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It was as if crystals danced across the floor as the sun’s beams cast rays through the skylight ceiling of the Grand Palais. Lights, sound and people stretched for miles as the city’s elite headed up the steps into the building for Paris Fashion Week.
Marinette clutched her invitation with both hands, still in disbelief. Weeks ago, she never would have imagined she’d be standing inside one of the most prestigious shows of the year. When she had entered one of the famous Gabriel Agreste’s contests, the last thing she expected was this, a rare chance to see the world’s leading fashion houses up close.
As she made her way through the foyer, dressed in a simple pink dress and black lace shawl, she felt very small in a sea of glittering gowns, tailored suits and cameras flashing like fireworks.
She glanced down, clicking her shoes against the tile floor, smoothing out her dress before standing tall and whispering under her breath, “You got this. You belong here. You’re Marinette Dupain-Cheng and… you will not trip.”
Inside the Palais was breathtaking. Banners floated freely from the ceiling, as mannequins showing the latest designs lined the walls. The long runway gleamed beneath spotlights, flanked by rows of chairs where celebrities, journalists, and designers waited amongst excited chatter. Marinette found her seat near the middle, close enough to see details, but far enough not to draw attention to herself.
The overhead lights seemed to radiate heat as Marinette felt the sweat touch her brow as the buzz of conversation came to a hush. The first model stepped onto the runway with minimal effort and major flair. The collection was bold, even a bit dramatic, with dresses of shimmering silk that caught light with every movement.
Taking her sketchbook from her bag, Marinette laid it precariously across her knees as her pencil danced across the page. It was as if the pencil moved of its own instinct. She traced silhouettes, specialized details and the way the designer had layered textures in ways she’d never dared.
Eyes wide, Marinette took in the models on the runway, before glancing down at her book, murmuring softly to herself. It was only a moment before the hushed voices around her rose, and she glanced up, sighing.
Adrien Agreste. The golden boy. The perfect son of Gabriel Agreste. His was a face that sold everything from perfume to watches. He strode down the runway in a midnight-black suit embroidered with gold thread. It was a kind of piece that looked more like a painting than clothing. His face was calm, serene with the practiced mask of a professional. His blond hair caught the light like spun gold, and his eyes were fixed on the walk ahead as if he was daring it to challenge him.
Around her, people gasped, and girls squealed, but Marinette just sighed, pressing her pencil to the page.
“Of course,” she muttered. “It had to be him.”
When she’d seen him at the shelter last month, more fans than volunteers, smiling as though the world bent around him, she hadn’t really thought about the fact she’d run into him here. To her, he was just another untouchable celebrity, talented maybe, but not real. Just another rich, daddy’s boy.
Still… she couldn’t deny how stunning he and the suit were. How seamlessly it hung on his frame making it look alive as he moved. How his eyes seem to sparkle in the lights and—
She shook her head fiercely. “It’s the clothes, not him,” she reminded herself, returning to the sketchbook in front of her.
As the show continued, Marinette was enthralled by each design. Each more daring than the last. Marinette felt her world expanding with every piece and as they progressed, she found herself leaning forward, memorizing stitches and seams, fighting the urge to leap up and examine them with her own hands.
By the time the finale came, Adrien again, this time in a shimmery white ensemble threaded with silver, her chest ached with longing. She wanted this. Not fame, not the lights, but the chance to create, to change the world with her art that walked and breathed.
When the final bow came, Marinette clapped and cheered with the rest of them, though her mind and heart already felt far away… out on a rooftop, under the stars where she could share this feeling with the one person who understood her best.
***
It felt tight—too tight. The collar itched, the shoes rubbed against his toes, and the lights were almost blinding. Adrien hated it. All of it. He played the crowd, played the puppet as requested, but his mind was elsewhere. Somewhere out there, his Lady sat watching him—or at least, he hoped she was. Maybe she was just there for the designs, but somewhere a part of him hoped.
As he gave his final bow and turned, Adrien quickly made his way back down the long runway, stretching his strides in time to the roar of the crowd.
Backstage was chaos. Hands tugged, stylists fussed, photographers shouted. He let it wash over him, smile fixed. It wasn’t until he was released for the after-show mingling that he felt like he could breathe.
