Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Wallet? Tickets? Keys?” Adrien asked, watching Nino pat himself down—coat pockets, jeans pockets, back pockets.

“Wallet,” Nino said, pulling it halfway out before tucking it back in. “Tickets.” He tapped the envelope sticking out of his inner pocket. “Keys—wait.”

Adrien arched a brow.

“Okay, yeah, I’ve got them,” Nino said quickly, jingling them for proof.

“Then you’re good to go,” Adrien said, locking his phone screen and zipping Nino’s duffel closed for good measure.

“You sure you’re going to be okay on your own?” Nino asked, not for the first time since announcing he was spending Christmas with his parents.

Adrien gave a faint snort. “No, I’ll die dramatically in your absence,” he said, straightening up to carry the bag to the door. “Yes, I’ll be fine—I have Plagg to keep me company.”

“Alright, but if you change your mind, you can still catch a train and join us. My mom would—”

“Nino,” Adrien interrupted, tone somewhere between fond and exasperated. “It’s fine. Really.” He shifted his weight, toe dragging against the polished floor. “I’m a grown man, you know. I can handle two weeks without a babysitter.”

“I know,” Nino said, softer now, hand on the doorknob. “Just—don’t hole up all Christmas, okay? Go out, do something. Call Luka, or Félix or—”

“I haven't talked to Félix in months. Besides, he's still good with our dad, so he'll probably be spending the holidays with him.” Adrien replied, wrinkling his nose.

Nino sighed—one of those deep, reluctant sighs that meant he was conceding the point. “Just saying, man.”

Adrien smiled faintly, adjusting the duffel by the door. “Go. You’ll miss your train if you keep worrying about me.”

Nino studied him for a moment, the way he always did when he thought Adrien was saying less than he meant. Adrien held his gaze, trying not to let the silence drag long enough for Nino to see too much—the echo of old Decembers in too-large rooms, the quiet that used to feel like punishment, the part of him still reaching for something warm and familiar that wasn’t there anymore.

“Okay,” Nino said finally, nodding. “But text me, yeah? Just so I know you’re alive.”

Adrien laughed quietly. “Yeah, yeah. Have a good trip, Nino.”

•••

Adrien had no trouble being alone. He remembered those first months after moving to Paris for modeling—a city alive and glittering, but one that had felt impossibly cold in his own apartment. His father had been devastated after Adrien's mother died, retreating into a reclusive haze, and Adrien and his twin brother, Felix, had borne the brunt of it. The man had pushed his dreams onto them, trying to live vicariously through their successes, leaving little room for genuine grief or individual choice. Adrien had felt suffocated, unable to mourn his mother properly, trapped beneath the burden of expectation, guilt, and quiet resentment. Moving to Paris had been the only way he could breathe, the only way he could pursue a dream that was truly his own: modeling.

Adrien’s first months in Paris were difficult. Modeling wasn’t as glamorous as it looked in magazines. He learned quickly what it meant to scrape by—paying the rent for a tiny apartment in a city where the bills never slept, hunting down gigs that often didn’t pay enough to cover the groceries he bought, navigating contracts and agents who seemed indifferent at best, exploitative at worst. The loneliness was a dull ache, a hollow reminder that he was on his own, untethered from anyone who truly cared about what he wanted or needed.

Then came Nino.

It had started simply: Adrien, struggling with directions to a casting studio, metro map folded and refolded, frustration creeping into his voice. Nino had appeared almost effortlessly, calm and confident, and had laughed at Adrien’s frantic fumbling. “You’re looking for number 7, right? Come on, I’ll show you.”

From that moment, the weight Adrien had carried began to lighten, if only slightly. Nino knew Paris—the metro lines, the studios, the chaos of auditions, the tricks to surviving the city without starving or sleeping on a bench. He offered advice with a quiet authority that Adrien hadn’t realized he needed. He shared his playlists, his meals, his humor, even an ear for Adrien’s worries about modeling, about his father, about living up to expectations that had never felt like his own.

Their first nights together in Nino’s apartment were a revelation. Lying on the floor, trading headphones and playlists, slurping noodles from mismatched bowls, Adrien had let himself talk about the pressure of modeling, the weight of family, the quiet grief that never seemed to leave him. Nino listened. Really listened. And when he spoke, it wasn’t judgment—it was practical advice, humor tucked in, an assurance that Adrien wasn’t completely alone in a city that could be ruthless.

Before long, the decision to move in together made perfect sense. The rent was astronomical for two apartments; together, it became a home. The apartment that once seemed like a trap became a space of warmth: music drifting from one room to another, laughter echoing in the kitchen, the quiet comfort of someone else’s presence in the evenings. Nino’s companionship didn’t erase the emptiness in his chest, but it made the city bearable, the loneliness manageable.

•••

A heaviness settled in Adrien's lungs as he thought of all that now. Watching Nino pack his bag for the holidays, helping carry it down the stairs, Adrien felt that familiar ache of solitude creeping back in. But he also remembered the months when he had been utterly alone, fumbling through modeling gigs, navigating Paris without a guide, barely scraping by. Nino had pulled him from that, not by fixing his life, but by sharing it, by being present, by reminding him that he didn’t have to endure the city alone.

He followed him, carrying the duffel all the way to the waiting taxi. The streetlights bled gold onto wet pavement, Paris humming quietly around them. When Nino waved from the cab window, Adrien lifted a hand in return and watched until the car disappeared around the corner.

The sound of the city folded back in. The night felt wide and a little too still, but Adrien told himself he was used to that by now. He’d been alone before. Back then, he’d filled the emptiness with work, with lights, with movement. It had been easier than stopping long enough to miss what he’d lost.

And yet, even as he turned back toward the apartment, the warmth of the space Nino had helped him build pressed against the edges of that emptiness, softening it. He looked up at the apartment windows, warm with the reflection of the city lights. “Happy holidays, man,” he murmured, voice barely audible under the passing hum of traffic. Then he turned back inside, hands deep in his pockets, the echo of the taxi’s departure still lingering in his chest.

“Okay… maybe I shouldn't have seen Nino off so eagerly,” Adrien was willing to admit a few days after Nino left.

He perched on the counter, Plagg draped lazily across his shoulders, the black cat purring against his neck as he absently thumbed the hem of his sweater. The glow from the Christmas tree he and Nino had decorated weeks ago together filled the corner of the apartment with warm, flickering light, casting shadows that danced along the walls. Outside, headlights slid along the wet streets, the faint hum of tires on asphalt mixing with the occasional honk from a distant car.

“Really? You think?” Luka’s voice came teasingly through the phone's speaker, but warm, like a hand on his shoulder. There was a pause, then a softer, concerned note. “I still don’t get why you didn’t go with Nino. You’d have had a good time, and I know for a fact his family would have loved having you.”

Adrien let out a soft sigh. Plagg, sensing the shift in mood, slipped down from his shoulders and padded toward the tree, batting curiously at a dangling ribbon. The soft tinkle of an ornament filled the pause before Adrien finally answered.

“I didn’t want to get in the way,” he said. “He’s going to his parents’ for the first time with Alya—meeting them, doing the whole family thing. Their first Christmas together. It’s… not really my place to tag along.” His fingers drummed against the counter, restless. “And he’s already done so much for me—helping me with the apartment, modeling stuff, just… everything. I can’t keep asking him for more.”

Luka’s voice softened, patient and steady. “Adrien… you’re not a burden. You’re his friend. You’re part of the life he’s built here, not some responsibility he’s stuck with.”

Adrien rubbed the bridge of his nose, the pressure of old memories hovering. “I know, logically. But… sometimes I feel like he’d be better off without me hanging around, especially for the holidays. It’s easier to let him go, let him enjoy time with Alya and his family, than to sit there worrying that I’m intruding, that I’m taking up space he doesn’t owe me.”

A lull settled over the apartment, broken only by the soft hum of the city and Plagg’s persistent pawing under the tree. Adrien’s eyes drifted toward the lights, the ornaments catching the glow like tiny reflections of the Paris streets outside.

“Maybe you’re overthinking it,” Luka said finally, a grin audible in his voice. “But I’ve got an idea. You, me, Nathaniel, maybe some of your work friends—we’re going barhopping tonight. Get out of that apartment, get some fresh air, drink something that isn’t eggnog. Don’t sit there staring at the tree feeling guilty for existing.”

Adrien’s lips curved into a faint, tentative smile. “Yeah… okay,” he said. “Alright. Let’s do it. Thanks, Luka.”

“Anytime, man,” Luka replied. “Now go put some pants on, and let’s make sure you don’t become a permanent fixture on your counter, talking to your cat.”

Plagg, taking this as a personal challenge, pounced on the same ribbon he’d been harassing, sending an ornament skittering across the floor. Adrien sighed, getting up only to bend down to scoop it up and place it carefully back on a lower branch. The cat glared at him, tail flicking in annoyance, and Adrien chuckled softly despite himself. The apartment felt a little warmer, the air lighter, the echo of Nino’s absence softened by Luka’s voice on the other end of the line.

Adrien glanced out the window at the city, lights reflecting in the wet pavement, and tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear to scratch Plagg behind the ears. “I guess I could use some fresh air tonight,” he said, voice low but more certain.

Outside, Paris hummed quietly, indifferent but alive, and Adrien finally allowed himself to feel it—not the hollowness of absence, but the subtle warmth of connection, even in Nino’s temporary absence.

Paris was wrapped in gold that night. Fairy lights hung like garlands across narrow streets, and café windows glowed against the cold. Adrien’s breath fogged in the air as he followed Luka and Nathaniel out of yet another bar, the warmth of laughter still clinging to his coat.

“Alright,” Nathaniel said, shaking his head with mock exasperation. “That’s three places in, what, an hour and a half? I’m starting to think you two are trying to kill me.”

“You said you wanted to celebrate before heading home,” Luka said, smiling into his scarf. His breath came out as a faint mist. “We’re just making sure you get your fill.”

Adrien laughed—a little too loud, a little too easy—as he clapped Nathaniel on the shoulder. “Oh, come on, you’ll live. You look too serious for someone about to spend Christmas with his family.”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. “And you look too happy for someone who’s about to spend it alone.”

“Low blow,” Adrien said, though he was still grinning. “But fair.”

Luka’s hand brushed his back briefly—steady, grounding. “We’ll make sure you’re not too alone before we go,” he said, and there was warmth in his tone that Adrien didn’t quite know what to do with.

They ducked into another bar—smaller this time, dim and amber-lit, the air rich with the smell of citrus and smoke. Some piano music was playing quietly over the speakers and the low murmur of conversation folded around them like a blanket. The bartender recognized Luka and gave a knowing nod.

“Three whiskeys?” Luka asked.

“Make it four,” said one of the girls from Adrien’s agency, Chloé, pulling up a stool beside them. “We’re celebrating. Adrien’s single-handedly keeping the Paris modeling scene from imploding.”

Adrien laughed, shaking his head. “That’s generous. I’m just keeping it from getting boring.”

Luka raised his glass in a mock toast. “To boredom, then,” he said, voice bright. “May it never catch up to us.”

They clinked glasses, and for a while the warmth of it—the company, the sound of their laughter echoing off old walls—was enough. Adrien’s cheeks flushed, his words loosening in rhythm with the amber burn of whiskey. He leaned into Luka’s shoulder when he laughed. He tugged on Nathaniel’s sleeve to finish a half-forgotten story. Everything was funny. Everyone was brilliant.

