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They didn’t remember each other. The hospital told them there’d been an accident—brain damage—but Alya had told them the truth, later. Who’d they’d been to each other. What they’d given up, and why.
They didn’t remember Alya, either, but Marinette remembered her Maman and Papa and Nino, and all of them said she could trust Alya, and so she did. She didn’t know why Adrien believed her, because he didn’t have anyone he remembered to vouch for her.
(She didn’t realize until later that it was because he didn’t have anyone at all, besides them. That his choices were either to believe Alya or accept being alone.)
Alya’s story made sense of the strange patchwork of memories they did retain over the last 10 years—graduating lycée, starting their first jobs, who they’d voted for in the most recent election—and the memories they didn’t: graduating collège, their first kiss, signing the lease on their current apartment. It didn’t fit any pattern that made sense to the doctors, who’d eventually thrown their hands up and called it “trauma.”
The magical explanation fit perfectly.
Anything related to the Miraculous—anyone related to the Miraculous—was wiped.
She knew she’d been in love with Adrien Agreste. Her love was written all over the pages of her teenage diaries, woven into the careful stitches of his clothing, hung up in frames all over their apartment—an apartment that she didn’t recognize and which didn’t feel like home.
She knew that he’d loved her, too. His love was broadcasted in old news footage of missing heroes, scribbled out in little notes stuck on her mirror and in drawers, and glinting from the ring on her finger—a ring that looked too expensive but fit too well to belong to anyone but her.
Their love was everywhere except inside their minds.
It was uncomfortable.
Marinette could hardly stand to be there—couldn’t stomach the leftovers in the fridge from a meal she couldn’t remember making or work next to a half-finished project she didn’t remember starting. So she went out as much as she could, staying late at work and eating out with colleagues and sketching in the park.
But the thing that bothered her the most was how utterly unbothered Adrien was.
Okay, that wasn’t entirely fair—Adrien certainly seemed sad at their loss of memories. She’d catch him looking longingly at pictures of them together and watching old videos with a fiercely determined expression, as if by paying attention well enough, he’d somehow unlock memories wiped away clean by their sacrifice.
But he didn’t seem bothered by living with someone who was essentially a stranger—didn’t even seem to think of her as a stranger, falling into the role of loving husband as easily as he’d believed Alya’s tales. He ate their leftovers with gusto and offered to cook her lunch and looked hurt when she declined. He wrote more little notes, like before-Adrien had, each one as heart-crushingly sweet as the last.
“Can’t wait to make more memories like this with you, my lady.” Stuck on the corner of a framed photo.
“It’s hard to believe there is a magic more powerful than your smile.” On the mirror, next to her toothbrush.
“I bet these were my favorite for you to wear.” Shoved into the pocket of a pair of pants with tiny pawprints sewn into the cuffs.
There was no way this guy could be for real. They didn’t even know each other! Not to mention, who said things like that?
Okay, Adrien apparently did, since his before-notes were like that too, but—even if he was that type of guy with his wife, he couldn’t possibly mean those things about some girl he only just remembered meeting.
Part of Marinette—the insecure, browbeaten teenager inside her, who’d grown frighteningly loud as of late—insisted that it must be a trick, that she’d open her closet one day to find 14-year-old Chloé Bourgeois laughing at her, calling her ‘utterly ridiculous’ for thinking any of this was real.
The logical part of her knew, though, that he wasn’t messing with her—she wouldn’t have gotten married to the type of guy that would do that. And her Maman, who’d always been an excellent judge of character, insisted that he was a good guy.
So the logical conclusion was that, if Adrien wasn’t messing with her and couldn’t possibly be in love with her, then he must be doing this out of obligation.
Maybe it was a “fake it til you make it” type of thing. Or maybe he just thought it was the right thing to do.
Either way, it was a lie.
And Marinette hated it. Hated the way his face lit up when he saw her in the morning and the disappointed look in his eyes when she didn’t stay for breakfast and the way he tried so hard to learn everything about her he’d forgotten.
More than anything, she hated that she wanted it to be real.
She hated the way her stomach fluttered when she saw the dimples in his cheeks and the way she wanted to stay and watch him make pancakes just for her and the way that she saved every cheesy little note.
