Archive of Our Own

Marinette was officially done. Done with the world, done with relationships, done with guitars and the stupid vibrations those strings made, calling into the hollow instrument like some kind of lament.

The date had started like any other, Marinette trudging up three floors to reach Luka’s apartment, sweaty but optimistic, when she entered to find said Luka sitting morosely on the couch, staring at the door with a guitar in hand and a box of possessions next to him. His face was sullen, his blue hair tinged green at the ends from the harsh shampoo he used and his black roots showing.

Next came that stupid low voice he put on when he wanted someone to think he was sorry, and the hollow minor chords with the worst lyrics she had ever heard.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng had been broken up with through song.

Minor chords, lyrics along the lines of ‘This is hard for me, too’, a sad capo hanging limply from the first fret in a way that made the chords buzz. Marinette almost scoffed; he was sitting holding the guitar on his lap, his stance so wide you’d think he had a cello tucked in those skinny jeans.

Marinette unfortunately knew better (it was like a piccolo).

With a melancholy last chord and held pause (for emphasis), he finally finished. He handed Marinette the box with the remainder of her things she had stashed in his apartment: her blue sweater, a few magazines, and a guitar pick Luka had kindly donated for memories. She had promptly thrown it in the bin as soon as she left the apartment complex.

A whole year wasted. And she didn’t even get the chance to dump him first. Not after he ditched her fashion debut to ‘work on his record’, not after the fifth time watching him sing to some random girl in a pub that wasn’t her. Not after he forgot their six-month anniversary or the hasty last-minute scarf he got her as a gift for her birthday (it was summer).

Him and those stupid six-string chords were completely right — it was him, not her.

She got back to her shared apartment with Alya and wreaked havoc. And by havoc she meant a deep clean that would rival Marie Kondo. She got rid of all his sweaters (apart from the really expensive designer one), all the band tees she had kept from his bad pub concerts, the photos they had together including the picture frames — as if the glossy surface touching Luka’s face was offensive, the cassette tapes he had made for her with corny quotes decorating the cover. How on earth could anything spark joy?

She scrubbed the sink until it gleamed, dismantled the oven to a true crime podcast, ripping out the rack and spraying it with enough cleaner to make her head spin. She unclogged the shower drains, took out the trash, wiped last week’s drinks off the coffee table and changed her sheets, vacuumed up every last blue hair.

All that was left to do was her laundry. Fortunately, it was a block away; unfortunately, her resolve to scrub her apartment of her ex-boyfriend had caused her to abandon nearly all her clothes to be washed. She ended up in a pair of jeans riddled with paint stains that were definitely not artistically placed, as well as some old tee — one of those wrinkled graphic ones that might have displayed a funny joke three thrift stores ago.

It was coming up to midnight on a Saturday, three quarters of the college were out enjoying the night far too much to focus on someone like Marinette, dragging her laundry basket like it was a body bag, smelling faintly of Pine-Sol and something lemony she had used to scrub the sink. She had leftover cleaning paste on her nose, and where she had rubbed it off the skin protested, going red and remaining slightly itchy as she weaved through the cheerful party-goers and breathed in the second-hand smoke.

Now she sat in the laundromat, scowl plastered, watching the suds wash her clothes clean into the new single life. Her hair was greasy and thrown into the smoothest ponytail she could muster, she wasn’t wearing a bra, and sometime in between the true crime podcast and the hastily compiled ‘baddie playlist’ she had started crying, her mascara running under her eyes like a raccoon.

Alya had gone on a weekend trip to see her boyfriend and promised to train back early first thing the next morning, and Marinette was holding out for it. The washing machine thumped sadly, the wet fabric sloshing in the barrel, and Marinette couldn’t help but feel soul-tied to the sound as she bit her lip. She rubbed her face, then groaned when she felt the familiar beginnings of a stress breakout along her forehead, angry red bumps no doubt emerging under the skin to give her the look of hives.

She had a well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice in one hand and a pencil in the other. Every time Mr. Darcy did anything remotely romantic, Marinette scribbled ‘LAIR’ in the margin in big capital letters, complete with many underlines. She was drawing a specifically ‘Luka-looking’ figure labelled “idiot” next to passages about Elizabeth Bennet’s cousin when the door chimed as it opened.

Marinette looked up reflexively, and promptly scowled. How dare he?

He was blonde, the kind of dirty blonde that came from summer vacations and convincing enough to be natural. It fell over his face, sweeping just over his green eyes and ruffled enough for Marinette to sense he’d been running his hands through it. He was in a simple tee shirt and a pair of jeans, completing a model-off-duty look so convincing Marinette thought his laundry basket might be a prop.

They made eye contact, and Marinette quickly nodded, averting her eyes so as not to see any expression that crossed his face. Shouldn’t someone like him be making the most of their Saturday night? He looked like a magazine cover, which made Marinette look like a raccoon just leaving a session of dumpster diving in comparison.

She watched out of the corner of her eye as he loaded in his washing; he added both detergent and fabric softener and come on, who in college was organised enough to stock up on fabric softener? Marinette peeked in his tote bag and saw dryer balls.

She watched the man in front of her take out his card; he searched the machine.

“It only takes coins,” she explained.

She watched the man turn toward her, running his hand through his hair, and oh god, how did he look good even when frustrated, who has arm-muscle definition and clear skin under laundromat lighting?

“It’s the 21st century and it doesn’t take Apple Pay?” His voice seemed deep but tired, a slight rasp that only came from staying up late.