And then, as the night deepened, that weightless happiness began to tilt. The conversation drifted to plans—who was flying home, who was spending Christmas with parents, with partners, with friends. Adrien smiled and nodded through it all, even joked about how Plagg made excellent company and never complained about his cooking.

But somewhere in the middle of Luka talking about visiting his family by the coast, Adrien’s attention wandered. The bar blurred slightly at the edges—the lights, the clinking glasses, the reflections of strangers in the mirror behind the counter. His laughter faded, replaced by a dull throb of something quieter.

The others didn’t notice right away. Luka was telling a story about a disastrous concert in Berlin, and Adrien smiled where he was supposed to, but his gaze had gone glassy. He thought suddenly of Nino and Alya—of them sitting at some family table, her hand looped through Nino’s arm, his parents asking questions, laughing. He’d told Nino he was fine, that he didn’t want to intrude on a family holiday. But sitting there now, drink in hand, he couldn’t quite remember if that had been the truth.

“Hey,” Luka said quietly, nudging him. “You okay?”

Adrien blinked, startled back into the present. “Yeah,” he said, smiling too quickly. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” Nathaniel quipped.

Adrien laughed again—that automatic, too-bright sound—and stood, maybe a little too fast. “We should go,” he said. “Next stop?”

The group agreed easily, and soon they were back on the street, cold air cutting clean through the alcohol haze. Paris at midnight glittered like a promise—or maybe a memory. Adrien shoved his hands into his coat pockets, his head pleasantly light, his body buzzing.

By the time they stumbled into a souvenir shop a few blocks later, it felt like stepping into another world—warm and cramped and full of gleaming trinkets. One of the girls, Chloé again, darted toward a display of chocolates shaped like the Eiffel Tower.

“Five minutes,” she said, wagging a finger. “Then we’re calling it.”

Adrien nodded, half-listening, eyes roaming across the cluttered space. Snow globes, postcards, scarves. Everything smelled faintly of glitter and dust. Luka and Nathaniel were talking by the window, and the others were laughing over a display of magnets. Adrien drifted to a rack of postcards near the counter.

Most of them were kitschy—glossy towers and lovers’ silhouettes, champagne bottles, black cats curled on chairs next to café tables. He smiled faintly at that last one, thinking of Plagg sprawled across his shoulders that afternoon, purring like he owned the world.

Then his gaze caught on one card in particular: a quiet country house, half-buried in snow. The photo was tinted slightly blue, the light soft and wintry. It looked almost exactly like his childhood home.

His throat tightened. He picked it up, thumb brushing the glossy edge. It was probably nothing—a trick of memory, nostalgia stirred by alcohol—but something in his chest pulled.

“Hey,” Luka called, “you good?”

Adrien looked back at him and smiled crookedly. “Yeah. Just found something I didn’t know I was looking for.”

Luka raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. He turned back to Nathaniel, and Adrien, on impulse, brought the postcard to the counter.

“Just this,” he told the cashier, fumbling with his wallet.

She smiled politely and handed him a pen when he asked for one. Adrien leaned on the small counter by the window, the postcard flat before him. The words came before he could think to stop them:

I used to live in your house. I’m drunk in Paris and it’s the only address I know. Happy holidays.

He hesitated, then smirked faintly and signed, – Chat Noir. A little private joke. Plagg would approve.

He wandered over to the yellow La Poste box near the shop’s entrance, bought a stamp from the vending machine beside it, and squinted at the tiny rectangle like it was a puzzle. Peeling it off took longer than it should have, and sticking it straight was out of the question—it landed crooked, a small, stubborn rebellion of glue and paper. He chuckled under his breath and dropped the postcard into the slot.

When he stepped back into the night, the snow had started again—soft, glittering flakes catching in his hair. Luka grinned at him. “You look like you just mailed a love letter.”

Adrien laughed, brushing a hand through his hair. “Maybe I did.”

“Who’s the lucky one?”

He shrugged, the smile still on his lips but not quite reaching his eyes. “Someone who used to live in my head, I think.”

Luka gave him a searching look but said nothing. They started walking again, their breath white against the dark. Behind them, the little souvenir shop glowed faintly, and somewhere inside, a postcard began its slow, uncertain journey home.

Christmas Eve smelled like butter and cold air.

The patisserie near the corner was crowded with last-minute shoppers—people juggling boxes tied with red string, arguing cheerfully over which cake to bring to dinner. Adrien stood in line, hands in his pockets, letting the warmth and the smell of sugar thaw the ache behind his ribs.

When it was his turn, he pointed at a small box of macarons in the glass case. “Just one, please.”

The woman behind the counter smiled as she wrapped it, but her “Joyeux Noël” landed softly, almost pitying. He thanked her anyway, tucking the small white box under his arm like something fragile.

Outside, the city was quieter than usual, as if holding its breath before the holiday. Snow dusted the awnings, the Seine gleamed dull silver in the distance, and streetlights flickered to life one by one. Adrien took the long way home.

And maybe it was kind of depressing, coming home to an empty apartment filled with Christmas decorations. The faint pine scent from the artificial tree. The string lights Nino had hung before leaving, still blinking dutifully in the corner. Adrien set the macarons in the fridge—his only dessert, his only plan—and stood there for a moment with the door open, feeling the cold spill against his face.

Plagg meowed from the counter, tail twitching.

“I know,” Adrien murmured, closing the fridge. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s festive.”

He fed Plagg, changed into an old hoodie, and curled up on the couch. The TV glow washed the room in soft blue as he scrolled through his streaming queue before settling on a movie he could quote by heart—the kind that didn’t ask anything of him. He mouthed a few lines under his breath, not laughing so much as remembering what it felt like to.

Outside, a car passed, snow tires whispering on the street. The lights blinked against the windowpane, the macarons waited untouched in the fridge, and the apartment felt both full and empty—like a memory that hadn’t decided yet whether it was happy or not.

Adrien woke up to the sound of his phone ringing on Christmas morning. Blinking away the sleep that still blurred his vision, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand next to his bed and let out a groan when he saw Nino’s contact picture pop up.

He swiped to answer, voice rough. “You’re calling me before noon. On a holiday. You good?”

“Good? I’m great,” Nino said, voice already too chipper for the hour. Behind him came the muffled sound of laughter, a TV somewhere, the distant clatter of dishes—the kind of chaos that came with family. “Merry Christmas, dude! Please tell me you’re not hungover.”

Adrien squinted toward the window. The curtains glowed with weak winter light, snow turning everything outside dull white. “…No.” But it came out more like a question.

“That means yes,” Nino said, laughing. “Anyway, just wanted to check in before we start opening presents. Oh—and I left yours in the mailbox before I left. Figured it was the one place you’d never think to look.”

Adrien rubbed his temple. “Wait, we still have a mailbox?”

“Exactly! Perfect hiding spot. You’ll thank me later. Merry Christmas, man—and eat some real food, okay? Don't just eat macarons and be sad.”

Adrien smiled faintly despite himself. “You too. Tell Alya I said hi.”

“Will do. Try not to mope too much without me.”

“Never,” Adrien lied, and hung up.

The apartment fell quiet again, save for the hum of the radiator and the faint creak of pipes. Plagg leapt up onto the bed, settling against Adrien’s shoulder with a soft rumble.

Adrien reached up to scratch his head. “He hid it in the mailbox,” he muttered. “Of course he did.”

He didn’t move for a while. The thought of trudging downstairs into the cold didn’t hold much appeal—not yet. Instead, he shuffled into the kitchen, still in the same hoodie and sweatpants, and started the coffee maker. The smell of coffee beans filled the air, warm and grounding.

He pulled open the fridge and stared at the box of macarons he’d bought yesterday, debating whether it qualified as breakfast. Plagg jumped onto the counter, sniffing.

“Don’t even think about it,” Adrien said, grabbing it first.

He ate standing at the counter, the apartment dim except for the string lights looping the small tree in the corner. The quiet felt thicker today. He sipped his coffee slowly, drawing out each step of the morning ritual.

The gift could wait. He wasn’t going to let impatience ruin the one thing he had to look forward to today.

By late afternoon, the coffee pot sat empty, the macarons gone, and the quiet had settled so deep it felt like another presence in the room. Adrien eventually gave in to inertia, queuing up a comfort movie—another old and overly sentimental movie that he knew line for line. He half-watched it, half-dozed through the familiar dialogue, one arm slung over Plagg, who had claimed his stomach as a personal throne.

When the credits rolled, the apartment was dim again, gold light from the tree reflecting faintly off the window glass. The only thing he hadn’t done yet—the only “event” left in the day—was waiting downstairs in a metal box.

Adrien sighed, dragging himself upright. “Alright, let’s see what the genius hid this time.”

He put on a coat to cover up his rumpled hoodie, slipped on shoes, and took the elevator down to the lobby. The building was quiet, the kind of hush that comes when everyone else has somewhere better to be. The smell of cold air and concrete hit him as the doors slid open.

The row of mailboxes gleamed dully under the fluorescent light. He crouched in front of his, fiddling with the tiny key that stuck like always, and finally yanked the door open.

A small avalanche of envelopes and flyers spilled out onto the floor.

“Right,” he muttered, crouching to scoop them up. “Guess he wasn’t wrong about me forgetting this thing exists.”

There were bills, catalogues, something from the agency—and, buried in the mess, a small package wrapped in brown paper and tape with Nino’s handwriting scrawled across the top. Adrien smiled despite himself, pulling it out. “Found you.”

But when he reached deeper into the box, something else caught his eye—a red envelope, neat, clean, completely unlike the rest. His name wasn’t on it.

Instead, in looping handwriting, it said simply: Chat Noir.

Adrien froze. For a second, he just stared at it, the words not quite registering. Then, pulse ticking faster, he turned it over. No return address, just a Paris postmark.

The air in the lobby felt colder somehow, sharper.

He slipped both the package and the envelope under his arm, locked the mailbox, and took the elevator back up, his mind still half stuck on the name.

Chat Noir.

He’d written that postcard as a joke. A drunk, half-sad, late-night joke to the house he had grown up in.

And yet—

He turned the envelope over in his hands once more, thumb brushing the edge. Whoever had written back had taken it seriously.

Back upstairs, the apartment felt too warm after the sharp chill of the lobby. Adrien peeled off his coat, set the bundle of mail on the counter, and eyed the small, rectangular package Nino had left.

It wasn’t wrapped—not really—just covered in brown paper and sealed with tape that looked like it had been salvaged from a packing box. Typical Nino.

When he tore it open, he found a sleek pair of wireless earbuds nestled inside. A note fluttered to the floor:

So you can stop stealing mine, dude. Also, because I know you forget how to chill without music.

Adrien smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through him despite the quiet apartment around him. He set the earbuds aside, already imagining drifting through the day with music tucked into his ears. Quickly, he texted Nino.

Adrien:
Thanks for the headphones, man. You know me too well.
If you haven't noticed already, I snuck your gift into your duffle bag while you were packing.
Merry Christmas :)

Adrien smiled faintly, locking his phone and setting it aside. The headphones stayed on the counter, the handwritten note fluttering a little in the draft from the window.

That’s when his gaze fell back to the red envelope.

It sat apart from the rest of the mail—bright against the neutral tones of the countertop, impossibly out of place in its cheerfulness.