She hated the way that her cheeks burned when she caught him coming out of the shower and the way her tongue fumbled almost every conversation she tried to have with him and she especially hated that she couldn’t sleep next to him without thinking about kissing him and that she’d accepted his offer to sleep on the couch.
She’d offered to take turns with the bed, but he’d insisted that he wanted her to be comfortable and wouldn’t budge.
So, after three days of living together, she decided to leave.
Adrien could sleep in this bed, and she’d sleep in a bed that actually felt like hers.
They still saw each other, even after she moved back in with her parents. It was unavoidable, really, since they’d been together long enough that the Venn diagram of their friendships was almost a circle.
After how hard living with Adrien had been, Marinette had been pleasantly surprised how easy it was to rekindle her friendship with Alya. Her and Alya just clicked, effortlessly, and she wasn’t sure what it meant that the same wasn’t true for her and the man she’d married.
Of course, it helped that Alya was the one person who knew best what Marinette didn’t remember. Most people she knew were given the same explanation the hospital had given Marinette, so they knew she’d lost some memories, but no specifics other than “everything to do with Adrien.” Since Alya knew the real story, though, she could almost always predict what Marinette would fail to remember, and that made her easier to be around than almost anyone else.
Nino and Adrien seemed to click almost as instantly, leading to invitations to game nights and double not-dates that Marinette scrambled to find a fifth person to drag along to attend. Most of their friends were coupled up, which would have defeated the purpose. Of those that were single, Zoe and Luka were right out, both due to the fact that she didn’t remember them and that Alya revealed they’d both been interested in her at one point.
She wanted a buffer, not to make Adrien feel jealous or replaced.
Also, every time she saw Luka he insisted that if she just “stopped and listened to the music of her heart” things would work out, which filled Marinette with incandescent rage.
She settled on inviting Max for game nights and Alix for going out on the town. Adrien brought some boy named Wayhem, who was not an asset at game night but was surprisingly fun at parties.
Tonight, though, Adrien hadn’t been able to make it—he’d come down with some sort of stomach thing, according to his text to Nino that arrived long after everyone else, including Wayhem, who looked deeply concerned at the message.
“I should go,” he said. “He might need me.”
Marinette frowned. Did Wayhem dislike the rest of them that much, to bail the second he learned Adrien wasn’t going to be there? Admittedly, he was only really invited for Adrien’s sake, but the fake-urgent excuse to leave stung a bit.
“It’s probably just food poisoning, he’ll be fine,” she told him, unwilling to let it go. “I’m sure his family will take care of him if he needs it.”
“Marinette.” Alya’s voice was laced with something close to regret. “You’re Adrien’s family.”
Marinette winced. She knew, legally, that was true, but—
“I meant, like, his parents!”
Alya looked at Nino. Nino looked at Alya. Wayhem looked annoyed.
“His parents?” he scoffed. “You’re just like them. Ditching him the second it’s inconvenient for you. Leaving him alone to suffer while you work all day and spend time with anyone but him. His family won’t take care of him. But I will.”
And with that, Wayhem turned and marched towards the door.
“Hey!” Alya interjected, clearly offended on Marinette’s behalf and ready to chase down Wayhem to give him a piece of her mind.
Nino stopped her, holding her back long enough for Wayhem to slam the door shut on his way out.
“Babe, he’s not exactly wrong.”
“The situation is a lot more nuanced than that!”
“Is it true, though?” Marinette asked, feeling small and selfish and stupid. She knew Adrien had stayed in their apartment when she’d moved back in with her family, but she’d just assumed he liked it there, not that… he didn’t have anywhere else to go.
Or anyone else to go to.
“Am I his only family?”
The looks on Alya’s and Nino’s faces told her everything she needed to know.
In the end, it was Marinette who chased Wayhem down.
Adrien knew he probably should’ve texted Wayhem before he texted Nino, since Wayhem always arrived at game night early and probably wouldn’t want to go without Adrien. But he knew Wayhem would insist on coming to fuss over him, and while Adrien appreciated that someone cared enough to do so, he… really didn’t want it to be Wayhem.