It was then Marinette realised how tired he also looked, the kind of weary that came from a bad day, the soft creases on his forehead, mouth tipped downward like the ‘no card’ was the last straw, a cherry on top of a pitiful existence.

She felt something pang in her heart, similar to a morose guitar riff. She took pity, digging into her pocket to come up with spare change.

“Here.” She offered him as much of a smile as she could muster, hoping she didn’t look as gross as she felt as she extended her palm.

He hesitated, but his face had flooded in relief. “Are you sure? I can transfer you.”

Marinette shook her head. “I found these coins digging through my couch; let it be karmic payment.”

He smiled at her, a small warm one that made her palms sweat, no doubt clammy, the coins as he took them with a murmured and incredibly attractive thanks.

He started the machine, jumping slightly as it rattled to life with a loud thunk, before sitting down next to her on the seat, opening up his tote to take out a book, some science fiction novel if she had correctly identified the cover having alien spaceships. He didn’t open it.

Instead, he turned to her, extending his hand like some vintage businessman. “Thanks again, I’m Adrien.”

Marinette took it after a beat, meeting his eyes. “Marinette.”

Another beat of silence. Marinette tried to get back to her book, Happiness in Marriage is Entirely a Matter of Chance. She put three ticks next to the line, finishing the sentence with an annotation: “unlikely.” Charlotte was her new favourite character in this latest re-read.

She heard a clearing of a throat next to her.

“So, the coins,” Adrien tested, clicking his tongue, “Karmic payment?” he asked.

Marinette huffed, her pencil tapping the page of her book. She inhaled sharply. “I’m hoping to gain some luck back. I got broken up with today.”

Adrien — this stranger — had the decency to look genuinely sympathetic. “I’m sorry.” He cringed, bringing a hand to the back of his head, evidently a nervous gesture.

Marinette smiled in understanding. “I know, a bit much to tell a stranger.”

Adrien paled slightly, raising his arms out in front of him like he was trying to soothe a rearing horse. “No — I mean yes — are you alright?”

Marinette hummed non-committally. “Considering my mascara has given up being on my lashes and he broke up with me through song, everything’s balmy.”

That did it. The awkward tension cut as Adrien laughed loudly. A deep and welcome sound that rattled the dryers.

“A song?” He finished, and Marinette let out a chuckle at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Well,” he started, and Marinette could see a gleam in his eye as he smiled, a slight dimple puckering the corner of his mouth, “was it at least good?”

Marinette groaned, taking the time to dog-ear her page before shutting her book as she turned to face him on the bench. “It was a break-up song,” she stated flatly. “All minor chords and melodramatic ‘I’m sorrys’. Do you think it was good?”

And, because she was petty, Marinette added, “Plus, he’s been trying for the past year to get a record deal. If it was good, he would’ve been signed by now.”

Adrien’s grin grew wider. “Ouch, hit the starving artist while he’s down.”

Marinette huffed, turning back to watch the washing machine gurgle. “Oh please, he can barely hold a tune. He only got booked in pubs past ten so everyone would be drunk.”

They reached an amicable silence, the soft thuds of their washing collectively dancing in their sud wash.

Marinette had just opened her copy back up when Adrien must have spotted the title.

“So, Pride and Prejudice, huh?”

Marinette opened up her last annotations and leaned toward Adrien so she could show him. Their knees brushed.

“It’s one of my favourites, although I am anger-reading right now, so at the moment nothing Mr. Darcy does impresses me.”

Adrien laughed. “Well, men with poor communication skills have been a constant throughout history.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “That’s so performative, Adrien.” She teased and watched as his face softened.

Adrien huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair. It was my mother’s favourite.”

The word landed softly between them. Heavy, final. Their clothes gurgled, synchronised in their machines. Marinette looked up, catching the way his eyes dipped for a split second before he smoothed his expression back into place. She didn’t comment. Some things didn’t need to be poked to prove they were tender.

“It’s a good choice,” she said instead, gentler now. “Even if I’m reading it out of spite.”

He nodded, appreciative. “She liked that it was honest about love being… inconvenient.”

Marinette smiled faintly. Inconvenient was a generous way to put it.

“Love isn’t just inconvenient; it demands to be hard.” It came out more bitter than she expected.

Adrien shrugged, but his tone held conviction as he spoke. “I think love shouldn’t have to be something you constantly push uphill.”

Marinette hummed, nodding casually as she leaned back slightly on the bench, taking the time to survey Adrien. His posture was straight, as if he had been fitted with a ruler—but he wasn’t tense—more like he just ‘fell’ that way. It reminded Marinette of horsehair lining, a means to stabilise the ends of gowns. Weight giving way to control. He felt weighted, at that moment, like he was hunched over a memory.

“I think I’ve been rubbed too raw to be talking about the principles of love.” She laughed it off, but Adrien seemed to read her expression.

He turned toward the washing machines. “It’ll get better.” He comforted, and somehow Marinette believed him.

She followed his gaze, watching the suds bubble and dissipate in the wash as her clothes circled. She imagined Luka’s scent fading from her laundry, being replaced with the familiar lavender detergent she liked to splurge on. The simple act of cleaning something—how that can help you move on.

She thought about the movement of the washer, the endless circles, pressing, stretching, forcing cleaner through the fibres. It was similar to how one would get over a break-up: going through the motions before the cycle ended, and you emerge one day ‘clean’.

“Love should go around and around. It can have bad and good times, but they should always meet again.” He cleared his throat. “That’s another thing my mom said: that like Elizabeth and Darcy, love needs to be felt.”

