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Intimate was a word you could put to Paris in the autumn. Especially in the days that toed the line between late November and the festivities of December.
The city dulled into its expected greige, overcast shouldered upon rooftops. The pavement rarely had a chance to dry before the next rain.
A couple strolled down a muted boulevard, a brunette tucked under her boyfriend’s arm. The sweetness of her whispered nothings dissolved into the stir of Place de l’Opéra.
Tourists widened the berth from locals, sticking to overpriced restaurants and landmarks the natives had become blasé to.
Parisians huddled in the warmth of corner cafes. Adults pondered over mulled wine, while children used their sleeves to wipe their mouths clean of hot chocolate.
Teenagers spilled out of school doors, wrapped in coats of adrenaline from gym class.
The young and hip apéritif-ed in the 11th, where bars hummed with clusters of friends. They loitered in the yellow lamplight, nursing a single glass till the small hours.
Laughter was rampant in Paris: between the gardeners on shift…the gaggle of girls who ran into their crush from the neighboring collége at Place des Vosges at lunchtime…the line of bouncy children in neon jackets au pairs ushered across the street.
And in these pockets of intimacy, the city vivified.
Marinette clung onto the icy metal of the metro pole as the carriage bobbed beneath her feet.
At times, when she was so peeved at her lack of inspiration - at the crest of her designer slumps - she’d find herself riding the lines, looping through the RATP map as though the automatic doors might miraculously open onto an idea.
She’d look forward to the crowd, to the potential of a muse. Sometimes it was the peculiar array of groceries in an old man’s shopping bag. Other times in admiration of the dangly silver earrings a fellow university student sported to class. Largely, inspiration came from the individuality of strangers themselves.
Here, her mind was rarely clouded.
But on stormy days, irritation outweighed inspiration, when the masses would flood underground in search of shelter.
Line 9 was always laden with hot air and handheld umbrellas that dripped rainwater onto carriage floors. Her damp jeans would stick to her legs and brush the knees of her neighbors.
Following a quick visit to the papeterie to buy a new sketchbook, Marinette had clambered down the innumerable metro stairs just to see the last train buzzing by. She’d just missed it, with the next one already announced to arrive in 4 minutes.
The RATP jingle reprised, and Marinette settled herself into one of the orange seats, pulling her pink coat tighter against herself.
She rehearsed her route of the day in her head.
Line 1 at Hôtel de Ville westbound toward Chatelet. Transfer to Line 4 northbound to Barbès–Rochechouart, where she’d hop on Line 2, direction Nation.
These are the analytical labyrinths she submitted herself to to keep from guttering, like a candle tunneling in her mind.
9 months ago they had defeated Hawkmoth. 8 months since the reporters finally left the gates of the Agreste Mansion. 5 months since the shiny sheen of the name Ladybug had rusted, and she had realized how much of her adolescence she’d devoted to the cause. And 4 months since Marinette ultimately built the courage to ask Chat Noir to drop their masks.
To which he denied.
Marinette’s hold on the pole gripped tighter. She kept from wobbling into the chattery Australian tourists who leaned against the metro doors. A hand run across her waist ensured her crossbody bag was still hidden beneath her thick coat. Pickpockets swarmed like mosquitos on rainy days.
There was something about the thought of Chat Noir that seemed to shake the ground beneath her feet, even more so than the bumpy ride.
Sometimes she’d look into the throng of commuters, wondering if she ever shared a car with a specific tousled blond. She’d meet the gazes of elderly women who seemed to smell her melancholy; they themselves attuned to it.
Passing faces: a smiley toddler in a stroller, a shifty man clanking coins in a clear cup, a young couple resting heads on each other’s shoulders.
Finally, her eyes settled onto her own distorted reflection in the subway glass.
Fluorescent lighting drew out the inky blue cast hidden in her raven hair, now longer, loose, and frizzy from the rain. Her visage sharper in some places, shadowed in others. The girl in the glass looked foreign…older.
She couldn’t place the girl in the pigtails, with ribbons that bounced each time he made her laugh.
The next time the doors opened, Marinette pushed her way through to the exit, not quite knowing where she’d stopped and ignorant to the signage above her.