He liked Wayhem well enough, sure, but he hadn’t really been prepared for just how… invested Wayhem was in their friendship the first time Adrien invited him to join their group. And he felt guilty accepting Wayhem’s kindness when he couldn’t reciprocate that investment.
That’s how I must’ve made Marinette feel, he thought to himself miserably. That’s why she never let me make her breakfast. That’s why she left. I’m her Wayhem.
The thought made his nausea return in force. Not only had he made Marinette so uncomfortable that she’d moved out, now he was also hurting Wayhem the way he’d been hurt when she left.
Still, part of him hoped the knock on the door was Nino coming to check on him, even though it made no sense for Nino to ditch his own game night when Wayhem would’ve been eager to go in his place. So he pushed the hope back down and pulled himself up off the couch, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by the sound of a key in the lock.
Wayhem didn’t have a key.
Neither did Nino.
The only person that—
“Hey,” Marinette said, walking in the door with a brown paper bag. “I brought you soup.”
It smelled divine. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to tell her to go. He wanted to fall down on his knees and beg her never to leave again. He wished she hadn’t come.
His knees elected on the third option, and buckled under him.
She caught him, and holy shit, she was strong. He would probably be swooning, if he wasn’t already, well, swooning from fever.
“What happened to Wayhem?” he asked, because apparently that was the most charming greeting his delirium-addled brain could manage.
Marinette allowed him an awkward laugh.
“I stole his bike,” she admitted.
Okay, maybe that had been an embarrassed laugh.
Also, his wife was literally the coolest person in the world. She just stole Wayhem’s bike?
Incredible.
Why did she have to come back when he was this much of a mess?
He’d hoped she’d give him a chance—that if he was patient enough and stopped coming on so strong, maybe she’d feel more comfortable around him. He’d been working up to asking her to dinner.
It figured that the first meal she agreed to have with him was one he’d barely keep down.
He couldn’t imagine the rest of the night did anything for his chances—he wasn’t sure how he got lucky enough for Marinette to fall in love with him the first time, but he doubted vomiting all over her lap had anything to do with it.
He barely remembered her helping him wash up after, but he could tell she’d been uncomfortable. He hoped he didn’t say anything to make it worse, like professing his love for her. He must not have, though, because she tucked him into bed afterwards and gave him the softest kiss on the forehead.
The last thing he thought as he fell asleep was that he hoped he’d stay sick for the rest of the weekend, so he could have her here just a little bit longer.
She was still there the next morning.
He wasn’t sure if she’d left at some point and come back, or if she’d slept on the couch and managed to shower and change clothes without waking him. He wasn’t sure if he should ask.
And despite his desire to savor every minute with her, Adrien ended up sleeping most of the day away. By evening, he felt better. He was hesitant to tell her so—certain she’d leave as soon as he was alright—but the color returning to his cheeks gave him away.
“Must’ve been a 24-hour bug,” she said, smiling at him over leftover soup like eating together at the table was something they normally did. And maybe it had been, before, but this was the first time that they could remember.
Not for lack of trying, on his part.
And as glad as he was to have her here, he spent the dinner waiting for the other shoe to drop, the way it always had when his father made time for dinner with him. Often, there’d been an ulterior motive—an apology for going too far or an attempt to butter him up before announcing a new campaign that Adrien had to star in. But even the times Gabriel hadn’t had a reason to join Adrien, the dinners had still felt like a test that Adrien was failing—and usually ended with Gabriel angry and Adrien finishing the meal alone.
Marinette wasn’t like that, he knew. She was warm, and forgiving, and didn’t play games with people.
He still felt like if he wasn’t on his best behavior, she’d leave.
So he was. Being romantic too soon had scared her away, so he reined himself in, as polite and platonic as he could be. It was awkward at first, but at some point, she let her guard down, and conversation started to flow. He even dared a few jokes, and she was gracious enough to laugh at them.
He knew she wasn’t the kind of person to give tests, but when she agreed to stay and watch a movie, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d passed.
She was still there the morning after that.
This time, he could see she’d slept on the couch, because she was still asleep. Now that he wasn’t sick, he was back to his natural early rising tendencies.