“But they spend three-quarters of the book hating each other.”

“They only thought they hated each other; it always circled around love. It only hurt because they loved each other— they had expectations.”

Marinette blinked. “You don’t study literature, do you?”

Adrien laughed. “No, physics, up at the old architecture campus. You?”

“Fashion.”

“Oh, that’s actually interesting,” he said, surprised. “I rip my hair out over equations on a whiteboard all day; it must be nice to design stuff.”

“It is, until you get another needle prick or you realise you need to seam-rip for the third time in an all-nighter.”

“Night owl?”

“Completely. You?”

He shook his head. “Early bird,” he grinned at her.

Marinette pushed his shoulder with hers lightly; he was warm beneath the fabric of his shirt. “Then why are you up so late?”

Before Adrien could explain, Marinette’s stomach growled. Loudly.

“Hating Mr. Darcy got you hungry?”

Marinette groaned. “Deep cleaning my apartment to get rid of traces of my ex-boyfriend did. God, I forgot to have dinner.”

Adrien glanced around, the fluorescent light softening his hair like a halo. “Well, there’s a vending machine that looks like it takes a card.”

He stood up. “Let me make my karmic payment; I could use the luck, too.”

“Oh, you really don’t have to,” she protested, but Adrien was already crossing the length of the store to the forgotten vending machine beeping in the corner.

He glanced at the produce, turning to look over his shoulder and shoot her a casual smile. She could see his dimple from across the store. “Sweet or savoury?”

“They have options for both?”

—

Adrien deposited a nauseating amount of M&Ms, along with some granola bars, two juice boxes, and a coveted box of Nerds, which Marinette tore into first. They dissolved on her tongue, sour but welcome all the same, leaving a tingle as they melted.

Adrien tore into a granola bar, popping the straw of both their juice boxes as he set one down in front of her. Marinette watched his face as he did so, the action careful, like he was calculating the angle the straw needed to enter first, and she couldn’t help but find it endearing.

“Thank you for this,” she murmured.

He smiled, a dimple appearing at the corner of his mouth again. “It’s nothing; we’re just giving each other opportunities to garner luck from the universe.”

But Marinette was thanking him for more than that, and she hoped he knew. Having someone to talk to instead of stewing in her own self-pity helped her more than she knew how to put into words.

Instead, she huffed out a laugh, reaching over to open the packet of M&Ms.

“Don’t you study physics? Surely you know better than to believe in luck from the universe.”

He brought his hand up to the back of his neck again, his smile growing distant.

“Honestly, the more I study the stuff, the less it makes sense.”

Marinette stared down at her tee-shirt, the flakes of what were once words littering the fabric. She supposed it was the same principle. It had been through the wash too many times to be legible, like poring over the same concept in more detail ten times over.

“It must be hard to come back to Earth,” she sympathised.

He took a long moment just looking at her, long enough that she felt the beginnings of a blush creeping up her neck. He had his head tilted, his hand motionless beside his juice box, his eyes staring at hers for a short moment so intensely she could see the light amber that ringed his pupils.

“Yeah,” he said, but it came out in a low whisper.

“I don’t know much about physics,” she replied, almost as if to downplay whatever statement she’d made to have him look at her like that. It made her feel vulnerable, soft; it did something to the rhythm her heart beat at.

“That’s not a bad thing,” he automatically replied. “Honestly, it doesn’t matter if luck is real or not. Sometimes a placebo is just as effective.”

He had turned his face away as he finished, and Marinette could see the way his jaw tensed as he held on to the thought. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, and she could see the tanned expanse of his collarbone under his shirt.

She could see the way his hand had wrapped around his juice box again, his thumb smoothing over the crinkles from the plastic wrapper that held the straw, the way his thumbnail dipped to crease the cardboard in the bottom corner again and again. His hand worried the object like someone deep in thought, and Marinette had a feeling whatever had brought him to the laundromat that night was still there in the back of his mind.

Adrien’s thumb kept smoothing the same crease in the side of the juice box, pressing it flat until the cardboard bent obediently beneath his nail—only for it to puff back out again the second he let go.

Marinette watched it happen three times.

Four.

The laundromat hummed around them, washing machines turning with that low, watery churn that filled the quiet spaces between conversation. Every now and then a dryer clunked somewhere along the wall, the metal drum shifting with a hollow thud. It made the fluorescent lights above them buzz a little louder.

Adrien didn’t seem to notice any of it. His shoulders were still carrying that strange tightness she’d seen earlier, like he’d forgotten to relax them. Even sitting down, he looked… braced. Like a wire pulled just a little too taut. His thumb pressed the crease again.

Something in Marinette decided she hated that.

She reached into the packet of M&Ms and fished one out, the candy clicking lightly against the others as her fingers moved through the bag.

“Open your mouth.”

Adrien looked up.

“Sorry?”

“Just trust me.”

He stared at her for a moment, brows lifting slightly. Suspicion crept across his face in a slow, amused way, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

“That sentence has historically ended poorly for people.”

“Adrien.”

She held up the M&M between two fingers in demonstration, his eyes flicked from the candy to her face again.

Then, with a small breath that almost looked like he was surrendering to the bit, he leaned back slightly in his chair and opened his mouth.

Marinette tossed it. Or rather— she tried to toss it.

The candy struck the side of his cheek with a soft tap, bounced once against his jaw, and vanished down the collar of his shirt.

For half a second, neither of them moved. Adrien blinked. Marinette blinked back.

