Work Text:
Marinette was exhausted. Joints aching, eyes drooping, speaking in grunts- that kind of physically exhausted.
It had been a while since she got like this, probably the last time was just before her first Paris Fashion Week. It took her collapsing and being sent to hospital before she let herself sleep for even 8 hours. Adrien had been making sure she was resting at least 4 hours a night before that, but she had, quite literally, worked herself to exhaustion.
Luka had come home early from London to keep her eating and sleep, keep her safe.
Now, it wasn’t for work reasons, but for reasons of personal insecurity. She had been planning for months the perfect anniversary gift to give to her boyfriends (it was the 3 year anniversary of when she joined the relationship). It had been incredible, 3 sets of 3 beautiful hand-embroidered roses intertwined onto perfect satin fabric and then sewn into matching linings on home-made leather wallets, and hers into the lining of her day bag. It was to be her current masterpiece…
And then Max happened.
He hadn’t meant to break it, just to check the tensile strength of the thread against the lining, however hands most often fiddling with tiny machinery are not the most compatible for delicate fabrics. He had ripped the embroidery of Luka’s rose cluster, and it was too soon to the day to restart.
She had spent the last 2 nights up working on it, trying to sew the minuscule stitches back into the design, but it was too far gone. She had left it on their bed that morning, before she left for the shoot but after they got back from practice, wishing that she had better to give them.
She walked home from the day’s shoot in shame, tiredness and mild fear. What if they left her for this? She knew that they wouldn’t, neither boy having such care for material objects, but still that finger of fear shivered down her spine.
So, of course, she wasn’t expecting the aroma of home cooked chicken tikka masala to hit her smack bang in the nose as soon as she crossed the boundary to their apartment in France. She knew it was Luka’s (Adrien was a disaster in the kitchen) and couldn’t help but tear up at the thought of him doing so much for her and her bringing next to nothing to the table.
‘I’m home!’ She yelled weakly from the doorway as she removed her coat and boots, slipping on her slippers and stepping into the warm home.
Adrien was lighting candles on a small table for three, blonde hair curled up in the same way it had been when she first met him just about a decade ago now. She felt tears brim in her eyes as she saw what he was wearing. The simple platinum band she had given to him last year, made to a design she had created.
‘Happy anniversary, m’lady’
His voice was sweet and subtle, musical even. It brought hope to her heart.
Luka stepped in about that moment, eyes glinting beautifully in he candlelight. She saw, peaking through his jeans pocket, the wallet she had left in shame.
‘Happy anniversary, my melody.’
And with that, her heart was whole.