He reached for it almost reluctantly, running his thumb along the sealed flap.

Chat Noir.

The words looked almost whimsical now, written in looping ink that was firm but elegant, like someone who took care with their penmanship. He turned it over once more, half-expecting some mark, a clue, a return address. Nothing. Just that neat red paper.

Plagg jumped up onto the counter, tail flicking.

“Yeah,” Adrien murmured. “I know. I should probably open it.”

The cat blinked, unimpressed.

Adrien hesitated one second longer, then slid a finger under the flap and carefully tore it open.

Inside was a folded card—also a cheery red, but covered in black polka dots.

He unfolded it.

Chat Noir,

I wasn’t expecting to get a postcard from a stranger, and I have to admit it was a little surprising—but also really sweet. It made me smile.

It’s a little sad too, knowing the only address you had to send it to was your old home.

I don't know exactly what to wish for you, but I hope that you made it home from the streets of Paris safely since that night, and that wherever you are now, you’re not as lonely as you sound.

Merry Christmas.

—Ladybug

Adrien read the letter once. Then again. And again. The careful loops of her—because the polka dots and the handwriting definitely indicated a feminine origin—handwriting, the small spaces between each word, the soft, understated kindness. It felt impossibly strange, yet grounding, like someone had quietly reached through the paper to tell him he wasn't as alone as he feared.

He sank into the chair, the letter resting in his lap. Plagg sat, batting at the red envelope as if testing it for danger, and Adrien barely noticed.

And yet, as he reread the words, a flicker of self-consciousness crept in. He hadn’t expected any response at all—certainly not one so considerate, so warm. The postcard he’d sent had been… pathetic. Drunken, impulsive, and infused with loneliness that he didn’t even want to admit to himself. And here was this stranger—this Ladybug—writing back, apparently moved enough to reach out.

Adrien’s stomach twisted slightly at the thought. Was he grateful? Absolutely. But was he also embarrassed? Definitely. He felt caught between two impulses: the instinct to curl inward and hide the memory of his pitiful postcard, and the surprising lift of spirits her kindness gave him. He ran a hand through his hair, muttering softly, “Great, Adrien… you’re a mess, and now someone actually knows it.”

He glanced down at the letter again. Each word seemed deliberate, each sentence measured to comfort rather than judge. It made him uncomfortable in the most pleasant way. Part of him wanted to shove it aside and pretend he didn’t need it. Another part wanted to read it over and over until the quiet ache inside him softened.

Finally, he leaned back in the chair, Plagg curling up in his lap, and let himself linger in the tension between embarrassment and gratitude. He didn’t know if he would ever understand why a stranger would care about his fleeting loneliness—but for the moment, it was enough just to know someone did.

Adrien folded the letter carefully, letting it rest against his chest for a moment as he thought. Should he write back? He chewed the inside of his cheek, turning the question over like a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

It would be… embarrassing. Terribly embarrassing. To continue a conversation with someone who now knew, in no uncertain terms, exactly how pitiful and lonely he could get. Wouldn’t it be more dignified to just let the kindness exist, unanswered? But then—wouldn’t ignoring it be rude? Ungrateful, even?

He sighed, glancing at the letter again. The handwriting was careful, warm, and unassuming. There was no demand for a reply, no subtle expectation that he reach out. But, if they hadn’t wanted him to respond, they wouldn’t have written at all.

Adrien let a small smile tug at his lips. “Fine,” he murmured. “I won’t look more pathetic than I already have.”

The next problem was practical. Stationery. He didn’t exactly keep a supply of proper writing materials on hand. He could, of course, tear a page from one of his notebooks and dig through the junk drawer for a mismatched envelope—but somehow that felt wrong. The red envelope, and the matching red card with black polka dots, had been given so thoughtfully. They deserved better than a hastily ripped sheet of paper.

He traced the edge of the card with a finger. Maybe… maybe he’d wait until he could write properly. Until he had something that felt worthy of sending back. Something that could, in its own quiet way, convey his gratitude without undermining the careful kindness the letter had carried.

Plagg let out a small chirp, rubbing his chin along the edge of the card as if agreeing. Adrien laughed softly, the sound low and private, and tucked the letter onto the counter for the moment.

Yes. He would write back. Just not yet.

Chapter Text

Late the next morning, Adrien finally dragged himself out into the crisp Parisian air. The city had settled into a calm lull after the holiday rush: shutters closed on quiet streets, a few stray snowflakes lingering in the corners of rooftops, the hum of distant traffic softened by the season’s chill. He had made himself a small breakfast, lingered over coffee, and then convinced himself it was time. Time to get stationery.

The shop was a tiny, tucked-away boutique, the kind Adrien rarely noticed on his usual walks. Its window was filled with neatly stacked cards, envelopes, and notebooks in every shade and pattern imaginable. Bells jingled softly as he stepped inside, and the warm, paper-scented air wrapped around him like a blanket.

He wandered the aisles slowly, fingers brushing over stacks of folded cards. Red and gold, blue and silver, minimalist white with elegant script—all fine, but none felt right.

“Bonjour! Can I help you find something today?” A cheerful voice called from behind the counter.

Adrien looked up, startled, and found a young woman arranging a display of stickers. He hesitated. “Uh… maybe? I’m not really sure what I’m looking for. I guess… cards. Envelopes. Something… that feels right, I think.”

The woman smiled gently. “Ah, hunting for the perfect one, not just any. Any hints? Colors? Themes?”

He shrugged, feeling a little self-conscious. “Um, the letter I received was ladybug themed. So maybe something like that?"

She hummed, her eyes scanning the shelves. “I think I have something that might fit.” She led him past rows of bright, ornate cards and elegant minimalist ones to a lower shelf near the back. It was full of animal themed stationary. Most seemed to childish and garish—black and white zebra stripes, and dog-shaped cards with a face and everything. Until, tucked on the bottom shelf, he spotted it: a set of green and black cards with matching green envelopes, each adorned with a tiny, stylized black cat in mid-leap, tail curling in a swirl around the corner.

His chest gave a little lift. Plagg. The pattern made him smile, a quiet, private laugh. The color combination worked perfectly with the pen name he’d jokingly scrawled at the bottom of his drunken postcard. It felt… right. Playful, but not childish. Personal, but subtle. Worthy of a reply.

Adrien picked up the set, tilting the cards against the light to inspect them. The texture was nice, thick without being stiff, the kind of card that made the act of writing feel deliberate, like an intention in itself. He imagined placing the carefully folded letter inside the envelope, sealing it, and sliding it into a mailbox, his thoughts traveling across the city to Ladybug.

“They’re perfect,” he said softly, holding them carefully. “This is exactly what I was… hoping to find, I guess. Thanks.”

The woman’s eyes twinkled. “Of course. I'll be at the counter if you need anything else."

He lingered a moment longer, choosing a pen from a small display, one with smooth, black ink that would write cleanly, clearly. Satisfied, he carried his finds to the register, tucking the envelope set and pen under his arm like a secret treasure.

The lady smiled knowingly and rang up his purchase. “Good luck with your letter. Whoever receives it will be lucky.”

Adrien left the shop, tucking the set and pen under his arm. Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky. He took a deep breath, the crisp air filling his lungs, and thought of the red envelope from yesterday’s letter. The right stationery, a proper ritual of his own making, made the act of replying feel deliberate, meaningful. Plagg’s little approving meow echoed in his mind as he started walking home, careful not to slip on the icy patches sparkling under the winter sun.

Adrien set the green-and-black cards on the small wooden table by the window. Snow drifted lazily past, coating the city in soft white, and Plagg twined around his ankles, purring loudly as if approving every careful motion. Adrien took a deep breath and unwrapped the pen, feeling its familiar weight in his hand.

He held the card in front of him, staring at the little leaping black cat. “Alright, Chat Noir,” he murmured to himself, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “let’s not embarrass ourselves this time.”

The first words came slowly, deliberate. He thought about the red envelope in the mailbox, the careful, warm writing of Ladybug, and the unexpected tenderness of her letter. He wanted to acknowledge it properly, to match the kindness without spilling too much of his own awkwardness all over the page.

Ladybug,

Thank you. For the letter, for your kindness, and for making me feel… a little less alone. I wasn’t expecting any response at all, so finding yours in the mailbox was a surprise. A good surprise.

He paused, tapping the pen lightly against the edge of the table. What could he say next? He didn’t want to sound pathetic, didn’t want to beg for attention or explain his loneliness again. But he did want her to know that her words mattered.

I’m not sure I deserve the encouragement you gave me, but I’ll take it. Your words made a gray Paris morning feel warmer. I hope your Christmas was happy. When I was little, there weren't many decorations in town, but the people made up for it.

Adrien chuckled softly to himself. The black cat on the card seemed to grin at him. He could almost hear Plagg’s voice in his head: “Nice touch, humanoid. Keep it cool.”

I didn't have fancy stationary, or any idea how correspondence works beyond sending postcards and letters that feel too small for what I want to say. But I wanted to reply, properly, this time. So here it is—a proper letter, at least in effort.

I hope this finds you well, and that you have a happy New Year as well.

– Chat Noir

Adrien set the pen down and read the letter over once, then again. It was concise, careful, and certainly less pathetic-sounding than the postcard. Satisfied, he folded the card into the green envelope, sealed it, and began filling out Ladybug's address. Plagg meowed loudly from his feet as if offering approval.

Adrien had been on the couch for hours—long enough that the cushions had molded to him, long enough that the half-drunk mug of coffee on the table had gone cold. The blinds were half-drawn, slicing pale winter light across the apartment in uneven bars. The TV murmured softly with some show he wasn’t really watching, just enough noise to keep the silence from pressing in.

Plagg was a black lump at the far end of the couch, tail flicking every so often in his sleep.

Adrien’s phone buzzed for what felt like the tenth time that afternoon. He didn’t bother to move until the buzzing stopped—and then started again. With a sigh, he fished it from the cushions, squinted at the screen, and hit speaker.

“Tell me you’re alive,” Luka’s voice came through, easy and teasing.

“Barely,” Adrien muttered, staring at the ceiling. “You’ve caught me in the middle of my very important daily schedule.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s on the agenda?”

“Rotting.”

“Productive as ever,” Luka said, laughter laced under the words. “Anyway, I was calling about Vincent’s New Year's party. You’re coming, right?”

Adrien let out a small, noncommittal sound—somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “I don’t know. Crowds. Noise. Champagne showers. It’s all kind of lost its magic, you know?”

“You used to live for that scene, grandpa” Luka said, and there was fond disbelief in his voice.

“I used to be twenty-one and thought free drinks equaled happiness.” Adrien sighed. “Now it mostly feels loud and… exhausting.”

“Come on, man,” Luka said. “When was the last time you left the house? The night we went barhopping? Trust me, you’ll regret it more if you stay home staring at your Christmas tree and Plagg all day.”

He didn't correct him at first. Adrien rolled onto his side, half-heartedly scrolling through social media. Smiling faces. Holiday dinners. Everyone seemed to be somewhere, doing something. He wasn’t jealous exactly—just aware of his own stillness. “I don’t know… I kind of like staring at Plagg.”

“You mean you like staring at him judging you for being a sad little model in your apartment?” Luka said, voice teasing but warm.