Then he jolted upright.

“Oh—wait—”

His hand disappeared down the collar of his shirt immediately, shoulders hunching as he tried to feel around blindly.

“It’s cold,” he muttered, voice tightening in surprise. “Why is it cold?”

Marinette clapped a hand over her mouth, but the laugh escaped anyway, bright and helpless.

“I’m sorry—I thought—”

“Where did it go?”

He was half standing now, twisting slightly as he tried to look down the front of his own shirt, which of course did absolutely nothing.

“You’re acting like it’s alive,” Marinette wheezed.

“It moved.”

“That’s because you’re panicking!”

Adrien froze for a second, one hand still awkwardly inside his collar as he considered that.

Then he shifted again, carefully this time, eyes narrowing with concentration.

“…I think it’s stuck.”

“Where?” Marinette asked, wiping the corner of her eye.

He looked up at her, then back down at his shirt. She could see a thought enter his head that made his ears turn faintly pink.

“Somewhere,” he said carefully, “that makes retrieving it… socially complicated.”

That did it.

Marinette folded forward over herself with a burst of laughter, her shoulders shaking as she pressed her forehead briefly against her knees, the bag of M&Ms crinkled loudly under her elbow. She looked up.

Adrien carefully, very carefully, pinched something between two fingers somewhere near his stomach and pulled his hand back out of his shirt. His face slightly paled, neck warm with embarrassment.

The M&M was slightly melted, the bright shell smudged where it had warmed against his skin.

Adrien held it up between them. Both of them looked at it.

The silence lasted less than two seconds before they were laughing.

They bordered on manic. Marinette wiped a tear just as Adrien was collapsing in on himself, his cheeks pink from exertion as he leaned forward, his deep laugh cut by an abrupt hiccup, which set her off again.

It was midnight on Saturday. A car horn honked faintly outside. Chatter bled through the windows of the laundromat. And she was here. Laughing with a stranger about lost chocolate.

“This is your fault,” he said, voice strained with dignity that was rapidly losing the battle and humour that threatened to send him into another fit of laughter.

“You should’ve moved your mouth,” she wheezed. He looked indignant, but the corner of his mouth was twitching.

“I didn’t tell you to miss,” he held up the offending object. “…Do I still have to eat it?” he asked.

Marinette snorted. “Absolutely not.”

He flicked it neatly into the trash beside the bench and sat back down, brushing a hand down the front of his shirt like he could smooth away the memory of the entire incident.

Marinette nudged the bag of M&Ms toward him again with the back of her hand.

“You’re terrible at coordination,” he said.

“You volunteered as a test subject.”

“You didn’t explain the risks.”

“You trusted me, so don’t complain.”

Adrien huffed out a quiet laugh at that, the sound softer than the one before. He reached into the bag this time, the candies rattling softly as his fingers moved through them. The wooden bench beneath them creaked softly as he shifted his weight.

It was one of those long, narrow benches meant for waiting—smooth from years of use, the varnish worn faintly dull where countless people had sat before them. It wasn’t meant for two people to sit quite this close, but somehow over the course of the night they had drifted toward the middle until their knees were only a few inches apart.

Marinette hesitated.

The packet of M&Ms rested open between them, balanced on the bench. She could hear the machines humming steadily along the walls, the low, watery churn of washing cycles turning over and over. Every so often a dryer thudded as the clothes inside shifted, the metal drum echoing hollowly in the tiled room.

Adrien’s hand was still held out between them. One small candy pinched carefully between his fingers.

“Adrien…” she warned, though the edge of a smile was already tugging at her mouth.

“Trust me.”

“That has historically ended poorly for you tonight.”

His mouth tilted slightly.

“Just a little closer.”

Marinette sighed like she was deeply put upon, but she leaned forward anyway, bracing one hand on the bench between them as she moved just close enough to take the candy from his fingers.

Except at the last second his hand shifted.

“Adrien—”

The candy dropped neatly into her mouth. Marinette froze mid-protest, eyes widening as she instinctively bit down on it. The shell cracked with a soft snap between her teeth.

Adrien leaned back a fraction, clearly pleased with himself.

“You planned that,” she said, chewing slowly, pointing a finger at him in accusation.

“Physics.”

“That’s not physics.”

“Timing,” he replied easily. His smile deepened just slightly, that small dimple appearing again near the corner of his mouth.

Marinette was preparing a properly scathing response when something caught her eye.

“Wait.”

Adrien paused. “What?”

“You’ve got something on your face.”

He frowned faintly, instinctively bringing his hand up, but Marinette caught his wrist lightly before he could smear it.

“Hold on.”

Her thumb brushed against his cheek, and Adrien stilled immediately.

It was faint—just a soft smudge of colour near the edge of his cheekbone where the M&M had bounced off him earlier. The fluorescent lights overhead caught it just enough to make the streak visible against his skin.

Marinette leaned closer without really thinking about it, concentrating as she tried to rub the mark away. The wooden bench creaked quietly beneath the shift of their weight. Up close, everything about him felt suddenly sharper.

She could see the pale amber ring around his pupils again, the colour catching the light whenever he blinked. His lashes cast small shadows along the tops of his cheeks. A loose strand of blonde hair had fallen slightly out of place near his temple.

Her thumb smoothed lightly across his skin again.

Adrien hadn’t moved. His posture had gone strangely still beside her, like his body had forgotten what to do with itself. One of his hands was resting on the bench behind her now, fingers curled loosely against the wood for balance as she leaned in.