The humid air from the metro followed her onto the platform. All she knew was that the muse she sought was not galavanting through subway cars, but scaling rooftops instead.
Alya’s apartment was as cozy as any other 5th floor Parisian flat, littered with textbooks on the counter, comic books on cluttered shelves, and mixtapes Nino would burn for her listened to over leftover pasta. Sneakers carelessly abandoned near the front door, colorful pillows Marinette had crocheted for her couch. The dim atmosphere lit by a thrifted fringe lamp and the ever-present glow from her laptop where she typed into the late hours.
Rain continued to patter outside, sending droplets racing down her large windows.
“Marinette do not light it!” Alya warned. In recent months, the reporter had traded the Ladyblog to write for her university magazine’s political column. “The last time I lit a candle in here my neighbor threatened to alert Monsieur Pilon.”
Marinette smirked, lighting the vanilla-scented candle anyway before blowing out the match. “Your landlord isn’t going to evict you over a small flame.”
“Do you know how hard it was to find this apartment?” the brunette spat, emerging from the kitchen with a tray of hot drinks. “I paid my guarantor like half my tuition.”
The boys were perched on the couch, battling out a final round of Ultimate Mega Strike X. Adrien’s eyes lit up as the mugs of sweet hot chocolate hit the table.
“Could’ve been easily avoided if you just moved in with me babe,” Nino shrugged, rummaging through a bag of chips to stuff a handful in his mouth.
“Gross. I’ll move in with you when you stop leaving socks all over the house,” Alya quipped and plopped into the nearby armchair. “I found three pairs in my bed this morning. THREE!”
“I have cold feet!”
“Nino!” Adrien shouted, smashing 100 buttons on his controller, “Eyes on the prize. Stop bickering for a second so we can beat this level.”
Marinette’s attention veered to him - his golden hair textured wavy from the weather, the sharpness in his jaw, the fatigue in his shoulders.
The first couple of months had been hard on all of them. Adrien had refused to talk about his father, and when he did it was cold and detached. Long embraces and late nights spent mindlessly chattering in one another’s apartments, insulated in each other’s warmth, filled the gaps of unsung words.
And then after a while…he started to smile. Spring melted into summer, and Adrien renewed his sunshine. He enrolled in summer courses, moved into a new place in the 6th, and stopped wearing a cap and sunglasses on his morning boulangerie runs.
And sure, he was quieter than his late teen years in lycée - but then again, so was she.
The radiator buzzed as it warmed the space and Marinette counted the marshmallows in her drink. Muffled voices of tipsy neighbors passed in the hall. “You were better off partnering with me,” she joked.
Adrien’s gaze flicked to hers, incisive yet jovial. The years had reared his posture rigid, but his eyes carried the same softness as that first day in the rain.
And for the sake of old times, Marinette’s heart thumped a beat faster than usual.
“C’mon man!” Nino groaned, chucking his controller onto the couch. “Not again!”
GAME OVER bloomed across the television. Another level lost.
“Oops,” the blond muttered, not tearing his stare from the designer. She blew steam from her drink.
Alya snorted, stealing a blanket off the back of her seat to curl up against her boyfriend. “You guys both suck and Marinette remains the Mega Strike Champion.”
“Whatever,” Nino protested, accepting her embrace, “What movie are we watching? There’s a film noir I have to screen for my class.”
“Bro we are not here to do your homework for you,” Adrien teased. He stole the bag from the couch, searching for a pristine chip.
“OOH! How bout a musical,” Alya piped as she grabbed the remote from her cinephile boyfriend’s hands. “Is Grease still on Netflix?”
Adrien eagerly took a large swig of his hot chocolate like a child, watching Alya scroll through the streaming services. It brought a smile to Marinette’s face.
“How about a romance?” the blond suggested.
“Boo,” Nino complained…and subsequently received a wack on the head.
“Unfortunately not,” the brunette rolled her eyes, “I’ve banned Marinette from all rom-coms until she stops ghosting Fabian.”
(Which was an unjustifiable punishment by the way, it was The Umbrellas of Cherbourg weather!)
“Alya!” the ravenette complained, embarrassment heating her cheeks. Her cashmere was still set out to dry, and the pilling sweater she now wore did no help in impeding her sweat.
