that the way you used to be, or the things you used to do, were… not so great. And to tell someone the kinds of things you want with them. And how you really feel about them.”

“But I shouldn’t be scared of that.” Without really meaning to, she gives his hand a squeeze. “I shouldn’t be scared to tell you those things, cause… you’re my boyfriend, you know? You should know this kind of stuff. You should know how I feel.”

Luka squeezes her hand back, and he probably does mean it. “That doesn’t make it any less scary.”

Well. He does have a point.

“Can I tell you something scary too?” he murmurs. He may sound even, but if Marinette goes still enough, tries to feel enough, she can pick up on the subtlest ways that his hand is trembling in hers. “So we’re even, you know?”

“Only if you want,” she says. In the distance, Manon is singing “À La Claire Fontaine” again, trying to remember the words to it all. At least she’s gotten to the part about the nightingale. It almost looks like she’s trying to act the song out, which is nothing short of adorable. And it makes Marinette smile, even as she leans again Luka’s shoulder. “Only if you’re okay with it.”

Luka goes quiet for a while, probably singing along with Manon on the inside. Or maybe he’s listening for what Manon’s heart sounds like. Or even the ways that Marinette’s has changed. (Is it always based on feelings? Is there ever something constant?) Eventually, he rests his head on top of hers, a comfortable weight, and opens his hand so that she can play with his in turn. “I’m glad we’re going slow,” he says, so low and so soft that for a moment she thinks she didn’t hear him correctly, or at all.

Marinette flicks her gaze up, even though she can’t see him and he can’t see her. They’re just feeling each other, as safely as they can in public, and she doesn’t mind it at all. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s…” He sighs. “It’s weird, kind of. Or it’s gonna sound weird if I don’t explain it right.”

“Take your time,” she says. “You don’t have to say everything. or anything.”

“I want you to know this,” he tells her, even as his fingers twitch, looking for something to latch onto. It almost reminds her of when she found out about all his anxiety, except this time, he talks about it like he wants to give the knowledge away. Like he has the choice to, this time, and doesn’t have to worry about being exposed. “If it’s anyone else, I want it to be you.”

“Go ahead.” With a faint smile and her eyes back on Manon, she rubs his hand gently between both of hers, reveling in the calluses she can feel against her palms. “I’m listening.”

It seems to take him just as long to speak this time, too. “I don’t want you to grow up fast,” he says. “Like how I had to. You know what I mean?”

On instinct, one of her hands clamps tight around his. “I’m not sure,” she admits. “Cause you’ve told me some stuff, but not a whole lot of stuff, so I don’t want to assume anything, and…” She pauses, chews her lip, rubs her thumb over his nail. It’s starting to chip again, she notices. Maybe they can paint them again when they get back to her place. Maybe she’ll paint hers too. “Do you mean your dad?”

Luka’s body goes tense. Nail on the head.

“What…” She squints into the distance. “What does that have to do with us? Or growing up too fast?”

He moves to swivel himself around on the bench, so that now he’s facing her, and she does the same, so they’re equal again. “I had to take care of Jules a lot,” he says. He’s looking down at his lap, rubbing his hands together uneasily, sometimes stopping to slide his ring off and on his finger instead of spinning it like he’s supposed to. “Since my ma had to work more hours, more jobs, just to take care of the two of us. We dealt with walking to get around, hand-me-downs, cereal box cities, stuff like that, just to save up. The one thing Juleka had a lot of was questions. Why was ma never home, why did our dad go away, why are the kids at school so mean, why do we have to live like this all the time.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out slow, holds his own hands tight. “I mean, I guess she had a lot of tears, too. And I didn’t always know how to get them to go away.”

It makes sense now. Not just why he’s so good with kids, but what Juleka asked of her before. No wonder she wanted Luka to be happy so badly.

“But I guess we had a lot of something else, too,” he goes on. “A lot of love. I’m not saying being poor made us better people, or made us learn all these things about character.” He laughs, weakly. “I think the only thing we did learn is that some people suck, and the government sucks even more, and that you find ways to live in the system until you can actually tell it to fuck itself.”