“Did you get it?” he asked quietly. His voice had dropped.

Marinette realised suddenly just how close she was.

The clean scent of his clothes drifted toward her—laundry soap, warm and fresh, like cotton that had just come out of the dryer. It mingled with the faint sugary smell of candy still lingering between them.

Her thumb had stopped moving to rub out the stain; instead she instinctively pressed it downward, feeling the warmth of his skin. She could feel her heart beating through the pads on her fingers.

Adrien’s gaze flicked down, briefly to catch at her mouth, before looking back to meet hers again. She could feel each breath he took, the way his jaw clenched under her touch. Marinette felt heat creep up the back of her neck.

“…Almost,” she murmured, though she wasn’t entirely sure if that was still true.

Neither of them pulled away.

The laundromat hummed around them, machines turning steadily along the walls, the fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead. Somewhere a washer drum shifted again.

Adrien leaned forward slightly. Not enough to break the space between them—but enough that Marinette felt the movement. Her hand was still resting lightly against his cheek. Her breath caught.

Then—

BEEP.

The washing machine behind them chirped loudly, the sudden sound cutting straight through the quiet. Marinette startled slightly, her hand dropping from his face as Adrien blinked, like someone pulled abruptly back into the present. They both turned their heads toward the row of machines along the wall where one of the lids had popped open.

When Marinette looked back at him, he was already leaning away again, rubbing the back of his neck with a quiet, almost sheepish gesture.

“…I think that one’s yours,” he said.

But there was still the faintest trace of warmth left where her thumb had been.

—

By the time both the dryers were making use of their cycles, Marinette was down to her last coins and Adrien to his dryer balls, a felted blue one spinning around in Marinette’s washing.
They had sat back on the bench together, slipping back into a sense of normalcy after the moment before their washing ended. Marinette couldn’t stop staring—the way his jaw tugged a smile into place, the nape of his neck still lingering under her eyes, the way his detergent smelled, something clean and deep, like bergamot.

“So, you cleaned your place?” It was an awkward question, paired with Adrien’s slightly shifted eyes as he turned back toward her.

Marinette nodded. “My best friend will be here…” she checked her watch, “well, this morning, I suppose.”

Adrien smiled. “She’ll be happy coming back to a clean flat.”

“And a single me,” Marinette laughed, “she didn’t like my ex very much.”

“Why?”

Marinette could feel the heat rising from the dryers, escaping through the seams of the machine and filling the air in a way that matched the tension between them—a sort of itching feeling that made her want to run out the door.

“Take your pick,” she laughed dryly, beginning to list off on her fingers, “Forgot our six-month anniversary, almost forgot my birthday, used to sing to other girls in the pub, ditched my fashion debut.”

She expected a sorry sort of expression, but Adrien had a colder look in his eye.

“Yeah, I’m with your friend.”

Marinette nodded, picking at a lifting paint stain on her jeans. “I don’t really know why it took me so long. I should’ve been the one to dump him.”

She stayed looking down, her fingers still slightly pruned from the harsh chemicals she used to strip the apartment clean of her ex-boyfriend. The edges of her fingernails were rough, bitten down in a nervous habit she thought she’d gotten rid of.

“Surely you have someone to spend a Saturday night with?” She caught the edge of a paint spatter and chipped it off, letting the blue paint flake onto her finger. “A couple friends? A girl?”

She asked the question cautiously, letting the empty space between the words fill what she really wanted to ask: why was he here?

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He shook his head minutely, his hair shagging over his eyes in a way that made him look young. His nose creased as he frowned.

“Actually, it’s the anniversary of my mom’s passing.” He huffed out a thin laugh. “Well, it was yesterday, I suppose.”

Marinette’s mouth opened in shock, a soft gasp as she met his eyes. She felt a rush of embarrassment course through her. She regretted poking him into an answer.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathed. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

He shrugged, his head tilting as he regarded her. His face was practiced—not angry, but a kind of neutrality that hid a lot behind the eyes.

“It’s okay,” then, seeing her worried expression, he nudged her shoulder with his, like she had done earlier that night. “It really is,” he emphasised.

Marinette nodded, waiting to see if he would continue. And he did, shifting so their bodies were closer, his knee touching hers. He bent his posture to meet her eye level, propped his other leg up to rest his elbow on his knee, and his head on his elbow, staring out toward the dryer.

“Every year my father and I have a dinner for it,” Adrien began. Marinette followed his eyes to where their clothes were.

“We always go to some fancy restaurant his assistant reserved. We pick at our steaks, and he’ll have too much wine. We talk about nothing, and I feel too numb.” He laughed, but the sound was hollow. “He can’t even look me in the eye during those dinners—I look too much like her.”

Marinette reached out before she could stop herself. She could see the twitch in his arm, no doubt to reach toward his neck. She did it for him, her hand cool against his nape and softly running through the blonde hairs there.

“That sounds hard to go through,” she sympathized.

She watched his eyes squeeze shut for a few seconds, as though holding back tears. When he opened them again, they were distant.

“I told him I was sick,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I left my father on my mom’s anniversary because it was too painful for me, and I feel…” He rushed out a breath, like he had forgotten to exhale. “I feel so guilty,” he ended.

Marinette felt her face tighten at the suggestion.

“Hey,” she called to him. She could feel him coming back to Earth under her hand, his breathing returning to a steady rhythm, his back twitching under her touch as she rubbed slow circles.

“I just… I had a better time talking about her favorite book with you than I’ve had at any of our dinners.”