Game night was Saturday, and yesterday was Sunday, and today, they both had to go back to work. He knew she usually woke up with an alarm loud enough to wake the dead—he’d heard it through the walls those first three nights.
So she probably wouldn’t wake up on her own.
Which meant he needed to do something.
He allowed himself a brief fantasy of waking her with a kiss, before pouring her a cup of coffee and wafting it under her nose. Which didn’t work. Neither did his gentle tapping on her shoulder.
Well, he knew what did work: noise.
“MARINETTE!”
She jumped up so quickly that he was grateful he’d put the coffee mug out of reach.
“What? Is there a fire? Am I late? Is there—oh, Adrien!” Her cheeks turned bright red.
“Coffee?” He offered sheepishly.
She took it.
And she stayed for breakfast.
When they left for work, he assumed that was that. She took care of him, she stayed for the weekend, and now she was at work and would go home to her parents.
Which she did.
And he was fine with that.
Really.
Game night was canceled the next week. Nino and Alya were too busy packing to go visit Nino’s family in Morocco for the winter holidays. Which meant it was canceled the week after, as well. Adrien asked Wayhem if he wanted to hang out anyway, just the two of them. He assumed Wayhem would be stoked, but he declined—he had to visit family for the holiday too, apparently.
“I asked to invite you, but they said I could only bring a man if he put a ring on it,” he’d explained, and Adrien had been more than happy to get off the phone after that.
Not just because of the unbearable awkwardness of the suggestion, but also because he knew he had put a ring on someone’s finger and been invited to holidays with the family. He didn’t remember any of it, but the evidence was there: pictures of him and Marinette and her parents in front of an evergreen tree and postcards from around the world addressed to them both.
He’d gotten postcards again this year from Marinette’s grandmother, who apparently hadn’t kept up well enough to know they weren’t living together anymore.
And he’d gotten gifts, too, from Tom and Sabine when they’d come to check on him, and even Marinette’s uncle in China, who he didn’t remember meeting but who apparently remembered him. He’d attached a card, written entirely in hanzi, assuring Adrien he was still family.
It touched Adrien to the bone.
But it didn’t include an invitation.
He wouldn’t see Marinette for game night this week or next.
And he’d be alone for the holidays.
And he was fine with that.
Really.
He’d resolved himself to not seeing Marinette until the new year, which meant he was very taken aback to find her in their apartment when he came home from the store the next Saturday night.
He dropped his groceries unceremoniously on the floor.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s my apartment too!” Marinette screeched, wildly misinterpreting his question.
“But you don’t live here!” he said, because apparently he was an idiot who loved to make things worse for himself.
“I–” Marinette started, and to his absolute horror, her eyes welled up with tears. “I’m so-sorry-eee, I’ll g-go.”
“No!”
She flinched.
“I mean,” Adrien tried again in a softer, slightly-less-panicked voice. “You don’t need to go. You’re always welcome here. I was just surprised.”
“Oh,” she said, and he wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was okay, because she kept talking. “I’m sorry for not warning you. I just thought—since game night is canceled, we could…?”
She trailed off, which was unfortunate, because he really needed her to spell this out for him.
“Could…?”
“Tend some fines together!”
He blinked. Did she want to get started on their taxes? It was a bit early for that, but maybe it was best to start sorting things out now, given their situation.
“I mean! Spend some time together!” she corrected.
And, oh. He supposed that made more sense, but…
She… was just here to spend time with him? On her own?
“Please don’t cry!” she shouted. “I’ll leave if you want!”
“No!” He was definitely crying. “Don’t leave.”
She looked confused.
But she didn’t leave.
She’d brought a bag.
She stayed.
He wanted her to, of course he wanted her to stay.
But he didn’t want her to sleep on the couch again.
“If you’re planning to stay, you should take the bed,” he tried as the movie credits started rolling. She was on the opposite end of the couch, already curled around a throw pillow and wrapped up in a knitted blanket. They’d started the movie stiffly sitting a meter apart, but now that she’d gotten comfortable, her legs were up on the couch and her toes close enough that they brushed against his jeans every time either of them moved.
“I’m comfy here,” she insisted. And to her credit, she did look comfy.
