Monday had started as a beautiful day. Picturesque, really. The kind of day that made her happy she could walk to her office if she didn't feel like the bus—cloudless sky, warm sun, slight breeze in the air. It was rare for a Monday morning to seem so pleasant.

But then things started going downhill.

It all started with a very unusual sight.

Marinette walked into the office to see someone perched atop her desk.

But it wasn't just anyone—this was Elaine.

Dressed like she had a photo shoot to be at, Elaine was a metre and eighty-four (6ft) of pure scariness for any interns unfortunate enough to cross her. She had this tendency to draw eyes, radiating enough confidence and command to make you look at her even if you didn't want to. With sharp cheekbones and a sharper Russian accent, she was the kind of woman that Marinette would've been afraid of in any other circumstance. The size of her paycheck didn't help matters.

All in all, she was a sight to behold, seemingly out of place on Marinette's desk.

They hadn't talked in a while, not since Marinette went from intern to designer and they'd started drifting apart. It wasn't a conflict of personalities or anything, it just seemed their schedules never seemed to line up.

With a bit more warning, Marinette would've been thrilled to see Elaine perched on her desk. The only problem was, Marinette didn't know what she was doing there.

"Elaine?" Marinette asked, approaching her desk.

Elaine's eyes picked up at the sound of her voice. "There you are, ma chérie."

"You were waiting for me?"

"Who else would this desk belong to? Philipp Plein?" She let out a loud laugh, "Of course I was waiting for you."

"Any reason?"

"Do I need one?"

Marinette squirmed. "Eh, well I just kind of assumed-"

Another loud bark of a laugh came, sending eyes drifting over. "I kid, Marinette. I kid," Elaine said, waving a hand through the air, "As much as I'd love to drop in whenever, I'm here on business. You know about the Adrien Agreste situation, no?"

Marinette didn't like where this was going. "Of course," she said.

"Well, he may or may not have a shoot here. Leftover from his work with his father—I really don't know why it wasn't cancelled—but that doesn't matter," she said. "What matters is that a couple weeks ago, I may or may not have slipped some of your designs across Sasha's desk. And she may or may not have put them in said shoot."

She gaped. "You showed Sasha my designs? And she liked them?"

"It was nothing, ma pêche," Elaine said, shrugging. "I merely showed Sasha what she was missing."

Marinette stared at her. "You- Sasha and- with Agreste?" she squeaked out, looking up in surprise. "My designs?"

Elaine nodded.

She thought for a moment. Despite what Elaine was saying, she wasn't sure she could just drop everything right then and there. She had work to do—specification sheets to revise, a buyer to meet for lunch, etc. "But what about-"

"Vive will be fine, don't worry child," Elaine said.

Marinette hesitated to speak, stuttering. "But… Elaine, there's so much left to-"

Another wave of Elaine's hand. "It's handled. All of your work is handled. This is more important," she said. Her eyes twinkled, bright and lively with excitement.

"Are you sure-"

"Marinette," Elaine interrupted, coming closer, "You will work on hundreds of collections in your lifetime. You've already worked on so many already, and I don't doubt you'll stop for a very long time," A reassuring hand came to her shoulder. "This is not simply a collection. Vivedoesn't matter anymore."

"But-"

"You get no choice. Vive is handled, and there's nothing to be worried about. My little coccinelle, I will drag you to that shoot if I have to," Elaine said, voice stern like a parent.

Marinette sighed. There was no point in arguing with Elaine, not if she was adamant about something. It'd never get her anywhere.

And… as much as she hated to leave, even for a day… if there wasn't any harm then there wasn't any harm. Her work was handled, why not just go along to the shoot and enjoy herself? Elaine had certainly passed along those designs with Marinette's best interests at heart, there was no doubt in her mind about that. The details had probably been worked out before Sasha's eyes even landed on the designs.

So maybe it was best to just go.

"Okay, I'll go," Marinette said, smiling. Inside, she was still squeeing with excitement, high enough for any dog with a good sense of hearing to make out just fine. Sasha had picked some of her designs, her designs, for a shoot.