“That doesn’t make you a bad person. You need to heal in your own way, and he needs to heal in his,” she continued. He wasn’t looking at her; instead, he kept watching the dryer turning his clothes over and over.

“How can I be so angry at him all the time, but still feel sorry for him that I… I can barely breathe thinking about him all alone tonight?”

“You can feel both, but it would be worse if you had shown up tonight like you’ve done every year. You made the right choice.”

That seemed to ground him. She could feel him nod as he sat up a little. Her hand left his back, and she felt the phantom of his warmth still under her palm.

He nodded again. “I made the right choice,” he breathed out.

Marinette sent him her most encouraging smile, which made him smile a little small, but it helped his shoulders relax.

“From my experience as a night owl,” she started, “anything you think about your life past ten isn’t helpful to dwell on.” She nudged his foot with her own. “It’ll get better.”

It was the same simple phrase he had said to her, and she hoped he got a fraction of the comfort it had offered her own psyche. She felt his mood shift, a subtle embarrassment as he settled his thoughts, and she stretched to clear the tension. She lifted her gaze as they leaned away from each other slightly, giving him room to breathe and the mood to mellow.

She watched him glance toward the door. He checked the watch on his wrist. She watched him shake himself off, stretching. 

“We still have an hour before our clothes are done, right?”

Marinette hummed in agreement. She watched as Adrien stood up, shouldering his tote bag before turning back to her. He held out his hand, palm up, and looked down at her, his eyes shining.

“There’s a bar along the next street. Want to let the clothes wallow and have some fun?”

She looked at him, then at the door, then at his outstretched hand.

She took it gladly, shrugging on her own bag and tucking in her copy of Pride and Prejudice.

“First rounds on you.”

He smiled as he opened the door for her. “I need karmic payment, after all.”

The bar was louder than Marinette expected.

The door opened, and the noise spilled out immediately—music thudding from speakers probably too big for the room, the sharp crack of laughter from somewhere near the bar, the low overlapping hum of conversations stacked on top of one another. The place was packed with college students, bodies leaning into tables, coats draped over chairs, glasses crowding every available surface.

Warm air hit Marinette’s face after the cold street, carrying the smell of citrus peels, cheap beer, and something fried.

She hesitated just inside the doorway, glancing back at Adrien.

“You said a bar,” she said over the music. “This looks like an anthropology study.”

Adrien laughed quietly beside her, looking over the room with a quick assessing glance.

“Give me a second.”

He threaded them through the crowd easily, slipping between chairs and people like he’d done it a hundred times before. Once or twice someone bumped Marinette’s shoulder, and each time Adrien’s hand hovered briefly near the small of her back, guiding her past them before dropping away again.

They found a booth tucked along the far wall, half-hidden by a wooden pillar and slightly removed from the worst of the noise. The table was small and worn smooth from years of use, the edge carved with initials and shallow scratches.

“Perfect,” Marinette said, sliding in.

Adrien sat across from her for about two seconds before standing again.

“I’ll grab drinks. What do you like?”

“Anything easy.”

“Oh, you’re far from easy,” he quipped, a fox-smile appearing as she gawked at him.

“I got broken up with!”

“And poor Mr. Darcy was paying the price when I found you.”

“That’s hardly being difficult—you try—”

He was already stepping away from the booth.

“I’ll get you something sweet,” he said, still smiling.

“Adrien—”

He disappeared into the crowd before she could finish the argument.

Marinette leaned back against the booth with a quiet sigh, folding her arms on the table. From where she sat, she could see him clearly at the bar. He leaned forward onto his elbows while he spoke to the bartender, head tipped slightly to hear over the music. The light above the counter caught the edge of his hair, turning the blond strands almost honey-colored. Even from across the room, she could see the familiar pull of that dimple when he smiled.

It was annoyingly unfair. She was still watching when he glanced up, and their eyes met across the room. He looked different outside the laundromat, a little less tired. Marinette quickly looked down at the table like the carved initials had suddenly become fascinating.

When Adrien returned, he slid two glasses across the wood toward her.

“See?” he said. “Easy.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“You’re welcome.”

They lifted their drinks.

The first round slipped easily into conversation—not the morose topics they’d mulled over in the laundromat, but something looser, the kind of common ground every college student had: bad landlord stories, that one horrible night where you’re locked out of the dorm room, terrible professors, and the best lunch spots on campus.

He listened when she talked. Not politely, but with his whole body: leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table, chin tipped toward her like he didn’t want to miss anything.

By the time their glasses were empty, the room had grown warmer. The poor excuse of dinner had left them pink in the face after one round. The music felt louder, humming somewhere in her chest as her elbows leaned against the table.

Adrien reached for the empty glasses, and Marinette grabbed his wrist.

“It’s my round,” she argued, but he was already pulling away from her.

“And you paid for laundry.”

“You paid for our snacks.”

She tried to stand up, but he just laughed easily, pressing one of her shoulders lightly as he sat her back down. She watched him go again, chin propped on his palm this time. Halfway through ordering, he glanced back at the booth and caught her staring. She couldn’t bring herself to look away.

Adrien returned with two fresh drinks and slid into the booth again.

Marinette lifted her glass first this time.

“Wait.”

Adrien paused, halfway to his mouth.

“What?”

She held the glass toward him.

“We should toast your mom.”

The noise of the bar faded slightly around them. Adrien looked at her for a second, his expression softly surprised before he smiled warmly. He lifted his glass, and Marinette watched the glasses sweat as they clinked together.