“Your neck will be stiff in the morning,” he pointed out.
“Your whole back would be stiff if you slept here! You’re way taller than me, you need the bed.”
She wasn’t wrong. But back pain was a small price to pay for her company. He’d give up the bed for her, anytime.
Besides, sleeping on the couch felt so… temporary. Like she was just his guest, staying over because she’d missed the last bus and it was too dark to walk. And maybe those things were true and maybe this was only temporary, but part of him thought (hoped) that if she slept in the bed again, she would start to think of this place as home. That maybe it would start feeling permanent. Like she lived here.
Which was why he said what he did next.
“I’m not going to let you sleep on the couch.”
Immediately, he knew it’d been the wrong thing to say. Marinette shot upright, narrowing her eyes at him as she clutched the blanket at her sternum.
“Not let me? Fine! Then, I’ll go back to my parents and I’ll sleep there so that you can have the bed!”
With that, she stood up, threw the blanket on the couch, and stormed towards the counter where her purse lay.
“Wait, please, I didn’t—”
She stopped just before reaching her purse, turned on her heel, and stalked back to the couch.
Adrien’s heart leapt up into his throat. Was she staying?
Please, let her be staying.
But she didn’t say anything, just picked up the blanket and started trying to fold it. He wasn’t sure whether to say anything else. Whether he’d find the right words to make her stay. So he watched as she struggled with the blanket, which was too big for her arms to manage easily.
After the first two lopsided attempts at folding, she let out a frustrated grunt, throwing it down again. Adrien felt a pang in his chest when he noticed the tears building in the corner of her eyes.
“Let me help you,” he offered, lifting the blanket back up. She nodded in response with a quiet sniffle, not quite meeting his eyes as she took to corners of the blanket.
They moved apart and then together again, bringing the corners of the blanket together in a soft kiss of fabric. Without his permission, Adrien’s fingers lingered as they brushed against hers, shifting to grab the new corners for the next fold. Face to face, he could see her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were still suspiciously shiny, but her mouth was curled into a small smile.
“Please, stay,” he said as she moved away again.
“Only if you sleep in the bed,” she agreed, moving back towards him to join the corners again. When their hands met, his wayward fingers curled around hers, almost on instinct. He watched as her eyes traveled down to where their hands met.
He expected her to pull away, to take the blanket and finish folding it herself, but instead, her fingers slowly curled around his too, her eyes fixed on them the entire time.
Which is what gave him the courage to say what he did next.
“We could both sleep in the bed. There’s enough room. I promise I won’t—I won’t do anything untoward.”
Marinette’s lips drew into a small frown and his heart sank. Of course she wouldn’t agree to that, she’d barely agreed to stay, what was he thinking?
He opened his mouth, ready to take it back, when—
“Okay,” she agreed, so quietly that he thought he might have hallucinated it.
But the embarrassed flush on her cheeks was evidence enough.
“What— really?”
“Oh, you didn’t—” She pulled away, taking the blanket with her and holding it to her chest. “You assumed I’d say no, and then, I didn’t, and I made it weird by agreeing and I’m such a disaster and—”
“Whoa!” He grabbed the blanket from her, setting it down behind him on the couch, half-folded. “You’re not a disaster. And yeah, I did expect you to say no, but I meant my offer. Every word of it, okay?”
She looked up at him now, blinking those huge eyes. “Really?”
“Please, share the bed with me.”
Please. Please please please…
“Okay,” she said with a smile that made him soar.
Marinette lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wide fucking awake.
Why had she agreed to this? She knew she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep next to him.
But he’d looked at her with those big green kitty eyes and sounded so painfully sincere and his fingers felt so good entangled with her own, so right, and when she’d looked down at their hands together, for the first time since she’d left the hospital, the ring on her finger looked like it was supposed to be there.
So, like an idiot, she’d said yes.
Sure, he’d promised he wouldn’t do anything “untoward” (because apparently, she was married to a nineteenth century gentleman), but that didn’t stop her from thinking about untoward things, like the fact that he’d scrambled to find a pajama shirt which meant he usually slept shirtless, and that meant he’d probably slept shirtless before too, and they were married and shared a bed and at some point they’d probably had sex which there was no way she’d remember if she’d forgotten everything else, which meant the visuals currently in her head were all products of her fevered imagination because of course her brain had to make it weird.