Adrien’s thumb stilled on a photo of Nino and Alya grinning in front of a Christmas tree. He let out a quiet breath and scrolled past it. “I did go out the day after Christmas.”

“Really?” Luka sounded surprised. “Where?”

“The stationery shop.”

“For writing mysterious love letters?” Luka teased. “Who even buys stationery anymore?”

“It’s not—” Adrien started, then sighed, letting it go. “Never mind. It was just something I wanted to do.”

“Alright, fine,” Luka said, grin audible in his voice. “But I’m serious, dude. You should come. You’ve been cooped up for days, and every time Nino leaves town, you go full hermit mode. You need people around. One night out won’t kill you.”

“Vincent’s parties might,” Adrien said. “You remember his last one? Someone brought an actual swan.”

“I remember,” Luka said with a grin audible in his voice. “And I also remember you left early to ‘walk off a headache’ and ended up feeding stray cats by the Seine.”

Adrien hummed. “They were good company.”

“Then maybe you’ll find more good company this time,” Luka said lightly. “Besides, I’ll be there. Moral support, designated driver, social buffer. You name it.”

Adrien let the silence stretch for a moment, staring at the muted TV glow. The thought of a crowded penthouse filled with laughter and small talk didn’t sound appealing—but the idea of staying here, surrounded by stale air and silence, sounded worse.

Adrien swiped aimlessly past more photos—friends clinking glasses, families around dinner tables, a thousand reminders of connection.

“Fine,” he said finally, pushing the phone aside and rubbing a hand over his face. "But if it turns into another one of Vincent’s all-night ragers, I’m leaving right after the ball drops.”

“Alright,” Luka conceded. “You know if you don't show up, I’ll come and drag you out of your apartment kicking and screaming.”

“Promises, promises.”

They both laughed quietly. It was easy again, the way it always was with Luka—simple and unforced. When the call ended, the apartment seemed to exhale, the hush settling back in.

Plagg lifted his head, blinking at him.

Adrien stretched a hand out and scratched behind the cat’s ear. “Guess we’re going out, buddy.”

Plagg blinked, unimpressed, and went back to sleep.

Adrien huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah, me neither.”

By the time New Year’s Eve rolled around, Adrien had talked himself out of going to the party at least six times.

He stood in front of his open closet, arms crossed, scanning the same handful of clothes he’d already dismissed. “Okay,” he muttered under his breath. “What says I’m fun and approachable and not secretly wishing I was at home in my bed?”

Plagg lifted his head from the bed, blinked once, and yawned.

Adrien sighed. “Yeah. Nothing. That’s what I thought.”

He picked up a gray sweater, tugged it halfway on, then immediately pulled it off again. Too casual. The black turtleneck made him look like he was brooding over a poetry collection. The crisp white shirt was trying too hard.

He dropped them all onto the bed in defeat and turned away, running a hand through his hair. The apartment was dim and still. Winter light leaked through the blinds in uneven stripes, falling over the table where his stationery and the pen he’d used to write back to Ladybug still sat.

He slowed as he passed it. The sight gave him a quiet, almost physical pang—like hearing a song he hadn’t realized he missed. He hadn’t checked the mailbox since that morning, when he’d mailed his reply. The thought flickered and tried to slip away, but it lingered stubbornly.

He grabbed his keys and pulled on a coat and he had to hold himself back from rushing out the door and into the elevator.

The hallway was cool, faintly echoing with the sound of someone’s TV two floors down. When he reached the lobby, the smell of cleaning supplies and old mail hit him in that oddly nostalgic way apartments sometimes had. He opened his box, curiosity bubbling in his chest.

There it was.

A red envelope, resting among the dull stack of white and beige. Plain, but striking.

Adrien froze. His chest tightened before his brain even caught up. He brushed his thumb over the smooth paper, heart doing a small, traitorous kick.

Don’t make a big deal out of this, he told himself. It’s just a letter. A piece of paper. Not the most interesting thing in your life. It’d be pathetic if it was.

Still—he smiled. Couldn’t help it.

He tucked the envelope into his coat pocket and headed back upstairs, ignoring the faint flutter in his stomach.

The apartment felt different when he came back in, the stillness less oppressive somehow. He sank onto the couch and turned the envelope over in his hands, thumb tracing the faint crease along one edge before he opened it. Her handwriting tilted across the page—clean, warm, confident.

Chat Noir,

My Christmas was happy, thank you. My family came to visit from Paris, and for a couple of days the house was full of noise and half-wrapped gifts and people who never remember where the mugs go. It felt like old times. They left yesterday morning, though, and now it’s just me and my cat again. She’s spotted, spoiled, and currently asleep in front of the heater. I think she’s already claimed all the best parts of winter.

You said you didn’t have any stationery, but I have to disagree. The letter I received was very cute and very proper. So either you were being modest, or you went out to buy some just for this—which is even sweeter.

How was your Christmas?

Happy New Year to you, too, Chat Noir.

—Ladybug

Adrien read the letter twice. The second time slower, tracing each curve of her handwriting like it might tell him something new. He could almost picture her—somewhere quiet, heater humming, that spotted cat curled up nearby.

“Sweet,” he muttered under his breath, lips quirking despite himself. “She thinks I’m sweet.”

Plagg flicked his tail, unconcerned.

Adrien set the letter down carefully, as if it might bruise, and glanced at the stack of stationery again. His fingers hesitated before picking up the pen. He hadn’t meant to write back right away—he had a party to get ready for, people to see, proof that his life didn’t revolve around an anonymous exchange of letters.

But the room was still, and the thought of leaving her words unanswered felt wrong.

He drew a slow breath, tugged an open card closer, and started to write.

Ladybug,

It sounds like your Christmas was warm and loud in all the best ways. I’m glad. Mine was quieter. I stayed in, treated myself to macarons while watching old movies. Not exactly exciting, but peaceful enough. I’ve had better Christmases, but I’ve had worse too, so I’ll call that a win.

My cat was very supportive of the plan. He spent most of the day sleeping and occasionally judging my movie choices. He continues to judge me, even now, for my fashion choices as I'm preparing to leave for a New Years party (which is ironic, considering my profession). He’s not spotted like yours, but he has the same talent for taking over every warm surface in the apartment.

You caught me—yes, I did go out and buy stationery. The clerk there was very helpful considering I had no idea what I was looking for. Admittedly, you would be my first snail mail correspondent.

I hope you and your spotted cat are staying warm. Tell her she has good instincts about heaters.

—Chat Noir

Adrien leaned back, pen still in hand. It wasn’t a perfect letter—too earnest in places, too careful in others—but it was real. That counted for something.

He folded it neatly, slipped it into an envelope, and wrote her name in small, careful letters across the front. His handwriting looked steadier than he felt.

Plagg blinked at him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Adrien murmured, standing to grab his coat. “I’m still going to the party.”

He tucked the letter into his inner pocket, checking his reflection in the mirror—an unbuttoned white shirt with a black striped shirt underneath. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t scream I wish I were home in bed, either. Maybe that was enough.

On his way out, he paused at the door, fingers brushing the edge of the envelope. “Mail, then party,” he said, as if saying it aloud might make the second part easier.

The elevator hummed softly on its way down, the city lights catching in the glass. For once, he didn’t mind the wait.

Vincent’s penthouse glittered like a champagne commercial—too bright, too loud, too intentional. Music thudded through the floor, lights strobed across glass and marble, and laughter rolled in overlapping waves that didn’t seem to stop for breath. Someone had hung a massive “2026” balloon arch over the bar, already half-deflated from the heat.

Adrien lingered near the edge of the room, drink in hand, posture polite but noncommittal.

Luka appeared through the crowd, two champagne flutes balanced in one hand. His blue hair caught the lights in streaks of silver and violet. “There you are,” he said, grinning. “I was starting to think you Houdini’d out a window.”

Adrien raised his glass. “Tempting.”

“C’mon, it’s not that bad.” Luka passed him the extra drink. “Vincent does this every year. Half the city shows up, the other half pretends they’re too cool for it.”

“I might be in that second half.”

Luka laughed, unoffended. “Yeah, but if you stayed home again, I’d have to start sending you wellness checks.”

Adrien smirked faintly. “You make it sound like I’m falling apart.”

“I make it sound like I know you.” Luka clinked his glass against Adrien’s. “Try to have a little fun before the fireworks start.”

Adrien nodded, though his eyes drifted past Luka toward the wide balcony doors. The city glittered beyond the glass—hundreds of lights winking in the winter haze. He wasn’t ungrateful Luka had dragged him out. He just… couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d left something more meaningful waiting for him at home.

A song he didn’t recognize shifted into another. People shouted over it, pressed close in laughing clusters. Someone brushed past him smelling like citrus and smoke.

Luka leaned closer to be heard. "You seem awfully distracted. And not in your usual way. It got anything to do with that stationary shop you visited the other day?"

Adrien hesitated, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Something like that.”

“Oh?” Luka’s tone was casual, but the grin lurking behind it wasn’t. “Another postcard?”

Adrien felt the faintest heat creep into his neck. “No. It’s—nothing serious.”

“Uh-huh.” Luka raised an eyebrow.

He tried for a light tone. “I didn’t realize my shopping habits were under surveillance.”

“Just saying.” Luka’s grin softened into something more genuine. “If it makes you smile like that, whatever it is—keep doing it.”

Adrien looked away, pretending to study the skyline. He didn't know what to say to that.

The countdown began before he realized how much time had passed. Vincent was shouting over the crowd, bottle in one hand, someone’s sunglasses in the other. The room pulsed with energy—the kind that didn’t quite reach Adrien but brushed close enough to make him feel it.

“Ten!”

Adrien found himself smiling despite everything. Luka elbowed him, mouthing finally.

“Nine!”

Confetti cannons poised near the stage.

“Eight!”

The room pulsed with color and sound. A girl brushed past with a sparkler, nearly singeing someone’s jacket.

“Seven!”

Adrien’s thoughts drifted—to the red envelope sitting on his table, to the way her handwriting had curved at the edges like a secret smile.

“Six!”

He wondered if she was watching fireworks right now. If she’d made a resolution.

“Five!”

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed feeling curious about someone.

“Four!”

He wasn’t lonely, not exactly. Just… aware of the quiet waiting for him when he went home.

“Three!”

He could fix that, maybe. Try.

“Two!”

Luka threw an arm around his shoulders, laughing. Adrien laughed back, startled but genuine.

“One!”

The room erupted—champagne spraying, people shouting, lights flashing gold and white. Luka whooped beside him, clinking their glasses together. Adrien smiled,  the warmth of it settling somewhere between his ribs.

For a moment he let himself feel hopeful. Not about the party, or the year ahead exactly, but about something smaller, quieter. The kind of hope that fits in an envelope.

Outside, fireworks spilled across the sky, bursting into red and gold.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The courtyard of the palazzo had been glassed in for the season, turning the usual open-air space into a warm, echoing atrium full of chatter and the low clink of glasses. It wasn’t an event meant for the public—just designers, brand reps, models, stylists, and the occasional journalist drifting through with a press badge. Milan did this every year: a handful of “soft openers” to prime everyone for Men’s Fashion Week. Quiet, strategic mingling disguised as a cocktail hour.

Adrien had been to enough of these that they blurred together. Tonight felt no different on the surface—dim amber lights, clusters of people in conversation, someone greeting him with a kiss on each cheek before he’d even made it fully through the entrance. A tray of sparkling water passed by. He took one out of habit.