The main hall was a storm of glittering gowns and sharp tuxedos, everyone talking too loudly, laughing too brightly. Compliments hit him from all sides—brilliant walk, perfect lines, the star of the show. Adrien nodded, polite as always, but his eyes kept drifting over the sea of faces.
Searching. It was an off-hand comment, something that wouldn’t have mattered had it not been him, but it was him and well, he knew she was here. Somewhere.
There was a shuffle in the crowd and his eyes lit up. There, near the back, at the edge of the crowd was a girl dressed in red and black, dark hair falling neatly over one shoulder, posture straight but somehow set apart from the glamour around her. His heart skipped. Could it—?
He moved too quickly, his feet nearly skidding on tile before he collided with someone head-on.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” a voice squeaked.
Adrien steadied himself, blinking down at her. The girl in front of him looked familiar—blue eyes, dark hair, a spark of something he couldn’t place. He nearly asked if he knew her when it hit him. The cat shelter. Over a month ago. She’d been there.
“You,” Adrien blurted before he could stop himself.
Her brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“No! I just—uh—I think I’ve seen you before,” he stammered, realizing too late how that sounded.
Marinette’s lips pressed into a thin line, suspicion flashing across her face. “Right. Sure. Adrien Agreste just… notices random people.” Her voice had an edge, like she wasn’t buying it.
Adrien froze; he was thrown. He wasn’t used to people looking at him like that—like he was just another spoiled rich boy. Most people either fawned or gushed. But this girl… she was different.
“I’m serious,” he said, softer this time. “Uh, at the cat shelter. You were helping there.”
That gave her pause. Her cheeks colored faintly, but her chin lifted. “So, you do remember.”
“I don’t forget kindness,” Adrien replied before he thought better of it.
For a second, Marinette’s expression wavered, like she wasn’t sure what to make of him. Then she shifted her bag on her shoulder, breaking eye contact. “Well. Try watching where you’re going next time, Monsieur Agreste.”
The formal tone stung more than it should have. Adrien managed a polite nod, but as she slipped back into the flow of the crowd, he found himself staring after her, unsettled.
Somewhere across the room, his Lady might be waiting, but right now, all he could think about was the girl who’d just walked away like she wasn’t impressed at all.
***
Chat Noir sat on the edge of the roof, clicking his boots together. The smell from the street carts below was enticing, but his thoughts were tangled. The night was quiet, almost too quiet as the sounds of the show faded into the background, replaced by traffic and something sharper. While he hadn’t seen anyone, he could be sure was his Lady, the girl who wanted nothing to do with him sat deep in his chest. Clawing and trying to break free.
He smiled at the soft zing from Ladybug’s yo-yo as she landed lightly on the roof behind him. His tail flicked idly behind him as the lights from the city lit up his face.
“You’re late, Bug,” he teased, turning slightly to meet her gaze. “I was starting to think you ditched me for some glamorous soirée.”
“Ah! It was glamorous, but I’d never ditch you, Kitten,” she giggled, sitting next to him.
His eyes seemed to sparkle as the light shown across the rooftop hitting him in the face as he turned to look at her. “Did you sneak into the after-party without me? Meet any dazzling models that swept you off your feet?”
“I thought you knew me, Chat Noir. It’s the designs for me.” Ladybug laughed, patting his arm.
Chat shifted, letting out a soft whistle, “The great kingdom of couture. Bet it was fancy!”
“Fancy doesn’t even begin to cover it,” she said, her eyes softening at the memory. “The designs… Chat, they were alive. Every piece told a story. The way the fabrics moved, the way they used light and structure…I felt like I was watching dreams walking down the runway.”
He tilted his head, studying her. “You really love this stuff, huh?”
“I do,” she admitted quietly. “I know I’m just an amateur compared to them, but… when I’m sketching or sewing, it feels like the world makes sense. Like I can create something that’s mine.”
Chat’s chest tightened. He’d seen her determination countless times in battle, but hearing her speak with such raw honesty about her dream—it was something else.