“Fabian?” Adrien questioned immediately with a quirk to his head.
“Just this guy she’s seeing.”
“Oooh…” Nino added.
Marinette smacked her mug down onto the table, “I am not seeing him. He intruded on my design-time when I was trying to enjoy an espresso at a cafe,” and sighed, “Basically forced me to take his number.”
Adrien shot her a curious look over the edge of his mug, but said nothing. Nino guffawed.
“All I’m hearing is that you’re still too hung up on one guy to entertain any other connections.”
Marinette flushed at her best friend’s jab. Alya read her like an open book. Yeah, she’d been pining for someone who seemed to share no interest in her anymore. She curled her fingers into the sleeves of her acrylic sweater.
“Alright, enough with the girl talk,” Nino argued, “I’m picking Home Alone.” He sent a wink to Marinette and she silently thanked him for the rescue.
The gang settled in, consumed by the forgetful antics of the McCallister family.
But for the remainder of the night, as action sequences flashed across the screen, the designer looked out the darkened windows…out onto the rooftops, reminiscing about her hero partner.
Was he watching Home Alone, too?
November in Paris invited fogged breath, leather boots stuffed under dark denim, and incessant rain.
The rooftops were sleek and harder to scale. But unlike flooding underground metros, Marinette adored stormy patrol days.
She’d nest upon a balcony, getting a birdseye view of Parisians’ colorful umbrellas. She could spot tourists speckled through the crowd through their red brollies, each in search of an Instagrammable moment.
Most days looked like a department store painting.
There was no need for patrol anymore. Since capturing Hawkmoth, these hours were more-so glorified hangouts. But Chat Noir would still show up routinely, which gave her some type of faith she could not name.
She found him out near Montmarte, catching the last of blue dusk to be consumed by dark clouds. A light drizzle accentuated the wet strands that stuck to his face, the Sacre Coeur not far behind.
“I thought there was a thing about cats and water,” she greeted. A tired line from their partner playbook. But it was as familiar a greeting as any.
Chat turned, green eyes so bright in the nighttime. “Every cat needs a bath now and again.”
In the passing months, Chat had quieted too. The night always seemed emptier without a flirtatious jest.
Rainfall made their suits shinier in the glow of distant street lamps. Droplets drummed against the mansard. He stood like he was waiting for her to arrive.
The rain was no enemy to the Parisians, who would huddle under restaurant awnings and gabble under candlelight till the night cleared. Girls in beige trenches, cigarettes and mist, takeaway couriers on motor scooters. The neon green pharmacy sign reflected in the wet pavement.
Ladybug stepped up beside him, finding it harder each day to fill the silence. “Anything awry?”
“Nope,” Chat noted, clicking his claws against his staff, “Unless you count me helping an old lady carry her groceries up to her apartment.” Ladybug snorted.
In the aftermath, as months wearied by, the heroes had pared down to mere tokens of the city, attractions on a tourist’s travel guide. Snapping a photo with the partners had become just as obligatory as taking a stroll through the Tuileries.
That was, if you could spot them.
Marinette’s gaze fettered to the revelry, scanning between tables for an untied shoelace, a handbag hanging on the back of a chair, a problem she could remedy. To no avail.
“What are you looking for?”
Her eyes chained to him now. “What?”
“You’re always searching…surveying, like an akuma is going to sprout in the horizon,” Chat Noir crossed his arms, “Our job is done m’lady. You can relax now.”
Ladybug’s eyes fluttered, taken aback. “You’re right,” she tugged on her pigtail. It seemed silly to wear them now, but simultaneously, uniform. “I guess…I’m a creature of habit.”
He flicked her forehead, “More and more these patrols feel pointless.”
Ouch.
“And yet you still show up,” she quipped. It was daring.
“I like the company,” Chat Noir shrugged, and that sacred grin escaped his lips. It was enough to raise a blush to her cheeks.
“Not enough, clearly,” she replied, relinquishing the earned levity to a wave of disappointment. Her tone was biting, like the brumal cold.
It had taken her so much anxious planning to finally propose the reveal of their identities, practicing her speech with Tikki like she was 14 again in her pink floral-lined bedroom. Only to be answered with a curt ‘no’.