He wasn’t bored, exactly. Just hovering, the way he always did at these things. Letting himself be introduced, smiling, nodding, answering questions about the Prada campaign. The motions came easily, almost too easily, and they left him with that familiar weight in his chest: the sense that everyone else seemed genuinely excited to be here, while he was… present.

But every so often, without meaning to, he felt a flicker of something lighter. A little lift at the edges of his thoughts. The kind of shift you don’t register until it’s already passed. Maybe it was just the atmosphere—Milan in January always carried a hum under its skin, like the city knew it was about to become a stage again.

He drifted toward a quieter edge of the room, near a display of fabric panels from various mid-tier and emerging labels. The air smelled faintly of wool, citrus perfume, and freshly printed lookbooks.

Someone passed briskly behind him—a girl with dark hair pinned loosely, a portfolio tucked under one arm. She moved with intent, scanning the room, and in her haste a pen slipped from between her fingers. It rolled, bounced once, and shot straight toward him.

Adrien caught it before it could disappear under a nearby display table. “Excuse me,” he said in English, stepping toward her and holding it out. “I think you dropped this.”

She turned, surprised, a quick breath escaping her. “Oh—thank you,” she replied, her voice soft but steady, her accent hard to place in the briefness of the moment.

Up close, her round face was warm, focused, almost luminous with concentration. There was something about the way she held the portfolio—like it was a shield and a lifeline in equal measure.

Before either of them could say anything more, a hand landed lightly but insistently on Adrien’s shoulder.

“Adrien, finally—come meet the new casting director,” said a PR rep he vaguely recognized. “She’s been asking for you.”

He offered an apologetic half-smile to the girl. “Sorry—I have to—”

“It’s alright,” she said quickly, tucking the pen into her pocket as if safeguarding it. She gave him a grateful nod. “Really. Thanks.”

Then she slipped away into the crowd, weaving herself toward the display of textiles with the quiet confidence of someone who belonged here—yet avoided attention by instinct.

Adrien let himself be steered into another conversation, shaking another hand, answering another question. The brief exchange with the girl vanished into the flow of the event almost instantly—just one of dozens of polite interactions he’d had that night.

The atrium buzzed steadily around him, a low tide of networking chatter. Someone asked him about a recent editorial shoot; someone else wanted to know which shows he was walking. A photographer tugged him into a quick group picture. A stylist asked about his availability for a fitting on Thursday. It all folded into the familiar blur that made these evenings both predictable and exhausting.

He slipped into autopilot: nod, smile, laugh lightly at the right moments. Compliment someone’s jacket. Ask about travel schedules. Pretend the room wasn’t steadily heating under the press of bodies and overheated light fixtures.

By the time the event wound down, he could barely remember the faces he’d spoken to. His mind had already migrated to tomorrow’s early call times, the fittings, the rehearsals, the run-through for the Prada show. The steady grind of obligation.

When he stepped out into the street, the winter air hit him like a clean blade, sharp and refreshing. Milan’s skyline stretched above him—dark rooftops, scattered lights, a pale wash of moon pinned above the domes and arches.

He exhaled into the cold, watched the breath dissipate, and headed toward the waiting car. Another day done. Another show to prepare for.

The lights backstage hummed with their usual quiet intensity, casting everything in the same pale, unforgiving glow. Adrien sat in the chair as a stylist worked on his collar, another smoothing the crease of his sleeve. The air was dense with the scent of starch, fabric, and perfume—an industrial symphony he’d grown used to.

There was a comfort in the routine: stand still, turn slightly, nod when someone said “perfect.” He’d done it so often that his body obeyed without thought. Years ago, he’d thrived on this—the hum of attention, the artifice of it all. But somewhere along the line it had started to hollow out. The work still mattered, but the spark had dimmed.

Tonight, though, that spark flickered again, faint but unmistakable.

Maybe it was because of Ladybug. He couldn’t shake the thought of her letter—the way she’d written about her sketches and spilled coffee, about how his words somehow untangled her thoughts. He’d read it more than once since leaving Paris. There was something in her tone, something open and alive, that had stayed with him.

He wondered how she’d describe this scene if she were here. The clean geometry of light, the nervous choreography backstage, the quick pulse of expectation before the show. She’d find something human in it, he thought. Something worth remembering.

“Ready,” the stylist said, stepping back to admire her work.

Adrien nodded, offering a soft “Merci.” He caught his reflection in the mirror—composed, immaculate, the familiar armor of confidence—and almost laughed at himself. He looked exactly like the version of him everyone else saw, the one he’d learned to inhabit flawlessly.

But somewhere beneath that image, something shifted. A small, genuine current of anticipation.

He stood when they called for lineup. Around him, the other models moved in a quiet rhythm, the shuffle of shoes and fabric underscoring the low murmur of the crew. Someone handed him a water bottle; another clapped him on the shoulder, wishing him luck.

Luck. As if luck had anything to do with it.

The music started. A deep, rhythmic pulse that sent a shiver through the floor. Adrien moved forward as the curtain opened, light flooding the narrow runway. He’d walked hundreds of shows, but tonight the glare didn’t feel like exposure—it felt like clarity.

He stepped out, the world dissolving into motion and breath. Every line of the suit fell exactly as it should. The rhythm of the walk was instinctive, mechanical, but alive. Somewhere in the blur of cameras, he thought again of her words: It’s a language that gets under your skin and stays there.

Maybe it always had. Maybe he’d just forgotten how to listen.

When he turned at the end of the runway, he caught his own reflection in the glass backdrop—a flicker of himself amid the lights and movement. The sight startled him for a moment. He looked like someone rediscovering something they’d lost.

The applause broke like surf when the show ended. Backstage was a tangle of laughter and movement—stylists hugging models, the designer beaming, a journalist shouting questions in rapid French. Adrien moved through it easily, exchanging handshakes, compliments, quick smiles.

“Beautiful work, man,” said Jean-Charles, one of the other models, clapping him on the back. “You’re actually smiling tonight. I didn’t think you still remembered how.”

Adrien laughed softly. “Maybe I finally caught up on sleep.”

“Or maybe Milan’s treating you right,” another teased. “We’re going out for drinks. You in?”

He hesitated out of habit. Normally, he’d beg off—too tired, early call time, whatever excuse came to hand. But something in him loosened.

“Yeah,” he said, after a beat. “Why not?”

The group erupted in mock surprise. Someone shouted, “Adrien’s alive again!” and the laughter that followed was easy, warm.

Later, at the bar, surrounded by chatter and the clink of glasses, he found himself watching the play of light across the table, the small gestures people made when they relaxed—the way someone tilted their head when they laughed, the way another tapped a finger against their glass in rhythm with the music. The scene glowed faintly with life.

It wasn’t extraordinary. But it felt new.

The hotel room was quiet except for the muffled hum of the city outside. Adrien leaned against the window, a glass of water forgotten in his hand, the view of Milan stretching out in dull constellations below.

He’d been back for an hour, showered, changed into a soft T-shirt, but sleep refused to come. His mind kept drifting to the letter—the one folded neatly in his suitcase, worn slightly at the edges from travel.

He’d read it again that morning, before the show, and again just after coming back. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for in the words—comfort, maybe, or familiarity—but each time, he found something else. Some new nuance in the way she phrased things, the warmth between her sentences.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and unfolded it carefully, smoothing the creases with his thumb. Her handwriting had a rhythm to it—light but decisive, as if she thought quickly but wrote slowly. He could almost hear her voice in it.

He read the lines again, his lips moving faintly without sound. I think that’s what I like most about our letters—how they make ordinary life feel softer somehow.

He let the words linger. “Softer,” he murmured, half to himself.

It was such a simple thing, the ritual of their correspondence, but it had reshaped his days in ways he hadn’t expected. The thought of the mailbox—of those red envelopes—had become something steady to look forward to, something private and unspoken amid the noise of his public life.

He reached for the photograph tucked in the envelope. Tikki stared back, bright-eyed and content on a messy desk. He smiled at the sight of her, at the thought of Ladybug reaching for her camera, of the brief pause in her day it must’ve taken to capture this moment.

He turned the photo between his fingers absently, tracing the outline of the cat’s paws. The photo had already begun to curl slightly at the corners from him handling it so often.

Then, as he shifted, the glossy square slipped from his hand and fluttered to the carpet.

He reached down to retrieve it—and froze.

There was something written on the back. A line of neat, slanted handwriting, smaller than her usual script.

For a second, he didn’t quite register what it was. Then the meaning landed, clean and sudden.

A phone number.

His breath caught, quick and shallow. He turned the photo over again, half expecting he’d imagined it. But there it was. Just the number—no note, no explanation.

He sat back slowly, the photo resting against his knee.

It wasn’t just the gesture that struck him—it was the quiet confidence of it. The invitation without pressure. Something to keep you company in case you get lonely while you’re away from Plagg.

He’d thought she’d meant the photo. Maybe she had. But now it was impossible not to see the other meaning threaded through.

He felt it like a pulse beneath his ribs, a warmth that spread slowly, helplessly.

The urge to text her hit hard and fast, his hand already reaching for his phone before his thoughts caught up. He unlocked the screen, stared at the cursor blinking in the empty message field.

Hey, it's Chat Noir. I got your photo. Thank you.

Too formal. Too stiff.

You have no idea how much this means to me.

Too revealing.

Is it too late in Paris for me to say thank you?

Pathetic.

He locked the phone again and set it face down on the nightstand.

Then, after a long moment, turned it over once more.

His fingers hovered over the screen, every word that came to mind too raw, too close to the truth. How could he tell her that he’d missed her letters more than he wanted to admit? That they had become the most genuine part of his life? That he’d read and reread them until the words felt memorized?

He couldn’t. Not like this. Not over a late-night text that would betray just how much he needed her voice right now, even if he’d never heard it.

The city outside pulsed faintly with light. Somewhere below, a car passed, its tires whispering over wet pavement.

Adrien leaned back against the headboard, the letter spread beside him, the photo resting lightly in his palm.

He traced the edge of Tikki’s ear, the small loop of her collar, the faint blur of pencil shavings on the desk. It felt absurdly intimate, this glimpse into her world, but comforting, too.

His chest ached in a way that wasn’t quite sadness.

He thought of what he might say if he did text her—something about the show, maybe, about the way the lights caught the silk, or how he’d thought of her description of fabric like language. Maybe he’d tell her about how, for the first time in years, he’d actually enjoyed walking the runway.

Or maybe he’d just write Goodnight.

He never typed it.

Instead, he turned the photo over one last time, memorized the curve of the numbers, then slid it carefully back into the envelope.

He set both on the nightstand, beside the lamp, and switched off the light.

In the dark, the city murmured softly through the glass. He closed his eyes, but his mind stayed awake, turning over every possible word, every almost-sent message.

When he finally drifted into sleep, the last thing he saw behind his eyelids was her handwriting, looping and sure, and the quiet promise written in numbers on the back of a photo.

Adrien woke before his alarm.

The light in the room was the thin, colorless kind that came just before dawn. The city hadn’t fully stirred yet—only the distant hum of delivery trucks, the soft pulse of traffic on the next street over. His body felt heavy, but his mind was already moving, restless in that way it got when sleep had never quite taken hold.

He lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the number written on the back of the photo.