"There you go," Elaine said, nodding.

And that was how, thirty minutes later, Marinette found herself sifting through a rack of identical white garment bags trying to find her outfits. Elaine had never said which outfit was used, nor did she even tell Marinette that there happened to be a female model on set too. And apparently, Sasha had picked a couple designs for the female model too. Meaning Marinette was looking for an unspecified amount of clothing in an unspecified amount of garment bags.

One rack cleared, she turned around to find another.

Only to see a short rolling rack with a sign reading "Dupain-Cheng" sitting undisturbed across the room. She looked back at the other rack. Yep, there sat some alien last name. Which meant that she'd just rooted through another designer's rack. A designer with much more clothes in the shoot, she noted.

She scurried away over to her rack.

A couple minutes passed as she took a look at what Sasha picked. The women's were some of Marinette's favorites—all winter looks with big jackets, one in particular with a set of cashmere gloves and a short pair of lace-ups. The men's, naturally, complemented the women's. Same black and white colour scheme on both, same matching pops of colour. The only difference was the style—where the women's had smoother lines, the men's had more angles.

She was happy Sasha had chosen what she'd chosen, overall. Four outfits that all fit in with the winter style of the shoot.

She counted the garment bags for a quick second, matching it with the number on the end of the rack. Yup, they matched. Then came the slow process of putting each outfit up against the specification sheet, just as she'd always done with Elaine. Zip open one bag, make sure everything matched up, check it again, then zip it back up and move on. It felt weird without Elaine there to tower over her, helping her check through each and every bag, but she did it all the same.

And eventually, she made her mistake. Her terrible, stupid mistake.

It wasn't with the clothes. No, that would've been much better. So much better. Whatever could've possibly happened with the outfits, she could've fixed it.

This was worse.

While steaming a particularly wrinkled shirt, she stopped an assistant. Usually, she didn't tend to ask them for anything, but with the steamer in front of her face and nervousness in her veins, her mouth was dry. And he seemed to be particularly un-busy, at least compared to her.

"Can you get me a water?" she asked.

She barely made sure he nodded before her eyes were back on the shirt and she was back to trying to get a stubborn wrinkle out. Maybe an iron would've fared better, but Marinette was too determined to even get up and bother, thinking it'd take too much time to track one down. She didn't have the time to spare. Hell, she'd hardly even looked up when she'd stopped the assistant.

Which was where she went wrong. So, so wrong.

A couple more minutes of furious steaming and a garment bag later, she was putting the dress shirt back up on the rack. How it'd gotten so wrinkled was beyond her.

"Mlle, your water."

She looked up, turned away from the rack.

And came face to face with the man of the hour.

Adrien Agreste, in all his glory.

Adrien Agreste with beaming, real kindness in his eyes and a friendly smile on his face, holding out a water bottle to her.

She was about two seconds away from muttering a curse under her breath.

He hadn't even questioned her order. He wasn't an assistant—in fact, he was as far from it as one could get—but he'd gone ahead and fetched her a bottle all the same. A bottle that, in hindsight, Marinette should've just gone and gotten by herself, screw the time limit.

She stood there a moment, staring.

Take the bottle.

Take the bottle.

Like a robot, she grabbed the bottle from his hand, let out a nervous laugh, and turned away with a short thank you. No glance in the eyes. She couldn't look him in the eyes, she was pretty sure. Nope. Nope. Nope. She was not going to look into that face and see the kindness, that god awful kindness.

For her sanity, she was going to avoid him, avoid that face. She did not need to be overthinking things again. He was guilty, and he'd done something that'd brought Chat Noir's attention, no matter how kind his stupid smile was.

A second passed, and he still stood there behind her. "Are you alright, Mlle… ?"

Her name, he was asking her her name. It was like the universe hated her—What were the odds of her meeting the one person she didn't want to be meeting? Sure, they were at the same photoshoot, but Marinette had yet to even see the female model. And still there he stood, asking her name.