It must have been a slip-up, because his eyes go wide, and immediately he looks over to Manon. She’s still singing to herself as she saunters over to the carousel for a ride, still talking about that little frog she found and how maybe someday someone will help it become a prince, or that maybe it already is.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I hate when people swear in front of kids.”

“Luka,” she says with a soft laugh. “We’re kids.”

Gently, he flicks her nose. “You know what I mean.”

In some ways, she guesses that’s the point he’s trying to make. That he was a kid. He wasn’t supposed to be a dad. He was supposed to be a big brother. Just a big brother. And now that he can be, that’s all he wants to be, even with all the leftovers he has to deal with because of it. The questions. The shaking.

“Anyway, I just.” This time Luka’s the one chewing his lip, and he’s still having trouble looking at her, and she has a feeling it’s not necessarily because he’s ashamed. Just because it’s scary to tell the truth sometimes. Just because you can love someone as much as you do, and still find every way to be vulnerable around them over and over and over. “I know what it’s like to go too fast. So I want to take this slow. And I’m… really, really glad that you do, too. Because sometimes I look at everything around me, and it feels like it’s all too much. Like I can’t catch up with anything, you know?”

“Yeah,” Marinette says. “I know.” In the quiet, she reaches for his hands, slides their fingers together again. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.” Luka lifts his gaze and smiles. “Anything.”

It’s enough to make her heart flutter. “What does it feel like when you look at me?”

She doesn’t know if she’s asking it because she doesn’t know the answer, or because she does and needs to hear it again anyway. But it’s too late to take the question back, and she’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to besides. It’s not that he looks taken aback or offended by it, either. But there’s some odd nuance in his eyes that makes it seem like he knows the answer, has known it for a long time, but needs the delay so that he doesn’t seem weird if he answers it right away. It’s a kind of overthinking she knows too well, but it’s a kind she also knows comes with something so thoughtful she might need him to repeat it, just because it’ll blow her away the first time.

“It feels right,” he murmurs, with his fingers brushing over the bones in her hands. “It feels like home.”

There it is. The blow-away.

Luka frowns. “Did—I make this weird?”

“No, no, I—” Marinette breathes in sharp. “I just need you to say that again.”

Luka’s eyes widen, just a touch. It takes a moment for him to soften into the smile she knows so well, the one that still makes her stomach twist in knots every time she sees it. “It feels like home. You feel like home.”

In the end, across the street from home, Manon sways over from riding the carousel one too many times. She leans into Luka’s lap and all but collapses there, shudders sleepily against his chest when he pulls her up easily to sit on his knees. The first thing she asks, even though her eyelids look heavy and she’s whining about wanting to take a nap right here, is, “Is Marinette okay? Did you decide yet? Do you wanna get married to Luka?”

Marinette shares a look with him, somewhere Manon can’t see. A soft but knowing grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, and he manages to give her a little shrug. It isn’t until Manon’s eyes close that Marinette smiles, too, with a dismissive shake of her head, as she fishes out a small bottle of sanitizer and starts to rub down Manon’s hands with it. “I don’t know yet,” she says. “We’ll see.”

“You’re washing my friend away,” Manon says with a pout. “The frog, I was holding the frog.”

“Well, the frog wouldn’t want you to get sick because of him, would he?”

Manon shakes her head, and nestles closer to Luka’s chest. It’s the easiest she’s ever been, even though her eyes open again. “Are you sure you don’t know?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Marinette says, and reaches over to rub the top of Manon’s head just before Luka rests his chin on top of it. “But you know what?”

Manon blinks, probably trying to fight off the sleep. It’s not working. “What?”

Marinette’s smile grows, and she rubs the back of Manon’s tiny hand with her thumb, and she makes sure to hold Luka’s gaze for a little while longer. “I want him to stick around for a long, long time. Is that okay?”

She’s not even sure who she’s asking, but Luka’s the one to answer. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay.” His eyes lower to half-lidded, and he slumps back against the bench for a moment before he reaches up to cover Manon’s with his hand. “Don’t look, kiddo,” he murmurs, and leans over to press his mouth to Marinette’s. It’s soft, and sweet, and it’s just like he says. It feels like home.