He’d reread her letter twice more during the night between short bursts of what could barely be described as sleep, searching for some hint, some quiet nudge that might explain it—but there was nothing. No mention of the phone number, no “call me,” not even the faintest implication that she’d left him a way to reach her. Just the usual warmth of her words, the easy rhythm of her sentences, the signature that still made something inside him loosen each time he saw it.

So why leave it?

He sat up and rubbed at his eyes, then reached for the photo on the nightstand. He turned it over again, as though the number might look different in daylight.

Maybe she’d written it as an afterthought. She’d added the mention of the photo in the postscript—it could’ve been spur of the moment, barely considered. Maybe she’d just wanted him to have something tangible while he was away, and at the last second thought why not.

Or maybe—he winced at the thought—maybe she’d expected him to find it exactly how he had: late at night, alone in some hotel room, pulling the photo out because he was too lonely to sleep.

That possibility made him drop his gaze to his hands. The idea that she might’ve known—that she might’ve expected that kind of quiet need from him—was somehow both mortifying and strangely comforting.

He sighed and set the photo back down, face-up this time. “You’re overthinking this,” he muttered under his breath, but his voice didn’t sound convinced.

Had she been waiting for a message this past week? Checking her phone, wondering if he’d found it? Maybe she’d been hoping one would come. Or maybe she’d been hoping it wouldn’t—that he wasn’t really the kind of person who’d sit awake at night, staring at a photo of a cat just to feel a little less alone.

His throat tightened. He didn’t know which thought was worse.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his watch. The thin hands on the face read six forty-five. Call time was eight. He needed to move.

The floor was cold under his bare feet as he crossed to the bathroom. He turned on the tap and splashed his face, blinking into the mirror. He looked fine—good, even. Composed. Like someone who’d slept well and had the day ahead neatly in hand.

It was remarkable, really, how easy it was to keep the performance going once it started.

He dressed quickly: crisp shirt, black slacks, jacket draped over one arm. His phone buzzed with a reminder—car waiting downstairs. He slipped the wallet into his pocket without thinking, feeling the faint, familiar shape of the photo tucked inside.

For a moment, he let his hand rest there.

Maybe she hadn’t thought it through. Maybe she’d written the number and sealed the envelope before she could change her mind. Maybe it hadn’t meant anything more than friendship, a simple gesture.

But maybe it had.

He drew a slow breath, straightened, and left the room.

The hotel lobby was mostly empty, washed in the sterile gold of early morning. A bellhop nodded to him as he passed; he returned it absently and stepped into the waiting car. The driver murmured a polite buongiorno and started toward the venue.

Adrien leaned back against the seat, phone in hand. He opened a message thread with Nino and stared at the blank screen.

He typed.

Adrien:
Hypothetical question.
Say someone you’ve been writing letters to left their phone number for you. But didn’t mention it in the letter.
Would you assume they meant for you to find it?

He deleted it. Rewrote.

Adrien:
Morning.
Question: if someone left a phone number in a letter but didn’t say anything about it, is it weird to text?

He hesitated, thumb hovering, then hit send before he could talk himself out of it.

The message sat there for a minute. Then two. He’d just started to convince himself that Nino was still asleep when the phone buzzed violently in his hand. Incoming call.

Adrien winced, answering before the driver could glance back. “Hey, I—”

“Are you an idiot?” came Nino’s voice, low and incredulous, cutting straight through the line. “Why are you even asking me about this? Of course she wants you to text her.”

Adrien opened his mouth, then shut it again. “I didn't even—”

“Don't need to,” Nino said flatly. “If someone gives you their number, that’s not an accident, dude. That’s the opposite of an accident.”

Adrien leaned his head back against the seat, staring out at the blur of early Milan through the window. “It’s not that simple,” he murmured.

“It never is with you,” Nino replied, exasperation softening into amusement. “Just… text her, man. Or don’t. But stop thinking it to death.”

The line went quiet for a moment, filled only by the sound of the road beneath them.

“Yeah,” Adrien said finally, his voice low. “I’ll think about it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nino said, yawning. “You always do. Now let me go back to sleep before you text me something even dumber.”

The call ended.

Adrien looked down at his phone again, the reflection of morning light pooling across the screen. The number from the photo still flickered behind his eyes, quiet, patient, waiting.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and exhaled, long and slow. Outside, Milan rushed past, sunlight finally breaking over the rooftops.

The café was loud in the way midday cafés always were—metal chairs scraping, the hum of conversation layered over the hiss of the espresso machine—but Adrien heard none of it. His phone sat on the table beside a half-finished cappuccino, screen dark, reflecting the gray Milan sky through the window.

He tapped it awake, opening the blank text thread he'd created with Ladybug.

He exhaled, typed, deleted, typed again.
 

Chat Noir:
So, hypothetically, if someone were to find a phone number written on the back of a photo you sent them…
would that be considered an invitation to text, or an elaborate test of self-control?
 

He stared at it. Too much? Too little?

He hit send before he could overthink it into oblivion again.

A minute passed. Two. He took a sip of lukewarm coffee, pretending not to glance at the screen every few seconds.

Then it buzzed.
 

Ladybug:
That depends. Did this hypothetical person pass the test or fail it?
 

He smiled, small and unguarded.
 

Chat Noir:
He’s still deciding.
He was under the impression the test was about resisting temptation,
but now he’s not sure what the right answer is.
 

Ladybug:
Maybe the test was to see if he’d overthink it.
 

Chat Noir:
Then he’s already failed spectacularly.
 

Ladybug:
I had a feeling.
 

He huffed a quiet laugh, earning a curious look from a customer at a nearby table.

Chat Noir:
In his defense, it’s been a long week and a half of work and hotel-room instant coffee.
He may be going slightly crazy.

Ladybug:
I’ll accept that excuse. He's allowed a little insanity.

A bubble with three dots appeared as she typed a longer message. Or maybe she was thinking as she texted.

Ladybug:
If it makes him feel any better, I had started to worry that perhaps his self-control was too good since I hadn't heard from him.
So maybe he does pass.

Chat Noir:
That does make him feel better.
He was worried texting might break some kind of unspoken snail mail correspondent code.

Ladybug:
I think codes can bend sometimes. Especially for emergencies.

Chat Noir:
And this qualifies as an emergency?

Ladybug:
If hotel instant coffee is involved, absolutely.
Code red.

He smiled at that, thumb tracing idle circles against the side of his cup. The air in the café smelled like espresso and sugar, bright and a little sharp.

Chat Noir:
I’ll make sure to file that under “approved reasons to break tradition.”

Ladybug:
Good. And maybe next time, he’ll trust that the invitation was real.

Chat Noir:
Maybe next time he won’t need to overthink it first.

Ladybug:
We’ll see. I think overthinking might be part of his charm.

He huffed a laugh.

Chat Noir:
That’s one way to describe it.
He promises to try not to make it a full-time personality trait, though.

Ladybug:
No promises needed.
I think it’s good that he cares about what he says.
It makes the words feel deliberate.

Chat Noir:
Deliberate.
I like that.
Though I should warn you, I’m not sure I’m very good at casual conversation anymore.

Ladybug:
You’re doing fine so far.

Chat Noir:
That’s reassuring.
I don’t want to ruin a good thing by saying the wrong thing.

Ladybug:
Then maybe just say what you mean.
That seems to work for you.

There it was again—that quiet sincerity that always managed to catch him off guard. He read the line twice before replying.

Chat Noir:
Then I’ll say that I’m glad you wrote your number.
And that you didn’t decide it was a bad idea halfway through.

Ladybug:
I almost did, actually.
I kept wondering if it would be weird.

Chat Noir:
It’s not weird.

Ladybug:
Good. Then I’m glad too.

The three dots blinked again. Stopped. Started. Then nothing.

He didn’t press. Neither of them seemed eager to break whatever fragile rhythm they’d found.

He glanced out the window—the pale light shifting over the Milan streets, the hum of conversation around him. It wasn’t the kind of moment that would make headlines or fill a camera frame, but it felt quietly alive in a way he hadn’t expected.

Ladybug:
Are you working today?

Chat Noir:
Yes, but my lunch break’s almost over so I'll have to get back to it soon.

Ladybug:
Then go.
I’ll let you return to your mysterious life of traveling and instant coffee and deadlines.

Chat Noir:
Ha ha.
I wish I could tell you what it is that I do.
Hopefully one day I will.

Ladybug:
I'm holding you to that.
Until then I'm imagining that you're some sort of fashion secret spy.

Chat Noir:
That's certainly more interesting than reality.
Don't get your hopes up.

Ladybug:
Too late, Kitty.

He hesitated, watching the three dots hover one last time, then disappear.

The chat stayed open on his screen for a long moment before he finally locked it, slipping the phone into his pocket.

For the first time in days, the city didn’t feel quite so gray.

Chapter Text

The city was quieting outside his hotel window, the late Milan traffic softening to a distant hum. Adrien had showered, eaten something forgettable, and tried—unsuccessfully—to focus on the movie playing on the TV. His thoughts kept circling back to his phone on the nightstand.

He gave in before the credits even started.

Chat Noir:
Evening, My Lady.
I hope your day wasn't as long as mine was.

He watched the screen, half-embarrassed to realize how much he was waiting for the reply.

Ladybug:
Evening, Kitty.
Unfortunately my day isn't over yet.
I'm still working -.-

Chat Noir:
At this hour?
Is it dedication, deadlines, or something else?

Ladybug:
A mix of all three probably.

Chat Noir:
Sounds exhausting.
Should I be flattered you still have the energy to text me, or worried you’re overworking yourself?

He waited, watching the message status flicker from “delivered” to “read.” A minute passed before her reply came through.

Ladybug:
I don’t overwork myself.
I just refuse to leave things half-done.

Chat Noir:
Says the person still working at 10:18 pm.

Ladybug:
Hmm.
You may have a point, but I'm finding it hard to admit you're right.

Chat Noir:
A rare occasion, I’ll treasure it.

Ladybug:
Don’t get used to it. I’m usually much more stubborn.

Chat Noir:
Oh, I never doubted that.
I can practically hear you refusing to step away from your desk right now.

Ladybug:
Desk, fabric pile, chaos—same difference.

Chat Noir:
That bad?

Ladybug:
Let’s just say if creativity were measured in tea consumption and self-inflicted stress, I’d be thriving.

He smiled, glancing at the clock. It was late even by his standards. Across the dim hotel room, the city lights blinked like tired eyes behind the curtains. He could picture her surrounded by sketches and thread spools, sleeves rolled up, trying to tame something that refused to come together.

Chat Noir:
You ever consider calling it a night?

Ladybug:
Every night.
Haven’t managed to follow through yet.

Chat Noir:
You’ll burn out like that.

Ladybug:
Probably. But not tonight. Deadlines don’t negotiate.

Chat Noir:
They might, if you ask nicely.

Ladybug:
You’re assuming I have time for manners.

Chat Noir:
Then I’ll negotiate on your behalf.

Ladybug:
And what would you offer in return?

Chat Noir:
A reminder that the world won’t end if you hang it up for the night.

Ladybug:
Tempting, but I’ve tried that before.
The world stayed intact, but my hemline didn’t.

He chuckled, sinking deeper into the pillows. Her messages always left him oddly grounded—like someone had managed to cut through the wall noise of flights, fittings, and staged smiles.

