Chat Noir thought it might be a good idea to start keeping a list of all the strange things Ladybug had been doing lately. It might help him to figure out what it all meant. There was the stumbling, the stuttering, the blushing. It had appeared out of nowhere.

No, that wasn't quite right. It had all started when they were dancing at the gala, when she'd been so nervous that she tripped over the perfectly flat marble floor and smashed her face into his chest.

It had been the night of the annual Heroes Day gala, and they were the guests of honor. It was also the fourth time they would be spending the holiday together as a team, and Ladybug couldn't have been more anxious.

Reporters thronged the edges of the hall. The entire room filled to bursting with Paris's elite. Ladybug twisted in his arms, trying to spot anyone staring at them.

"Oh, I think that's Brigitte Bardot dancing with Jean Reno. They're both looking this way. Do you think they're talking about us? I wish the cameramen would turn their flashes off. I hate knowing when they're taking pictures."

Chat Noir just wished she would look at him.

"I think they're admiring the chandeliers actually," he said without so much as glancing over. He squeezed the hand she'd laid so lightly in his, but it wasn't enough to make her turn toward him. "And you have nothing to worry about. You look fine."

It would have been so easy to slip in "stunning" or "as beautiful as you always do," but it had been a long time since he'd last declared his love for her. She hadn't appreciated his attention back then, and she certainly didn't want it now with everyone watching. So with practiced severity, he stuffed those words and feelings back down again.

He no longer told her that he loved her with dramatic declarations. But he could still tell her in all the subtle ways. In how he treated her, the encouragement he gave her, how he held her on special occasions like tonight.

Muffled thunder echoed outside the building. Flickering flashes of lightning mixed with the cameras.

"I hate this," she said. "I hate that I'm still so nervous about these events."

"You don't have a reason to be," he said, not knowing what else to do.

"I know." She finally, finally looked at him, eyes a little wider than normal. "But it doesn't keep me from wondering what if. What if I spill something on myself and there's 500 pictures of it? What if someone asks me something I don't know the answer to and I say something stupid? What if I step on my dress and–"

She stepped forward. Chat Noir felt the exact moment she lost her balance. Her knee hit his shin. Her hand gripped his. And she faceplanted right into his chest.

His battle-honed reflexes were their saving grace. He twisted in a semicircle, dipping her in one fluid motion. The coattails of his suit flapped behind him. To any casual viewer, her misstep wouldn't have been noticeable (he hoped), just a showy dance maneuver.

They paused there, face to face, both holding their breaths, waiting for the reaction, but there were only a few scattered claps at his move. No twittering of gossip or thinly concealed laughter. Both of Ladybug's hands were on his shoulders for balance. Her grip loosened, and he could feel her body relaxing, unwinding, in his arms.

"Thanks, Chaton."

Their noses were almost brushing. All he would have to do was pull her up a little and their lips would be brushing too.

Gently, slowly, already mourning the feeling of holding her, he pulled them both up to standing and stepped back into the music like the whole thing had been planned.

"Of course," he said. After being so close to her, his face hovering over hers, the respectful six inches of minimum distance he'd been forcing himself to keep all night felt like a chasm. "Anything for my partner."

She shot him a grateful smile, cheeks still tinged pink with embarrassment.

They were silent for the next few minutes, while Ladybug matched his steps and kept her eyes trained on the hand she was resting on his shoulder, and the heat slowly left her face. Thunder rumbled. The conversation of two hundred people hummed in the background. Chat Noir focused on keeping his hand light on her waist and his eyes away from her mouth.

"I can't believe I did that," she finally said. "I'm so embarrassed."

He shrugged as the music ended and their feet stilled. "I like watching you mess up." That had come out wrong. "Wait."

Ladybug stuck out her tongue at him, but she didn't move her hands off of him. "You falling on your face is pretty amusing for me too."

"I just meant that I love it when you make mistakes in front of me. That wasn't right either." He glanced up at the ceiling for inspiration. It was easier than watching how her cute nose wrinkled in amusement.