She was a shameless caller, he was a full machine.
“Ladybug…”
She could read the shame in his peridot stare. “It’s fine Chat,” she shrugged, “I guess…I don’t know…I wanted us to be normal finally.”
Her partner scoffed, flicking his wet hair out of his face, “After everything we’ve been through bug? I wouldn’t call us normal.”
Ladybug looked away again, down to the headlights of the sparse cars that weaved through the roads. “Touché.”
The remainder of the night skimmed by with soundless shrugs and nods. They say distance makes the heart grow fonder.
The storm had rolled through the city and passed on, leaving the trees by the Seine bare of autumn leaves.
Parisians tied their scarves and tucked their necks into December. Marinette spent more of her free afternoons walking along the river, listening to the water lap against the docks, admiring the occasional paddling of ducks.
She and Adrien trailed behind their own mother hens, Nino and Alya, who were somehow managing to transport a fresh Christmas tree through thick holiday bustle.
The reporter maneuvered between Parisians with the head of the netted pine tucked under her arm, while Nino carried the weight at the stump. Their friends trudged along behind them uselessly.
After four separate elevator trips, per Alya’s tight apartment lift, the tree was finally ushered into a corner between a bookshelf and stack of newspapers. The couple disappeared into her closet in search of ornaments.
“For someone so type A the mess of this place astounds me,” Marinette complained, flitting through a handful of last week’s publications before beginning to stack them in an empty space on the shelf.
Adrien chuckled as he pulled the last of the netting off the stump, scissors in hand. “She’s been infected by Nino.” He pulled a coil of warm LEDs from a disintegrating box, attempting to untangle the clumps.
“Gah--Fuck!”
The coil of lights smacked against the floorboards, held up by a single wire between his hands. “Oops.”
“Here let me help,” the designer offered, “I’ve had years of expertise untangling necklaces from anxious fidgeting.”
His eyes fixed on her intently as she unraveled the mess in moments and placed the newly wrapped coil in his palm. His hands were warm.
“Your hands are freezing,” he remarked in return, like he read her mind. There was a smugness in his smile she’d seen worn too often by the blondes in her life.
A pregnant pause. And a desperate need for a change of subject.
“Adrien,” she rubbed her hands against her jeans, “This is a life-altering, friendship-testing question…”
“Oh?”
“What is the one correct way to string the lights?”
His slack-jaw spoke enough. “The ONLY correct way…”
“Bottom to top!” they exclaimed at the same time, bursting into a fit of giggles.
“Oh I’m so glad you agree,” Marinette beamed. "It's the closest to the outlet!" She unclipped the hairclip at the bottom of her sweater and tied up her hair. And they set off to work.
Adrien unraveled the coil, the ravenette wove the wire between branches, and they exchanged jokes all the while.
Failing to scout their box of newly-bought ornaments in the Bermuda Triangle that was Alya’s closet, Alya and Nino rushed off to shops to purchase more.
“Y’know–,” Adrien started, “It’s weird. Christmastime has never felt as homey as it has this year. Even though…”
The designer rose from her crouch to meet him. Even though he didn’t have a home to go home to. She caressed his arm, covered in a colorful striped sweater.
“Have you decided if you’re going to see him? Over the holidays?”
The boy shook his head no. In fact, Adrien hadn’t visited his imprisoned father since September, employing his engineering courses and heavy university schedule as an excuse.
His father refused to reason with him, as if their family hadn’t fallen apart because of his crimes, as if the Agreste reputation was copacetic.
“He always made the holidays seem solemn,” he shrugged, “And after my mother disappeared…”
His green eyes clouded as they did any time he spoke about his mother. He handed over more wire. She threaded a strand through a low branch. And Marinette wanted to clear his skies.
“It’s stupid,” Adrien sniffed, “I have this box of colorful Christmas lights. They were my mom’s.” The string ended and he went to grab another coil.
“They were the ones she’d use in the main family room tree every year. Aunt Amélie had bought them a matching set one Christmas…It was the only holiday thing I took with me from that attic.”