Chat Noir:
Then at least promise to take five minutes to breathe. Doctor’s orders.

Ladybug:
Are you a doctor now?

Chat Noir:
Of questionable authority, yes.

Ladybug:
I’ll add it to your résumé: “fashion secret spy doctor who texts at inconvenient hours.”

Chat Noir:
You say that like you don’t look forward to it.

The typing dots appeared, blinked out, then returned.

Ladybug:
You’re dangerously close to being right again.

Chat Noir:
Twice in one night? I should celebrate.

Ladybug:
Go ahead. I’ll be here… not taking your advice.

Chat Noir:
Stubborn, like you said.

Ladybug:
Exactly.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen for a moment.

Chat Noir:
Still... good to know I’m keeping you company while you conquer the world.

Ladybug:
Don’t get sentimental on me, Kitty.

Chat Noir:
Too late.

Ladybug:
Okay, my five minutes are up.
I should get back to work before I lose the thread I was following.

Chat Noir:
All right.
But promise me you’ll sleep before the sun comes up.

Ladybug:
I promise.
Goodnight, Kitty.

Chat Noir:
Goodnight, My Lady.

It surprised him how quickly four days could change a routine.

When they wrote letters, waiting was built in—an entire week stretched between thoughts, between confessions small or otherwise, between moments where he had to pretend he wasn’t remembering her words, committing them to memory. He’d grown used to the slow pace. Had even convinced himself he preferred it.

Texting ruined that illusion instantly.

Now they could talk whenever they wanted. And, apparently, they did want to. A lot.

In four days he had learned her schedule—not intentionally, just by osmosis. She woke late. She worked through meals. She disappeared for hours and then came back with a flurry of messages about fabric disasters or unexpected triumphs. She stayed up far too late, almost always still awake when he gave in to sleep. She wasn’t a morning person (and didn't understand anyone who pretended they were). She drank tea like it was her religion, yelled at her sewing machine like it was sentient, and had a way of typing “hmm” that could mean five entirely different things depending on her mood.

None of this was intimate enough to scare either of them away, but it was enough to make Adrien’s chest feel strangely full whenever his phone buzzed.

He hadn’t realized how starved he’d been for immediacy until he had it.

Now he was back in Paris—two days home from Milan, the adrenaline of the Milan Men's Fashion Week trip fading into the dull ache of sleep deprivation that seemed to be inherent in work trips—and his phone vibrated more reliably than his own self-discipline.

Right now, though, he was pretending to be a normal person, not someone whose entire nervous system was waiting for a name to appear on a screen. He sat cross-legged on the floor of his living room, a half-finished takeout container balanced on his knee while Luka argued about a guitar pedal with Nathaniel.

“…it literally does nothing but turn your amp into static,” Nathaniel was saying.

“That’s the point,” Luka countered. “It’s texture.”

“It’s noise,” Nathaniel said flatly.

Adrien laughed, was about to chime in—and then his phone buzzed.

He didn’t even have to look to know who it was; something in him already leaned toward it.

Ladybug:
Are you busy?

He exhaled—something between relief and anticipation. Not urgent, then. Not a “sorry to bother.” Just a question she felt comfortable asking.

Chat Noir:
A little.
But I can multitask.
Everything all right?

Ladybug:
Oh yes.
I’m just suffering.

Chat Noir:
Should I prepare condolences?

Ladybug:
Probably.
Tikki hates her dinner.
She’s yelling at me about it.

Chat Noir:
The horror.

He stifled a grin as Luka launched into a passionate monologue about analog distortion. Adrien elbowed him lightly when Luka’s hand gestures got too enthusiastic.

Chat Noir:
And what sparked this betrayal tonight?
New brand?
Wrong texture?
Insufficient moral support?

Ladybug:
Wet food.

Chat Noir:
Ah.
The unforgivable offense.

Ladybug:
Exactly.

There was a brief pause. He could imagine her doing something—trying another bowl, offering a bribe, giving up entirely. She always paused like this when she was juggling two things at once.

Chat Noir:
Should I call emergency services?
Or would that embarrass her further?

Ladybug:
It would destroy her reputation.
She’d never recover.

Chat Noir:
Then I’ll let you handle it.
You’re the expert in cat-astrophe management.

Ladybug:
If only that were true.
At the moment I’m being stared down by someone who is six pounds and furious.

He bit back a laugh, trying not to draw Nino’s attention.

A notification blinked onto the screen. A photo. He tapped it open.

Tikki, ears flattened, eyes narrowed in accusation at the offending bowl of wet food. Perfectly ordinary. Perfectly harmless.

Except—at the edge of the frame: her fingers holding the dish. A sliver of her sleeve. And, blurred in the background, her socked feet on the hardwood floor.

Not enough to identify her. Just enough to make his brain short-circuit. The effect was disproportionate. Ludicrous, even. Some logical part of him knew that. But it didn’t stop the short, sharp trip of his heartbeat.

And it was about the cat, really. Only about the cat. Not at all because Adrien had never tried to visualize what Ladybug looked like before, and now, with just the shape of her fingers, it was all he could think about.

He wanted to see the rest.

Ladybug:
See?
She’s inconsolable.
He swallowed a little too thickly.

Chat Noir:
I see.
This is clearly a grave emergency.

Ladybug:
Thank you for taking this seriously.

He hesitated, thumb hovering. The truth—You didn’t have to send a photo—felt too revealing. Too close to admitting how his chest had jolted at the sight.

Chat Noir:
I always take wet food betrayal seriously.
Especially from tiny queens.

Ladybug:
She approves of that title.

Chat Noir:
I aim to paw-lease.

She didn’t answer right away. The conversation around him buzzed—Nino was talking about a film score; Luka was humming chords under his breath—but it all felt softened somehow, like his attention had been pulled toward the glowing rectangle in his hand.

Ladybug:
She doesn't approve of your terrible cat puns.

Chat Noir:
A tragedy in two parts, then.
Fury at dinner and disappointment in my humor.

Ladybug:
She’s very disappointed.
I, however, am… tolerating it.

He smiled—small, involuntary. Tolerating. Coming from her, that was practically affection.

Chat Noir:
High praise.
Should I print and frame it?

Ladybug:
Please don’t.
I don’t want that kind of responsibility on my conscience.

He shifted, pretending to listen as Luka launched into a rant about overproduced soundtracks. He nodded at the right moments, but his pulse was tuned elsewhere.

Chat Noir:
How goes the standoff?
Has dinner won?
Or has the tiny queen staged a coup?

Ladybug:
She has retreated.
To sulk.
Under the couch.

Chat Noir:
A tactical withdrawal.

Ladybug:
I’m giving her five minutes.
Then negotiations resume.

Chat Noir:
You’re very brave.
Most would admit defeat.

Ladybug:
I’m not most.
You should know that by now.

That did something to him—low in his chest, warm and immediate. He tried very hard not to show it on his face.

Chat Noir:
I do.
Still surprises me sometimes.

Another pause—not long, but enough for him to picture her reading that line, deciding what to do with it.

Ladybug:
Me too.
Anyway.
Thank you for your expert consultation.
Tikki is now glaring at me from under the couch with the intensity of 1,000 suns.
I hope you’re happy.

Chat Noir:
Immensely.

Ladybug:
I'll let you get back to whatever you were a "little" bit busy with when I texted.
I'm about to resume negotiations with the tiny queen.
Wish me luck.

Chat Noir:
Good luck, My Lady.

He set his phone beside him on the floor. The apartment eased back into focus: Luka demonstrating some kind of elaborate strumming pattern Nathaniel insisted sounded like “a dying dishwasher,” while Nino tried to referee with the patience of a man who had long accepted his fate.

Adrien nudged his takeout container out of Luka’s danger zone and leaned back on his palms, letting the familiar chaos pull him in.

“Okay, but if the distortion pedal makes everything static,” Nathaniel argued, “then what’s even the point of playing clean notes at all?”

“The point,” Luka said with saintly patience, “is contrast. Texture. Emotion.”

Nino groaned. “I swear, every time you two talk about music it’s like I’m trapped in an avant-garde documentary.”

Adrien laughed as Luka flicked a balled napkin at Nino’s head and missed by several inches.

The conversation continued, looping into increasingly dramatic declarations about artistic integrity, but Adrien’s attention drifted for a beat. Not away from them—just… sideways. Toward the lingering warmth in his chest, the echo of a picture he probably shouldn’t be thinking about as much as he was, and the comfortable hum that came from knowing she was a message away.

A new kind of closeness. A new kind of trouble for his self-control.

He breathed out, slow, steady. Then he grabbed a spring roll before Nino could steal it and dove back into the argument, tossing in a comment about synth pads that immediately sparked a fresh round of bickering.

By the end of the week, the photo exchange had carved out its own small ritual.

Not constant. Not even daily.

Just enough that the thread between them felt… lived in.

A bowl of hand-rolled pasta she made from scratch—her palm hovering in the corner of the frame, dusted with flour. A crooked picture of a bookstore window he passed after rehearsal. A snapshot of her boots half-buried in snow outside her door. A blurry photo of Plagg sprawled dramatically across his bedsheets. The sunrise from her porch. The takeout he ate backstage.

Little moments. Nothing dramatic.

But each one felt like a door they were both cracking open inch by inch.

And then, this morning, she sent one that made him stop mid-step in his kitchen.

It was a picture of a sketch she’d been working on—ink lines curling across the page—held up in front of her, but the angle revealed the slope of her neck, a loose strand of hair so dark it almost looked tinted blue falling forward, the edge of her collarbone where her shirt dipped.

Not accidental.

He replayed that thought all day.

And if she wasn’t being accidental anymore, then what was he supposed to do? Reciprocate? Ignore it? Pretend he wasn’t overanalyzing this like someone who had clearly lost his mind?

By late afternoon he caved and tried taking a few photos of his own.

First, a shot of his shoes.

Awful. Obviously staged. And what was he even showing her that was remotely interesting?

He deleted it immediately.

Then one of his hand holding a coffee cup by the window.

Too forced.

Another immediate delete.

Then a tentative half-selfie, angled so only his jawline and t-shirt showed as Plagg sat on his lap.

He looked stiff. Weirdly posed. Like someone trying to look casual while having an existential crisis.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

“This shouldn’t be so hard,” he muttered, dragging both hands down his face. The light in his apartment was fine. The background wasn’t embarrassing. He wasn’t doing anything compromising. He just wanted to send something that didn’t scream I spent twenty minutes composing this and hated every second of it.

Ladybug didn’t do that.

Her glimpses felt… caught. Not curated.

He tossed his phone onto the couch and flopped down beside it, staring at the ceiling.

He needed help.

Reluctantly.

Desperately.

And unfortunately, there was only one person he trusted not to tease him to death about this.

Nathaniel.

He sighed into the quiet apartment.

“Great,” he muttered. “Now I get to explain this to him without sounding like an idiot.”

He already knew he’d sound like an idiot.

But the next time he saw Nathaniel—he’d ask anyway.

Saturday afternoon, Adrien found himself arriving early to Nathaniel’s favorite hole-in-the-wall café—the kind with mismatched chairs, crooked local art, and a cashier who seemed like he only worked there to fund an experimental noise band. Adrien had spent the whole morning cycling through every possible emotional state: flustered, giddy, anxious, annoyed at himself for being giddy, annoyed at Ladybug for being effortlessly mysterious, annoyed at his own annoyance—all before lunch.