“You’re not ‘just’ anything,” he said firmly. “Designing is part of you. That matters more than being famous or perfect.”
Her cheeks warmed beneath the mask. “Thanks, Kitty.”
He grinned but let the silence settle between them, comfortable and easy before approaching his next thoughts, “So… did you see anyone interesting at this fancy show?”
Ladybug hesitated, then groaned. “Adrien Agreste was there. Of course.”
Chat’s grin faltered, but he masked it quickly. “Ah, Paris’ golden boy.”
She rolled her eyes. “Exactly. Perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect everything. Everyone around me was losing their minds. Meanwhile, I just kept thinking, ‘Great, it’s him again.’”
Chat forced a laugh, his head spinning. “Not a fan, huh?”
“I mean, I’ll admit he’s absolutely gorgeous and wears the clothes well,” she said begrudgingly. “But I don’t know… He doesn’t seem real. Everything about him feels… polished. Like he’s selling something, not actually living. Honestly, I think I’d rather deal with the bullies at school for an hour than spend five minutes trying to have a real conversation with Adrien Agreste.”
Chat’s heart pinched, but he kept his expression playful. “Ouch. Poor guy. You might break his model-perfect heart.”
“Please,” she said, smirking. “He’s probably too busy signing autographs on perfume bottles to care. In his world… I’m nobody.”
He chuckled, though inside he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Ladybug adored Chat Noir—the side of him that was free, imperfect, unpolished. But Adrien Agreste? To her, he was nothing but a perfect rich boy.
He swallowed the ache and leaned back on his hands, gazing at the stars. “I think… if he were to spend one moment in your world, you’d change his.”
“Now, you’re just being silly, Kitty. Adrien Agreste would never notice me.”
“I think he would, if we didn’t have to hide behind the masks all the time. But there is something nice about masks. Sometimes they let us be more ourselves than we can without them.”
Ladybug glanced at him, puzzled by the sudden softness in his voice. “You mean… like this?”
“Exactly,” he said, his smile faint but the slight crinkle by his eyes told her it was genuine. “When I’m Chat, I’m not the son of anyone. I’m not expected to be perfect. I’m just me. And that’s enough.”
Her breath caught. There was something in his tone that made her chest ache.
“You’re more than enough,” she said firmly.
His eyes softened, locking on hers, and for a heartbeat the world felt suspended—two heroes on a rooftop, masks hiding everything but the truth between them.
Ladybug laughed lightly, breaking the moment. “You know, I was going to tell you about my favorite dress tonight, but if I start, I’ll never shut up.”
“Then don’t shut up,” Chat said with a grin that softened the tension between them. “Tell me everything. Every bead, every stitch. I want to hear what lit up my Lady’s eyes like that.”
She rolled her eyes fondly, but her voice shifted as she spoke. The playfulness faded into something softer. She told him about the show—the way the fabrics seemed to breathe, how light became part of the design, how every piece told its own story. Her hands moved as she spoke, sketching shapes in the air, passion spilling out of her with every word.
Chat listened, every bit of it. Not to the dresses, not really, but to her—the way her voice carried fire and wonder, the way she lit up just remembering.
Hours later, when her yo-yo clicked open and she prepared to leave, Chat felt the weight of the night sink back in. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d spoken of Adrien Agreste—perfect, polished, unreal. Words sharper than any claws, and he couldn’t defend himself without revealing too much. So, he said nothing.
Instead, when her doubts surfaced in quiet confessions, he leaned back on his hands and let the truth slip from him in a whisper. “One day, Bug… it won’t be you watching from the crowd. It’ll be your designs stealing the show.”
She looked at him, eyes wide for a moment before softening into a smile, touched in a way she couldn’t quite explain. “You really think so?”
“I know so,” he said, and there was no hesitation in his voice.
For a moment, the city seemed to hold its breath. She moved to throw her yo-yo, casting him one last look.
“Goodnight, Kitty.”
“Goodnight, Bug.”
She swung away into the darkening sky, and Chat sat alone beneath the Paris sky—half aching, half glowing—thinking of the girl who didn’t believe Adrien Agreste would ever notice her, and the Lady who never realized he already had.