Marinette’s hands stilled at a higher branch, too tall for her to reach. She pretended to weave her fingers through a knot of lights, giving him the space to unravel more than just the wire.
He crept up behind her, his obvious height to his advantage, stealing the strand and wrapping it around the last few branches. She ignored the warmth of his body upon her back.
“It was the only thing I took. As if leaving his collection of priceless grey ornaments was some act of rebellion.” He let out a coddled laugh, almost ashamed.
“Adrien,” the designer flipped determinedly, "Everything your father did in the name of your mother was selfish.”
Gabriel Agreste never saw his son as anything more than a walking red X on a calendar, an impending reminder of his wife’s loss.
“So, so what if you felt triumphant about fucking Christmas lights?” Marinette crossed her arms. “Beats being a Scrooge.” It earned a curved smile from the blond.
“Bah, humbug,” he joked.
“I like this look on you,” Adrien said, eyes glinting with playful admiration. He reached for the outlet and plugged in the extension cord, and the lights flickered to life along the tree. The soft glow twinkled across Marinette’s face.
“It’s attractive,” he teased.
A bright blush flamed the designer’s cheeks, and she shook the wisps of fringe that framed her face. “You’re funny.”
Adrien leaned back slightly, grinning, and admired their end product on the tree. “It’s easy to talk to you, Mari.”
“Likewise…Adrikins.”
He shoved her, and oh so many more laughs echoed in the room. A pillow fight ensued. By the time Nino and Alya returned with boxes of ornaments, the two friends were clutching their stomachs on the carpet.
If only it were so easy with Chat. Maybe she needed to start inviting him to Alya’s, coax confessions with hot tea and cookies like she did with Adrien.
The charity hall smelled of recently waxed floors and a lingering woodsy aroma from the garlands draped across the walls. A harsh stage light flattened everything to a glare, blinding Ladybug’s vision and spotlighting the polished floors beneath her feet.
She and Chat Noir stood beside the foundation leader, receiving one of many speeches dedicated in their honor.
The heroes sported their practiced smiles as the woman droned on in rehearsed gratitude. Cameras flashed from different points across the room.
Ladybug and Chat Noir had made a donation tonight, paying forward the generous check the new mayor, Monsieur Carimil, had gifted them in early summer. Matched by an anonymous donor, the Papillion Relief Foundation would have the means to furnish housing for displaced families and fund counseling for the next year.
Marinette looked out into the crowd, meeting young faces bright with hope, teenage volunteers with clipboards, and the tired, lined features of their elders.
Ladybug charms around their necks, hung from lanyards, clipped to bracelets. These were the faces of so many of the victims she’d saved, faces she remembered. And others she didn’t recognize - families who had left Paris out of fear, those haunted by akuma battles.
“And we thank you for your courageous heroism.”
She should be amongst them now, helping physically somehow. Lifting boxes, kneeling on the floor with instruction manuals. Doing something tangible that left her hands sore.
Chat nudged her and Marinette looked up to see the speaker’s hand extended out to her, awaiting a shake.
She took it, and the crowd erupted into applause. But the cheers felt hollow.
The rest of the night followed with more posing, photos snapping, affirmations, and hugs.
A fromagerie owner was just walking away when she caught sight of Chat Noir across the hall.
He knelt down on one knee, retying an appropriate green scarf around a young boy’s neck. The child thanked him, and a small smile graced the hero’s face.
Tender.
He was always easier to watch than to reach, Marinette had ascertained.
At their leave, the partners walked out of the auditorium with their final waves. They ambled through the dim hallways silently, feet tapping against marbled floors. They passed portraits of honorary donors past.
“I hate these things,” Chat finally muttered at last. Disdain coated his voice. “All these photos, all this frenzy, it’s so…futile.”
Ladybug gulped.
“We’re helping people,” she argued, “We’re giving people faith, we’re bringing awareness to a great foundation.”
Her tone was cutting, sharp enough for even her to believe.
Chat glanced at her in a way that left her incredulous.
“This publicity though, why point it at us when we can point it at them? You know damn well those outlets will write more about us and Agreste than any of those people in that room.”
She couldn’t disagree. In fact, she wholeheartedly concurred. But she couldn’t let herself believe that her efforts were fruitless.