“To Emilie,” Adrien said softly as their glasses touched.

Marinette repeated it softly.

They took a sip, Adrien resting his arms on the table as he talked.

“She was convinced one year she was going to make my Halloween costume,” he said. “She couldn’t even thread a sewing machine.”

Marinette blinked.

“What’d you go as?”

“A cat-burglar.”

“Punny, I like it.”

“She messed up the space between the ears and sewed them inside out,” he continued, already smiling at the memory. “She tried to sew me a black cat-suit.”

“What happened?”

“It was too big,” he said. “I tripped on my cat tail at the last house, and all my candy got covered in mud.”

She covered her mouth, already laughing.

“She was so proud of it, I just lied and said I lost my bag.”

“You’re so kind.”

“Not really. I told our chef to make me a cake as soon as I got home.”

Marinette laughed so hard she had to set her glass down.

“Your mom sounds amazing.”

“She was,” Adrien said simply.

The pressure in his shoulders had eased by the time he stood for the next round. When he came back this time, he didn’t sit right away. He lifted his glass.

“This one,” he said, “is for Luka.”

Marinette groaned immediately.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You’re terrible.”

Adrien sat down. She watched him bite his lip, as if mulling over something.

“Can you show me what the song sounded like?”

Marinette looked at him incredulously, trying to ignore the twitch at the corner of her mouth when he laughed at her expression.

She took a deep breath, making herself comfortable to slouch into the booth next to Adrien. She pulled off her hair tie, sweeping her hair over one eye to mock his aggressive side fringe before she looked at Adrien.

His mouth was parted, eyes shining with laughter as he huffed out what could only be something akin to being offended.

“That’s your type?”

She ignored him.

“Marinette…” she said gravely, making her voice so deep she sounded like Elvis. She tried to mime a guitar using one hand, the other still buried in her hair. “This next song… is about heartbreak.”

Adrien dramatically swept his hair down across one eye, copying her as he flattened it with one hand.

“Marinette,” he copied in a deep, theatrical voice.

She stared at him.

“Oh my god.”

“Your eyes shine like one thousand sad stars… being sad.”

“That is not what he sounded like!” But she burst into laughter anyway.

“It’s not you; it’s me,” Adrien finished solemnly.

They dissolved into laughter, shoulders shaking.

Adrien raised his glass again.

“To Luka.”

Marinette clinked it.

“To Luka,” she said weakly. “May he continue being someone else’s problem.”

The next drink came with a bet.

“Darts,” Adrien said.

Marinette leaned forward immediately, feeling the smirk tug at her lips.

“Stand in front of the board.”

Adrien recoiled.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“You already demonstrated projectile incompetence tonight.”

“That was chocolate!”

“I’m not risking it.”

They played anyway, fingers and heads clear from the target. Marinette missed the center by an impressive margin, while Adrien won all three rounds—Marinette still argued it was a narrow margin.

She accused him of calculating some physics concept, or that his darts were somehow better. He bought the drinks anyway.

By the time they slipped back into the booth, the bar had thinned out. Chairs were empty now. The music had dropped lower. At some point, their knees had ended up touching beneath the table. Neither of them bothered to move away.

The drinks had started to make her vision rosier, the kind of soft glow that illuminated Adrien. Whatever he was rambling about, she realized she’d stopped listening. It was the way his mouth moved when he talked, the faint crease near his eyes when he smiled, the way his hands moved as he explained anything, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“…and then the professor said gravity might just be extremely committed,” Adrien finished.

Marinette blinked.

“What?”

“You stopped listening.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

She took a sip of her drink to buy time.

“You’re very… symmetrical,” she said.

Adrien leaned back slightly.

“That’s the defense?”

“It’s a strong one.”

He shook his head, smiling.

They drifted into a ridiculous conversation. At some point, Adrien stretched his arm along the back of the booth behind her without seeming to think about it. At some point, Marinette stopped noticing.

Until, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the bartender was sweeping.

She glanced toward the windows. The sky outside had shifted from black to that lighter twilight that meant morning was creeping up.

“…Adrien.”

He followed her gaze. The bartender flipped on one of the lights and gave them a pointed look. Adrien checked his watch, frowning slightly as Marinette suddenly turned toward him, straightening her back and gasping.

“Our laundry.”

They looked at each other for a second before both starting to laugh.

Adrien slid out of the booth first, grabbing his jacket, then outstretching his hand.

“Come on.”

Marinette scrambled out after him, still laughing as they hurried into the cold early morning air.

“Those clothes are going to be freezing,” she said.

They walked briskly, Marinette barely registering the light swoop in her chest as Adrien laid his jacket over her shoulders. His hand was still on the small of her back, his face light. When they rounded the corner, Adrien pushed the laundromat door open ahead of her.

“Worth it,” he said.

He insisted on walking her back.

Marinette had protested once, more out of reflex than conviction, but Adrien had already slung his tote bag over his shoulder and pulled a sweater from the clean pile in his basket. It was a soft grey one, slightly oversized, and he tugged it over his head with the distracted ease of someone used to dressing half-asleep.

By the time she looked up again, he was already holding the laundromat door open for her. Neither of them mentioned the jacket. Marinette had slipped it on without thinking when they stepped outside. The night air suddenly felt sharper after the warmth of the machines. The sleeves were a little long, bunching at her wrists when she pushed her hands into the pockets. The inside lining still carried the clean scent of his detergent—something warm and crisp that reminded her faintly of bergamot—though it had picked up the citrusy tang of the bar along the way.