She turned around.

That was her next mistake.

One look at his eyes, and she was going back on everything she thought she knew. Every moment she'd told herself Chat Noir did not target the innocent, all that reassurance—gone. Tossed out the window like a deadbeat ex's guitar.

He didn't look like a guilty man.

"Marinette," she filled in. Shoot. He'd asked for her last name, not her first name. "My first name, it's Marinette," she said. "And I'm alright, thank you."

"Marinette," he said, nodding slowly. "I like it." An easy smile still sat there on his face, just to rub it all in. It wasn't the smile of a man who'd just been attacked by Chat Noir, nor was it the smile of a man with an ousted secret. There was no anxiety, no worry—just that kindness that Marinette was trying so hard to ignore.

He was so nice, she bet that if she punched him, he wouldn't even get mad about it. No, he'd probably laugh it off and thank her, then walk off to get his makeup touched up. He was that kind of nice, the genuine kind that made her want to keel over or- or just walk away and get it over with.

Or maybe she was exaggerating a bit.

But the point still stood. In her humble opinion, Adrien Agreste was too nice to be guilty. It was a bit of a shallow assumption, but… nobody was that good of an actor. The man had just been attacked by Chat Noir, and there he was going about his day complimenting the names of random designers. This was the kind of nice that didn't belong in the fashion industry and certainly didn't belong at the hands of Chat Noir.

Someone called out a sharp "Agreste!" from across the room, and his head perked up.

"Looks like that's my cue," he said, turning back to face her. "Nice meeting you, Marinette."

He was leaving before she muttered out something resembling a goodbye. He just walked on off.

And with him went any chance of her day turning out well.

So that was how Marinette found herself standing there like an idiot, staring after Adrien Agreste with nothing short of a stupefied look on her face, realizing she was screwed. Completely, utterly, and completely screwed. She didn't even know what to think anymore.

Just two days ago, she'd convinced herself that Chat Noir had to have had a reason for going after Adrien. Even if that reason was proving to be very, very difficult to find, it had to be there. It only made sense, Chat Noir was always in the right—that was just the way it was, the way it'd always been. Never once had he been wrong about a person.

But Adrien's face was not the face of a man with a secret on the loose.

He was either confident nobody would find anything, which was entirely possible, or he had nothing to hide. And, weirdly enough, Marinette was willing to bet money on the latter.

She plucked another garment bag off the rack.

Fifteen minutes later, her brain seemed to have unanimously agreed that ignoring him was the best option. She had a job to do, and thinking about the kind of stuff that didn't belong at a photo shoot was not part of it. It wasn't a decision that she'd wanted to make, but it was the only way she'd be able to stay focused—put as much distance between him and Chat Noir in her brain as humanly possible, which meant putting distance between her and Adrien.

Despite the fact that he was wearing two of her outfits, Marinette tried her hardest to ignore Adrien all morning. Nods of "Agreste" whenever they came into contact, before she launched into adjusting a button or pulling up his turtleneck or tucking the scarf in. Positions that would've seemed intimate or strange out of context were not, simply because she was choosing not to make them so.

She refused to.

Part of her felt like a jerk. Every time she neglected him a glance or a "hello," his face would fall all over again, and she would be stuck wondering if it was really the best option. But she really had no other choice. She had to keep her head from spiralling out of control every time she met his eyes, and unfortunately that the only way to do it. Anything to keep him and Chat Noir out of her head was a precaution she needed to take.

She just had to keep reminding herself that he was guilty. Adrien Agreste was guilty. Ignore the kicked puppy look on his face every time she dodged his gaze, every time she bent down without a word to fix the jacket he had on. He was guilty.

He was guilty.

He was guilty, and there was no evidence besides a stupid smile to say otherwise. Her trust was in Chat Noir, the man with a record of being right that she couldn't just toss aside because Adrien Agreste did not happen to look guilty.

She packed away her last outfit—one of the woman's—and set it on the rack with a sigh.