It had to mean something. Then what would be the point of it all?
“Gabriel should’ve been here,” Chat Noir spouted again, his shoulders tensing, “He should face all the innocent people he’s hurt. Witness how they’ve endured, how resilient they’ve grown.”
He was angry, that much was clear. And not wrong.
Their presence as heroes was ornamental, no more a garnish than the shiny glass balls that embellished the trees littered throughout the hall.
The heroine swallowed, feeling a lump rise in her throat. She wanted to pull him by the hand and reassure him, but felt helpless against the tide. The dark hallway seemed emptier than before.
She paused, letting Chat trail a few steps before her. “Did you know that Adrien Agreste matched our donation?”
Her eyes didn’t leave the floor, but she could feel him turn in her peripheral.
“Adrien, who is probably the biggest victim in all of this-,” she waved her hands, “He showed up. Anonymously. He did his part, he played his own hand, despite his father.”
Ladybug sighed, “I know you think this is in vain, but it’s all I can think of to help fix things. To mend at least some of the trauma these people have been through. We’re here. We’re showing up. Even Adrien is showing up. That counts.”
Chat Noir’s breath hitched.
She could feel the tears stinging her eyes, and forced herself to blink them away. She finally met him, and his eyes softened. Vulnerable in a way she hadn’t seen in months.
Like her words had possessed him.
“M’lady,” he stepped closer, “I know it’s hard to imagine, but we’re not magic. We're just some two twenty-something year olds.” He brushed some invisible dust off her shoulder, giving it a squeeze.
“You don’t have to fix everything…you’ve remedied enough.”
Ladybug lifted her chin, gazing into his matching glassy eyes.
In a year where their partnership seemed like her pushing a boulder up an incline, it’s like the ground flattened beneath her feet. Like gravity sent the ball rolling with unearthly velocity. He'd boosted her spirits like he used to do.
When she finally ripped the butterfly miraculous from Gabriel Agreste, and stared into those soulless eyes, Marinette learned that she no longer held control. That reality had a way of shrouding you with humility. Leaving her with a fallout she couldn’t pen in and scratch out in her meticulous To-Do list.
“Two twenty-somethings huh,” she murmured.
He embraced her tightly, and she buried her head into his chest. Her shoulders shook and she released a sob she’d been holding in for months.
Chat brushed his claws through her hair in caress, loosening the drape of her pigtails. “Is that what you’ve been so afraid of?” he whispered into her fringe.
Marinette wiped her tears as an answer, feeling pillowed and puffy but oh so relieved. To think she was crying over losing a job she never wanted in the first place.
But Chat walked her off the bridge as he always did.
She moored to the subtle thump of his heart, quicker than she expected. Chat’s chin rested at the crown of her head, and she flushed at the thought of a guest catching them out in the hall.
But as she watched the pale moonlight through the window, she could hear the scuffle of people shuffling out of the building downstairs.
Ladybug huffed, pulling an inch away. “I just don’t want this not to continue,” she gestured between them.
Chat smirked, but then his lips thinned into a line. “Hence the reveal.”
“Hence the reveal,” she confirmed. All of a sudden having her hands around his waist seemed a little silly. She tried to move a step back, but he didn’t budge.
“LB, I’m not going anywhere,” the blond stressed, “You must know that by now.”
She shrugged, and a laugh crept out of him that annoyed her.
“I need this partnership for my personal function more than you do,” he ran a hand through his hair, “I can attest to that.”
Marinette paused. Because for the first time, clarity washed over her, and she understood. That they were both protecting the same thing, in their own alternate ways. With Chat clinging to the safety and boundaries of the mask, and her the validation that dropping them would mean them choosing each other on purpose.
“You’re afraid that knowing who you are will change how I think of you,” she finally laid bare. His lack of remark was an answer in and of itself. “Why?”
The boy swung his head back in remorse. “It’s not–”
“Don’t deflect,” the heroine pushed, “Why?”
Somewhere out onto the street, a car door slammed. They heard a tailgate swing open. The stagers must’ve arrived to clean out the seats.
She could imagine the workers out in the cold night, loading the truck. Yellow lighting and laughter billowing behind the frosted glass of restaurants.