"Cat got your tongue, kitten? You're not very eloquent tonight." The hand on his shoulder slid until she poked a finger into his neck. "Unless you're trying to insult me?"

"It's that–" he struggled to find the words for the feelings that he had. "I want to keep your mistakes to myself?"

She raised an eyebrow but didn't interrupt him again. The orchestra had started the final song of the night, but they stood in the middle of the ballroom unmoving.

"I like seeing your vulnerabilities. And if I'm the only one who sees them, it's like I get to see a super special secret side of you, that I get to keep all to myself. I know you hate getting embarrassed, but…" He wondered if he was overstepping a boundary here. He couldn't tell her that he loved to see her blush, or that her sheepish smile was adorable, or the way she took ownership for her wrongs and was able to correct them with grace were qualities he admired her for. "But I know it's difficult for you, so I'm happy that you feel like you can share it with me. That's all."

Ah, that had probably sounded dumb. Ladybug was staring at him, slack jawed. The longer she stood there, blush growing deeper and deeper, the more he started to fear that it hadn't just sounded dumb but also offensive. Maybe she didn't feel like she could share it with him. Maybe she hated being embarrassed more than he had thought, and she didn't appreciate him calling extra attention to her insecurities.

A loud crash of thunder made them both jump. The lights in the room flickered. Chat Noir turned and looked at the rest of the guests, but most were already returning to their conversations after the brief interruption. When he turned back to Ladybug, she seemed to have regained a little of her composure. Her stare was a little softer, anyway.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to–" He wasn't even sure how she was taking it. He hated not knowing how to apologize and smooth it over.

"Won't d-dorry. Worry don't," she stuttered.

"You good, Bug?"

"Fess! Fine. Yes. Yes, everything is fine. Swell, even."

"Swell?"

She looked stricken. "Did I just say 'swell'?" Ladybug didn't wait for an answer. Her grip on him tightened. It had been a few minutes since they had stopped dancing, but their hands were still in proper form, and he could feel all ten of her fingers through his glove and the shoulder of his jacket.

Her eyes grew wider, she swallowed hard, and then she whispered a breathless, "Oh." Then she dropped her head onto his open shoulder, her face turned away from him. She pulled their joined hands in more tightly against her body and stepped closer to him, like she was trying to stay warm.

"I'm such a disaster. Why now?"

The question was so quiet that he didn't think it was meant for him, so he didn't answer.

His breath made the loose hairs at the nape of her neck flutter, and he tried to focus on that instead of how perfectly she had lined herself up to him. He counted the freckles dusting her exposed shoulders instead of thinking how easy it would be to slide his arm fully around her waist and pull in closer and hold her more tightly against him. Instead of mapping every point of contact as she leaned against him, he slid his eyes along the column of her neck, memorizing how the light played against it.

Her neck. In the position they were in, it would be easy to lean over and kiss her there. What would her skin taste like? They'd been dancing all night. Would it be warm and salty with sweat? Or would it taste like she smelled, like bread and a hint of her shampoo?

He realized his face was drifting toward her, and he slammed his eyes shut. Heart hammering. Breathing quick. She didn't want him to do that. Especially not in front of about half the reporters in Paris. She doesn't want me.

He swallowed hard, pushing away thoughts of leading her out on the balcony where they could have some privacy. She didn't want him and she was upset and he was being a terrible person.

"Are you sure you're okay?" His voice was rough and low, and he cleared his throat awkwardly, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Fine," she groaned.

She stayed there, clutching him, until the music swelled and faded and the audience clapped. Chat Noir let her slip away when she stepped backward out of his arms.

"Thank you," he said.

"What?" She still looked dazed, her focus on the empty refreshment table.

He motioned around them. "For a fun evening."

She nodded and turned, disappearing out toward the foyer.

Chat Noir was left to wonder what was wrong as he navigated through the dispersing crowd and took the long way home in the rain.

A/N: Jennagrinsoverml on Tumblr made me write this. Also, I hate the title already and am open to suggestions. XD