She heard Adrien shifting on the other side of the bed. Banishing those thoughts from her mind the best she could, she turned her head to face him.
He was lying on his side, one arm curled under his pillow and brows pulled together with concern.
“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked so sweetly that her heart ached at the thought of answering honestly.
Because yes, she was uncomfortable. But she was going to power through it, for him. She was going to be super normal about this and share a bed with her husband in a totally platonic way because she was here for him and she wasn’t going to let her own hang ups ruin that.
So, she lied, turning back to face the ceiling. “No, I’m fine. Just not sleepy yet.”
“Okay.” He didn’t sound convinced, but he didn’t question her. “If you’re not sleepy, maybe we could… talk?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t want to keep you awake…”
“You wouldn’t be!” he assured her. “I’m having trouble sleeping too.”
Oh.
Part of her felt guilty at the idea that she was keeping him awake, but a larger, more desperate part was relieved that she wasn’t the only one not sleeping.
Maybe she wasn’t making it weird.
Maybe it just was weird, and they could get through it together.
“What did you want to talk about?”
She wasn’t sure what answer she expected. Maybe she thought he’d start a game of twenty questions. Or that he’d try some more small talk, like he’d done at dinner, asking about her day at work. Some conversation to pass the time until they could relax enough to go to sleep.
She wasn’t prepared for what he actually said.
“Why did you come back?”
She should’ve expected this. Why had she thought she could just waltz back into their apartment with an overnight bag, no questions asked? It’d been different last weekend, when he was sick and she was already there, but she’d just showed up today without warning or explanation. Even if it was technically her apartment too, she hadn’t been living there. Of course he had questions.
Her turmoil must’ve shown on her face, because before she could figure out an answer, Adrien started talking again.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here, you’re always welcome here, I just… I need to know why. And if… how long you’re planning to stay.”
Marinette felt something inside her untwist at his words. She nodded. That made sense. He wasn’t questioning her because he felt like she intruded. He just wanted to understand.
So she did her best to answer.
“Nino and Alya said—they said you didn’t have anyone else. That I–I’m your only family. So I had to come when you were sick. And—” She faltered as her words thickened like molasses in her throat, but once she forced them through, they poured out all at once. “This week, they’re getting ready for the holidays, and game night was canceled, and Papa brought home a tree for us to decorate tonight and when we opened the box of ornaments there was a little cat in a stocking on top and I realized that you probably don’t have any ornaments to decorate because all your ornaments were there and you were here alone and everyone was with family except for you. So… now I’m here. So you won’t be alone.”
Her words hung heavy in the space between them for a few, interminable moments.
Then, quietly, he replied, “You felt sorry for me.”
“No!” Her voice was way too loud, and her answer obviously fake. “I mean, yes, I did, but…” Of course she felt sorry for him. But she felt sorry for everyone who was alone on Christmas, and she wasn’t jumping into bed with anyone else. So, she tried again to explain. “It’s not just that. I didn’t understand before, why you were trying to force things so hard, but I get it now. You didn’t want to lose your only family.”
Adrien looked horrified. “Force—? I didn’t mean—I know I came on too strong at first, and I’m trying to be better, but I never meant to force you to—”
“Not me!” She was too loud again, but she didn’t care now. She couldn’t let him think that. She reached across the bed to grab his free hand. “I meant you! Forcing yourself! To write all those notes and say all those things like nothing had changed, like you’re still in love with me.”
He tried to interject, “Marinette, I—”
“But you don’t have to do all that, okay?” she barreled on, needing to get this out before he said anything else. “I can still be your family. I still am your family. So I’ll be here for you, no matter what. Even if we don’t fall in love like before, we can still love each other. And I can share a bed with you because we’re family and you don’t have to sleep alone and I can be totally normal and fine about it and stop making it weird and you don’t have to do anything. It’s just like sharing a bed with my parents.”
Okay, maybe she hadn’t needed to get all that out, but… at least it was out there, now.