“I should’ve been more focused,” the blond shook his head, “Been more cognizant of the story that was being written out right in front of me instead of chasing romantic velleities in my head.”
Adrien had used that argument before. He blamed himself for not seeing his father as the monster that he was. What Adrien failed to acknowledge was the nuance that his father was his father – someone meant to love him, shelter him. Not weaponize that love.
Adrien despised any association with his father. And likewise, Chat…feared contextualization of himself.
Because, for someone who grew up in the public eye, once you were named, you were marked. Assigned an identity assumed by public opinion that was almost impossible to rewrite.
She’d seen Adrien grapple with this for months before he learned that the only perceptions that mattered were those of his 3 friends, who loved him unconditionally…
“I should’ve paid more attention,” he concluded quietly.
And that’s when Marinette understood.
She watched him with narrow eyes, discerning the resistance in the way he leaned inches from her.
The same resistance she’d met months ago with hugs in Alya’s living room.
The same nervousness in his breath as the one that hovered over her shoulder, stringing lights between branches of pine.
The heroine’s breath hitched.
And as her eyes teared once more, she reached up, brushing her fingers under Chat’s jaw that slackened beneath her touch. She pressed a delicate kiss to his cheek.
“I should’ve too.”
Then she stepped away, turned, and walked down the dark hall, leaving him tethered to those last words.
His Thursday morning commute found Adrien beaten by the sleepless nights spent studying and shifting in his sheets, plagued by the infinite questions that racked his mind since his last conversation with Ladybug.
Trailers after dark.
He was headed toward his final physics examination before Christmas break.
The metro car was stuffed with fidgety businessmen who spoke into their earphones, au pairs that rocked young children on their knees to shush their whines, a texting pair of teens, an assistant holding 6 garment bags hooked along her one arm.
The boy exhaled, rolling his neck once. His backpack was secured between his legs and a singular Airpod sounded tunes into his left ear.
The metro chugged to its next stop and the doors cracked open, releasing a few commuters onto the platform and welcoming new riders with stale air.
Then he spotted Marinette step into the car, wrapped in her favorite pink peacoat and cherried with her signature messy bangs that framed her face. A few drops from the morning misty drizzle still lingered on her coat.
He lifted his hand to give her a small wave. But her gaze locked on him with an ambitious twinkle behind her sapphire eyes, concentrated and courageous.
And then she was moving, pushing between the narrow aisle with purpose, muttering “pardon”s each step of the way. She sidestepped a stroller and then slipped into the empty seat beside him.
Before Adrien could register it, Marinette had curled into him, laying her head against his shoulder.
He froze, green eyes wide.
The ravenette continued to thread her arm through his, lacing their hands, as if it were the most predictable thing in the world. Her hands were still ice cold.
“Marinette?”
Either she didn’t reply or her response was muted by the guttural screech of the train starting up again.
And then the designer’s thumb began to trace circles over his silver ring.
His gaze dropped, swallowing before acknowledging her piercing gaze. Knowledge behind them that he had not yet mined. She was handing him the shovel.
She let go, just long enough to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. A strand of hair that revealed small black earrings.
He blinked. The metro lurched forward. His heart followed.
A soft grin blossomed at her lips, Ladybug’s lips, and ever contagious, infected his own smile. The metro clattered on, worlds buzzing past outside the glass. And the rest was foggy, blurred by the tears that misted his eyes.
He gripped her hand tighter, hoping the squeeze was enough of an answer. A concession.
She giggled like bells and rested her head once again. He kissed her temple once. Twice. And thanked his lucky stars that some truths weren’t bitter like the coming winter, but precious like the Christmas mornings of his childhood.
And the next evening, when Alya and Nino returned to the journalist’s apartment with pizza boxes and soda cans, mid-argument over toppings, to find their best friends cuddling into each other on the couch – the designer’s legs tucked beneath her, his arm draped around her shoulders–they didn’t mention it. At least not that first night.
They just stopped short, picked up their slackened jaws, lowered their eyebrows, and spent the rest of the evening exchanging mischievous glances over the table. They let the tree lights flicker between them, the soft rain outside fill the room in a cozy rhythm.
And in the morning, there would be time for teasing.