Nathaniel strolled in five minutes late, entirely unbothered, sketchbook under his arm, pencil behind his ear as naturally as breathing.

“Hey,” Nathaniel said, sliding into the seat across from him. “Sorry. Lost track of time. Antique shop down the street had a really dramatic set of brooches.”

Adrien had no idea what that meant, so he just nodded. “Right. No worries.”

Nathaniel flipped open his sketchbook immediately, not even glancing at the menu. “So what’s up?”

Adrien didn’t want to start with the problem. He wanted to ease into it. Gradually. Subtly. Naturally.

But then the image of yesterday’s failed shoe picture flashed through his mind—the one where he’d somehow made his legs look like they belonged to a startled mannequin—and his plan combusted on the spot.

“I need your help with photos,” he blurted.

Nathaniel paused mid-sketch. Slowly looked up. “…Photos?”

“Not like—that! Not weird photos!” Adrien’s voice cracked embarrassingly. “Just—normalish photos that aren’t actually normal for me to take?”

Nathaniel blinked. “I’m going to need a little more than that, dude.”

Adrien inhaled, exhaled, and surrendered what little dignity he had left.

“You know the girl I’ve been talking to. The one who I was sending letters to.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Yeah. The one you panic-texted Nino about because you were convinced she gave you her number on accident. That one.”

Adrien glared. “It was a complicated situation.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, anyway—we’ve been texting. A lot. And she sends photos sometimes. Not selfies—just stuff she’s doing. But also…” He gestured helplessly. “Pieces. Of her.”

Nathaniel stared. “Pieces?”

The blush creeping up his neck threatened to overtake his face, too. “Just—like—her shoulder? Or some of her hair, or part of an outfit, or her hand. Adrien scrubbed a hand through his hair. “It’s… I don’t know. Cute? Torturous? Both?”

Nathaniel processed this with a blank face. “So she was flirting.”

Adrien immediately denied it. “No—she’s just—well—I mean—okay, maybe, but it’s subtle and I don’t want to assume and mess it up. And I don’t know how to respond without looking like I’m trying too hard.”

Nathaniel leaned back, raising an eyebrow. “Have you sent her anything?”

Adrien wanted to disappear. “I tried.”

“Define ‘tried.’”

“I took a picture of my shoes.”

Nathaniel stared harder.

“And a… partial selfie.”

“How partial?”

Adrien gestured vaguely. “From, like, my jawline down.”

“…Why?”

“I DON’T KNOW,” Adrien said, collapsing forward onto the table. “She sends these effortless, accidental little glimpses of herself, and when I try, I look like I’m documenting evidence for a missing-persons case.”

Nathaniel snorted despite himself. “Okay, okay. So you want… what? Advice? A style guide for mysterious half-photos?”

“I want to not look like an idiot,” Adrien muttered. “And I want something that feels natural. And non-desperate. But also… reciprocating?”

Nathaniel snapped his sketchbook shut. “Quite the laundry list. But, I think I can help.”

Adrien sat up so fast he nearly clipped the table.

“But first,” Nathaniel said, “just to clarify—you’ve been talking to this girl for weeks, but you haven’t video-chatted, haven’t exchanged real selfies, and neither of you has verified the other isn’t a serial killer?”

Adrien winced. “She—um—prefers the anonymity?”

“Do you prefer the anonymity?”

“Kinda—I don't know, I did!”

Nathaniel lifted a hand. “Just confirming the baseline level of unhinged we’re working with.”

Adrien groaned. “Can we skip the commentary?”

“Nope.” Nathaniel stood and grabbed his coat. “Come on. We’re taking a walk.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to take some pictures of you that look like a human being took them,” he said matter-of-factly. “You can send those. No overthinking required.”

Adrien slumped back in his chair, equal parts mortified and relieved. This was not how he imagined this phase of his life going.

But at least someone was helping him—one awkward half-photo at a time.

When they stepped outside, the winter air nipped at their cheeks. Paris was in that liminal post-holiday haze, decorations still lingering in some windows, sidewalks damp from yesterday’s rain. Nathaniel took the lead without explaining where he was going, weaving down a narrow side street toward a small park Adrien barely remembered existed.

Adrien shoved his hands into his coat pockets. He wasn’t nervous, exactly. Just… aware. Over-aware. Every part of him felt too deliberate, too practiced. Modeling had trained him to appear effortless on command, but that was the problem: every move he made looked like something intended for a lens. Something polished. Something posed.

He hadn’t realized how much that would get in his way until he found himself trying to take a photo of his own shoes last night and somehow making that look like a magazine advertisement for sneakers.

Nathaniel stopped outside the park bordered by a brick wall half-covered in dormant vines. The sky overhead was flat and bright, the kind of overcast that photographers loved.

“This’ll work,” Nathaniel said, scanning the light. “It’s soft. No harsh shadows.”

Adrien made a face. “I feel like I’m at work.”

“No, if we were at work, I’d be telling you to smolder at me or pretend this wall is your ex.”

Adrien groaned. “Please never say that again.”

“You’re the one who brought model brain to a casual walk.” Nathaniel angled his phone toward the sidewalk chalk mural splashed across the pavement, sunlight catching the dusty colors. “Okay, stand there,” he murmured.

Adrien stepped into the frame automatically… and then immediately froze. His shoulders had lifted, posture straightening, chin tilting—every instinct sliding him into that soft, effortless model stance meant to look candid but absolutely wasn’t.

Nathaniel squinted. “Dude. No. You look like the teaser poster for a YA movie adaptation.”

Adrien exhaled, deflating. “I’m trying to look normal.”

“You’re trying to look professionally normal,” Nathaniel countered.

Adrien fussed with his hoodie, pulled the brim of his hat lower, then shuffled half a step out of the center of the frame. “What about now?”

“Better,” Nathaniel said, though he nudged Adrien’s arm down a few centimeters. “Less ‘mysterious loner,’ more ‘guy who wandered into the shot.’ Just… loosen your spine. You’re not about to walk a runway.”

Adrien tried. His body didn’t quite know how to be casual on command, but he slouched a little, weight on one leg, toe scuffing the pavement. He kept his face angled completely away—only his jawline and the sweep of his blond hair visible.

Nathaniel snapped a picture.

Adrien peered at the result. The shot wasn’t about him—it was about the mural, with just enough of his silhouette in the corner to suggest I was here. A normal friend photo. A normal day.

“I think that one works,” he admitted, quieter.

“Good,” Nathaniel said, already walking backwards to spot another angle. “Try holding something this time. Props help.”

“Props?”

Nathaniel pointed to the half-finished iced tea in Adrien’s hand. “Stuff you’d naturally be carrying. Makes it look like you weren’t thinking about the camera.”

Adrien curled his fingers around the cup and attempted to look like a person who existed in the world without constant awareness of lenses. Nathaniel had him stand beside a painted utility box, then took a photo from just low enough that only the drink, the sleeve of Adrien’s hoodie, and a tiny slice of his shoulder made it in.

Adrien checked that one too, brows lifting. “This… actually looks like something someone would text.”

“That’s the point,” Nathaniel said. “You want casual? Casual is messy. Casual is half-there. Casual is not—” He waved a hand at Adrien’s posture, which had again drifted into an elegant line. “—whatever that is.”

Adrien hunched instantly, then looked embarrassed about the overcorrection.

Nathaniel laughed under his breath. “We’ll get there. Just keep moving with me.”

They continued down the street, Nathaniel grabbing little moments—Adrien reaching for a pastry they had bought specifically for photos, Adrien leaning over a rack of postcards, Adrien’s hands shoved into his hoodie pockets as he waited for the crosswalk. No full face. No fame. Just pieces of a day spent with a friend.

And slowly, Adrien stopped trying to control how he appeared in each frame. The stiffness in his shoulders eased. The poses dissolved into genuine gestures caught mid-motion. Nathaniel only had to steer him once or twice.

“You know,” Nathaniel said as they paused under the awning of his favorite café, “for someone who’s spent years being professionally photographed, you’re weirdly bad at looking normal.”

Adrien groaned into his hands. “Don’t remind me.”

Nathaniel just smirked and lifted his phone again. “Perfect. Hold that. You have to send her this one.”

Adrien sat cross-legged on his bed, hunched over his phone scrolling through the photos Nathaniel had sent him after their totally normal and not staged at all photoshoot that afternoon.

Nathaniel had actually managed to get a handful that felt…normal. Casual. Not like Adrien had spent the afternoon spiraling about what constituted an acceptable level of anonymity while still seeming human.

He hovered over one: Adrien seated on the low wall outside the café, face angled away toward the street, one knee drawn up, hands loosely resting over it. The focus wasn’t even on him—mostly the mural behind him and the late-afternoon light over the sidewalk. He looked relaxed. Like a person who did things with friends, not a man staging glimpses of himself for a girl he’d never met.

The second one was from the park stop. Nathaniel had caught him mid-gesture, pointing at a dog wearing a little raincoat. Adrien’s face wasn’t visible—just his torso and his outstretched hand—but his laugh was almost visible in the posture.

Both were safe. Both were…him, in a way that didn’t make him feel naked.

Still, his fingers hovered uncertainly over the keyboard.

The photo she'd sent yesterday with the sketch and the little glimpse of dark hair and a collarbone taunted him from their open text thread.

Pretending it didn’t affect him had become impossible.

He exhaled slowly, selected the café photo, and typed: Was out with a friend today. Thought you might like this one.

After staring at it too long, he added a second message before he could overthink it: And there was a dog in a raincoat. That feels important to share.

He attached the photo from the park.

Then he hit send.

His heart immediately tried to escape his ribcage.

The phone vibrated a couple seconds later, and Adrien froze, thumbs hovering uselessly above the screen.

A small part of him wanted to hide under the blankets and pretend he’d never sent them, while another part, far louder and far less rational, practically leapt out of his chest with anticipation.

The message popped up.

Ladybug:
These are great! Looks like you had a good day.

He blinked. Then blinked again. He could practically hear her voice in the words, light and teasing but not too teasing, just enough. His chest loosened a little, the tension that had been coiling there all afternoon fading in the warmth of the notification.

Another ping.

Ladybug:
And yes, raincoat dogs are absolutely essential information.
Thank you for your service.

Adrien laughed quietly, a breathy, relieved sound that made him sit back against his headboard. The corner of his mouth lifted on its own. She wasn’t just humoring him. She liked seeing these little glimpses.

Then another message appeared, the one that made his pulse stutter.

Ladybug:
If you ever want to send more… I like seeing where you go.

He stared at it for a moment longer than he probably should have, feeling a flush climb his neck. Not flirtatious exactly, not overtly, but…there. The implication. The acknowledgment. That little thread connecting them through these glimpses of their days.

His fingers hovered, then hesitated, because any reply he typed now would either be too casual or too obvious.

Chat Noir:
Maybe I’ll have to go find more raincoat dogs, then.

He hit send before he could second-guess it, and leaned back, letting out a long, shaky exhale.

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of his air conditioner and the distant sounds of the city outside. For once, he didn’t feel like he had to be “Adrien Agreste, model” or “perfect polite friend.” He just felt like himself—messy, nervous, and ridiculously aware that somewhere, someone he didn’t know very well at all had just made him feel seen.

And maybe he’d been waiting for that more than he realized.

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