She pried her hands off of his, shooting him two finger guns as she moved her hands back to her side of the bed, and promptly decided that her parents’ house wasn’t far enough away. She’d have to leave the country.
“I—” Adrien blinked, clearly baffled at her erratic gesturing. “Thank you. I appreciate that, Marinette, I do, but…”
Maybe leave the continent. She’d always been curious about the holidays in America.
“It’s not like that for me,” he continued, oblivious to her internal crisis. “I can’t pretend this is just like sharing a bed with my parents.”
“Right. Because your parents didn’t do that,” she agreed, mentally flipping through her budgets to see if a plane ticket to New York City was possible. Maybe she could write it off as a work expense.
“No, Maman did, but—that’s not the point.”
Marinette halted her mental budgeting. It wasn’t? Then what—
“The point is that it’s not like that for me because I am in love with you, Marinette.”
What?!?
“I know that sounds crazy, because we don’t remember our lives together, but—that day, in the hospital, I woke up first, you know?”
She did. He’d been by her bedside when she woke up, still in his own hospital gown.
“The doctors took me to see you—told me you were my wife. I told them I didn’t have a wife. That I didn’t know you. You were just a beautiful stranger, sleeping. That’s when they figured out I’d lost my memories.”
Marinette rolled onto her side to face him, letting her hands fall into the space between them. His hand was still there too, where she’d left it.
“And so when you woke up they started asking you these questions, to see if you’d lost yours too, and you looked so scared, and I just wanted to hold you in my arms and comfort you.”
She remembered that too—she’d been terrified.
“And that made you fall in love with me?” She supposed it made some sort of sense—it fit with the general Prince Charming sort of vibes he gave off so effortlessly.
He laughed. “No, not that. That’s when you became family, I suppose.”
“Then, when…?”
“It was right after. I’d told you that I was going through the same thing. And then you grabbed my hands and looked me right in the eyes with this fire and said, ‘don’t worry, we’ll get through this together.’ You had been so terrified, just seconds before, but once you heard I was going through the same thing, it was like you’d totally transformed right in front of me. Even though you were scared, you put it all aside to reassure me. That’s when I fell in love.”
She didn’t even remember saying that. And he’d felt this way, all this time? He’d really, truly, been in love with her?
“I wasn’t forcing myself to do anything. I wrote those notes because I meant them. Because I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to somehow have married someone like you and I wanted you to know that. And maybe it was too much and I didn’t give you enough time to adjust and I’m sorry for that, but—”
His words were cut short by Marinette launching herself across the bed and planting her lips firmly on his. His lips were warm and soft and she wanted to press herself against him and card her fingers through his hair, but she gathered up what she could of her self-control and pulled back, instead.
He might welcome a kiss, but he deserved an explanation first.
“I lied,” she admitted. “It’s not like sharing a bed with my parents. Not at all. That’s why I left, because I—you kept making me feel all these things and I didn’t know what was real and nothing made any sense and I was scared. I don’t—I don’t know if I’m in love with you, yet. But I—I think I’m lucky to be married to you too. And I like the notes and the way you make pancakes and can I touch your hair?”
He laughed. She groaned.
“Please, forget that last thing.”
“Okay,” he agreed, too easily. “But only if you touch my hair.”
“I’ll touch your hair if you kiss me.”
And so he did.
There was still more to talk about, she knew. She hadn’t answered the question of how long she was planning to stay this time and she was pretty sure she didn’t let him finish his sentence earlier.
But his hair was exactly as silky smooth as she’d imagined it to be and he pulled her so close as their lips moved against each other and if anyone asked her right now she’d tell him that she wanted to stay forever, to quit her job and stay home and kiss Adrien Dupain-Cheng all day and night. She wanted to stay in bed with him and watch old footage together and try to concentrate hard enough to remember. She wanted to eat dinner with him every night and she wanted him to make her pancakes in the morning. She wanted to make a new memory for every one they’d lost.
She wanted to fall in love with him, again and again and again.
Marinette drew back from the kiss again, just enough to open her eyes and drink in the look on his face. His eyes crinkled as he smiled at her.
When she leaned in to kiss him again, she heard the sound of rain and the clap of distant thunder.