"Marinette, right?"

That was…

Oh no.

She looked over her shoulder, saw him, and promptly jumped.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he said, chuckling. The sound of it was light, but still settled like thick smoke between them, making the silence after just that much more stifling.

She turned all the way around. "It's alright."

This time, there was no escape. There was nobody to tug her away, no clothing or other people to distract her and keep her from actually interacting with him. She still kept her eyes off of his as best as she could.

"Did… Did I do something?" he asked, hesitant. It didn't sound like a question he wanted to ask, but more of one he had to ask.

She looked up and met his eyes. Words came to her lips, a firm yes and a firm no tugging in different directions, but none of them worked. "I suppose so," she said. It sounded too formal, almost weird on her tongue, but it was out there and there was nothing she could do about it.

"It's about Chat Noir, then."

She nodded. Like a scolded child, she nodded.

"It's okay, really. I don't mind," he said.

"Wh…" she started, trailing off. Finally, she looked up and met his eyes.

He really wasn't bothered by it.

He didn't even look remotely upset. The way she'd chosen to word it, she was basically accusing him of something right then and there, and he didn't even look bothered by it.

The female model had been hesitant to even touch him. Chat Noir was making people scared of him, making it so that that model, so used to being exposed and vulnerable around a photographer's camera, had asked to change the position so his hands didn't rest on her sides. And Adrien didn't seem to mind.

She fell silent for a moment, staring at him.

He had to be- There was no way anybody could just be so relaxed about the whole thing. Absolutely no friggin' way.

It was only then, after a few seconds of confused staring had passed, that his face fell. The smiling, happy model was gone, and it was only because she had looked at him funny. He seemed to squirm under her gaze.

"I'll just… I'll just go."

"It's not what you think. I'm not… scared of you," she said, stopping to mull over her words. The female model had been scared of him, but she knew for sure that she was not.

"Marinette, it's okay. I understand," he insisted.

She paused, staring at him. He didn't even look bothered by the whole thing. He wasn't even trying to defend himself, he seemed absolutely certain that Chat Noir had found something and that something was bad. "Why… Are you okay with this whole thing?"

"I mean…" He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, "Whatever Chat found about me can't be good. But I trust him."

She gaped at him. "That much?"

"He's never given me reason not to," he said.

And he hadn't. Throughout the past two years Chat Noir had been active, he'd never been wrong about a person. The police always figured out what was going on and, more often than not, the wrong do-er was locked up where they belonged.

But if her meeting with him had taught her anything, it was that Chat Noir was human too. Behind all that grandeur and that mask, he was just like the rest of them. And to be human is to make mistakes.

"But what if he's wrong?"

Adrien froze. "W-what?"

"What if Chat Noir is wrong?" she said, louder this time. She was surer. Adrien acted like he had nothing to worry about, talked like he was the most innocent man to walk the earth, so was she completely wrong in her guess? Was it heresy to say he might actually be innocent?

"Chat Noir's never been wrong before. I doubt he's wrong now."

"Guilty men generally don't say things like that," she said, her voice soft.

Again, Adrien seemed to freeze, reconsider what he'd just said. He stared at her in silence for a moment, as if it was indeed heresy that she'd just uttered and maybe he should go tell the clerics or something.

"I-I-" he sputtered. He stopped himself and tried again. "I should go."

Oh no.

She'd… she'd upset him.

She put her hand to his shoulder, trying to stop him. She could fix it. "I'm-"

"It's okay, really. I just need to think."

Their eyes locked for a split second, until she dropped her hand and let him go. He walked off in a certain direction, putting more and more space between them with each step.

Guilt sank in her gut. No matter what he'd tried to say, she'd upset him. Her first real shoot, and she'd gone ahead and upset the model who'd been so kind to her earlier. First she'd ignored him, then she'd scared him off.

She needed to apologize. She'd overstepped her bounds, gone where she wasn't supposed to, and now she needed to apologize.

But he was already gone.

And in his wake, he'd left her mind spinning.