The girl in front of him had hair like midnight, and eyes the colour of the summer sky. But the eye colour he knew from experience, as the sky hanging above them was too dark to reveal her blue-eyed gaze. Instead, the street lamps fought with the moon to cast shadows across her high cheekbones; her softly freckled face; her pursed lips as she blew across her mug of hot chocolate; her breath rippling its dark, steamy surface.
She was covered in red polka dots - the Ladybug-inspired blanket shrugged over her shoulders as she perched on top of her little table-converted stool. Beneath the blanket, he could see the glimmer of a set of white pyjamas. The matching pair of shorts and lacy camisole woefully inadequate for night-time ruminations above her hatch.
And yet he could not quite regret her choosing to wear them.
Especially when he could use it as the perfect opportunity to point out her goosebumps and feel her bare skin pressed against his super suit.
For warmth.
Of course.
He would just have to make sure that her eyes didn't linger downstairs because if she asked whether his baton was in his pocket or he was just excited to see her he might actually die.
But she didn't make the comment. His excitement went unnoticed. And on the nights that she fell asleep with him right there in her lounge chair, he carried her gently down her fire escape hatch and onto her bed.
Tucking her in.
Her bed sure looked comfortable compared to the lounge chair on her balcony, but he knew he shouldn't overstay his welcome.
Sometimes a sleepy Marinette demanded a kiss to be pressed onto her forehead before he departed. And well, what could a stray cat do but obey the one that took him in at night?
On the nights that she did allow him - no - that she insisted he kiss her goodnight, well on those nights he hurried home to be alone. Real fast.