She kept it pulled close around her anyway.

The city had quieted in that strange hour before morning. Not quite night anymore, but not fully day either. The sky had softened from black to a washed-out indigo, a thin pale line spreading slowly along the horizon where dawn was beginning to push through. Streetlights still burned overhead, casting pools of gold across the pavement.

A few other students were drifting through the streets, the last stragglers from bars and clubs. Someone laughed too loudly down the block. A pair of girls stumbled past them arm in arm, heels dangling from their hands.

Adrien and Marinette walked slowly, neither seeming in a hurry to reach their destination. The pavement was damp beneath their shoes, carrying that faint mineral smell of cooling concrete after a long night. Their shoulders brushed once when they turned a corner, and neither of them moved away afterward.

Marinette hadn’t realized how tired she was until it hit her all at once, the kind of exhaustion that crept up quietly and then settled heavily behind her eyes. She rubbed one with the heel of her hand, stifling a small yawn.

Adrien glanced over.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” she murmured, her voice softer than intended. “Just… realising it’s morning.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh.

“Yeah.”

They walked another half-block in comfortable silence, her building coming into view sooner than she wanted it to. The lobby lights glowed faintly through the glass doors, the quiet familiarity of the entrance grounding her after the strange, wonderful blur of the night.

They stopped on the sidewalk, close enough that she could lean against him if she wanted to.

“Will you get home okay?” Marinette asked.

Adrien nodded.

“Just fine,” he said. “I’m not far.”

She nodded too, shifting her weight slightly as the cool morning air brushed the loose strands of hair at her neck. They lingered there.

Adrien looked tired now that she noticed it properly. His hair had fallen out of place sometime between the bar and the walk home, a few strands slipping across his forehead. His jeans were faintly wrinkled, creased from sitting for hours in the booth.

His fingers tapped absently against the seam along his thigh, the small restless movement of someone thinking through something they weren’t quite sure how to say.

“I was wondering…” he started.

Then stopped.

Marinette tilted her head slightly.

“Yes?”

Adrien rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers slipping briefly into the short curls at the nape like she’d seen him do earlier. Her breath caught just a little in her throat.

“How…” he began again, slower this time. “How soon is too soon to start dating after a breakup?”

The question landed somewhere between them.

Marinette blinked once in surprise. Then she folded her arms, shifting her weight onto one hip like she was preparing to deliver a very serious analysis.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “you’re a physicist.”

Adrien’s mouth twitched faintly.

“So let’s examine the variables in this equation.”

He nodded, playing along immediately.

“Alright.”

She began counting on her fingers.

“Variable one,” she said. “He broke up with me through song.”

Adrien winced.

“That’s still brutal.”

“Variable two,” Marinette continued, lifting another finger, “I happened to meet his complete antithesis in a laundromat.”

Adrien raised an eyebrow at that.

“And variable three,” she said, glancing up at him again, “that person completely turned my night around.”

She paused, then lowered her hand. The early morning light was stronger now, pale blue spreading across the street and catching softly in Adrien’s hair.

“So I’d say…” she murmured, pretending to consider it very carefully.

Her eyes met his.

“…Monday.”

Adrien stared at her for a beat, then a quiet laugh escaped him—warm and disbelieving all at once.

“Monday,” he repeated.

“Monday,” she confirmed.

They looked at each other. His sweater swallowed her hands, the sleeves bunched at her wrists, carrying the faint, familiar scent of him. The cold air had left a trace of color on her cheeks, still lingering in the dawn light.

Marinette felt the shift before he even moved, a subtle change in the air between them, something quiet and tentative, like a pulse settling. He stepped closer, just enough that the warmth radiating from him brushed against the cool morning air. Electricity hummed under her skin, sharp and thrilling, and she felt suddenly light, almost weightless.

“Marinette,” he said, his voice low, soft.

Her breath caught.

“Yeah?”

He hesitated just a heartbeat, and she saw the decision pass across his face—the softening of his gaze as he looked down at her, the careful weighing of the space between them. Then he leaned in.

The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, like he was giving her a chance to pull away. It was soft, warm, intimate. Marinette instinctively stepped forward, and something snapped in the tension, unspoken and electric.

His hand came up lightly, resting at her waist. Fingers warm, brushing against the soft fabric of the jacket, holding her steady. His lips pressed again, this time firmer, and the faint trace of the beer they’d shared mingled with the warmth of him.

Marinette hummed softly, tilting her head, her hands threading through the curls at the nape of his neck. She rose onto her tiptoes, and the scent of him—clean and warm—enveloped her. She felt it seep into her chest, and something soft rumbled from him into her bones. Her heart fluttered, a little wild, a little steady, heated like a sunrise.

When he pulled back, it was only just enough to let her see the shy, almost uncertain smile tug at the corner of his mouth. His hands lingered at her waist for a heartbeat longer before dropping to find hers, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles in a quiet, grounding gesture.

“…Monday, then,” he said.

Marinette nodded, still breathless, lips parted.

“Monday.”

He took a step back, letting go of her hands. The sudden absence made her palms feel cool, empty, and a little too aware of the warmth that had been there moments before.

“Get some sleep,” he added softly.

“You too.”

Adrien turned, walking slowly down the quiet sidewalk toward the pale morning light creeping over the buildings.

Marinette stood there for a moment longer outside her building. Still wrapped in his jacket. Still feeling the warmth of the kiss lingering faintly on her lips.

She didn’t stop smiling the entire way upstairs.