Marinette's world slowed to a halt.

She knew, somewhere in a vague part of herself that felt very far away, that she was just standing there, like an idiot, face crimsoned right up to her hair, mouth open like a fish, gaping at Adrien.

The rest of her was too busy coming to terms with what had just happened.

Mon Dieu… I just called Adrien Agreste a dick.

She couldn't believe it had happened. In all the worst-case scenarios she had pictured, she had at most tripped over Adrien, dropped something on him, or simply been too shy to say anything. To have outright insulted him was so unlikely she hadn't even considered it.

What do I do?

At this point, the realisation that she was still gaping at him sank in, and her mouth started to work again.

"I – I – I—"

Well, that was a good start. Adrien was actually smirking at her now. Could this be any worse?

"I didn't mean—" Marinette began again, only to stop in confusion because she had no idea what to say. Fortunately, Adrien himself stepped in.

"No worries, Marinette, I was just a bit late and cut a couple of corners. No hard feelings, d'accord?"

He gave her a dazzling smile.

Flustered, Marinette did her best to sound in control of the situation. "Oh yes," she babbled. "I mean, no. Not at all, no, no, I didn't mean to – ah – have you guys ordered yet?" What a smooth change of topic, said a small sarcastic voice in her head. I'm sure no one noticed that at all.

Adrien shook his head, still appearing amused. "We were waiting for you. What would you like?"

Still on her feet and holding tightly to the straps of her bag, Marinette faltered. What would I like? How about to rewind this entire morning and do it again so that you could be looking at me with admiration instead of laughter?

"Um, I'll have a café au lait and… uh…" She wanted nothing more than something filled with mountains of whipped cream or crème pâtissière, something that would soothe her wounded pride and satisfy her sweet tooth, but she could just picture how Adrien would look at her if she ended up with cream all over her face and/or clothes. "Just a croissant, please." Then, in spite of herself, she added quickly: "With white chocolate in."

Adrien got up, dwarfing Marinette. "I'll go and order for everyone," he said easily. "Nino, it was a madeleine, yes?"

"Oui," said Nino, as Marinette dropped into the empty chair next to Alya. As soon as Adrien was out of earshot, she moaned and dropped her head into her hands.

"Why?" she wailed. "Why do these things happen to me?"

Alya patted her on the back. "Oh, Mari. It's okay. He doesn't care."

Marinette looked up to reveal a flushed, anxious face. "Do you think so? Maybe he'll just forget."

"Ha!" said Nino, unthinkingly. "I doubt it – ow." He gave his fiancée a hurt look. She ignored him, still trying to reassure her best friend.

"Don't worry. When he gets back, we'll change the subject, okay? He only got here a few minutes ago, so we haven't even started catching up."

"Okay," Marinette sighed, finally resigning herself to the fact that it had happened and it was impossible to take it back. "I think I'll just listen for a bit… I can't be held responsible for what comes out of my mouth, apparently."

Alya laughed, but before she could disagree, Adrien was back. He sat down opposite Marinette, lounging on his chair with easy grace. She fought down the flush she could feel mounting her cheeks and did her best to look like she had coffee with a supermodel every day.

"Ahh, it's good to be back," said the supermodel in question. "It's funny – I haven't really missed France in all these years, but now…" He looked at the awkward expressions round the table and added hastily, "I missed you, of course! I've just been so busy. And my memories of France have been… well…"

A momentary shadow fell over the four of them. They all knew what he meant. Everyone knew, due to the relentless publicity it had generated, what had happened five years ago between Gabriel Agreste and his son. After a year of tension when Adrien had turned eighteen and officially come of age, what Gabriel had referred to as 'differences of creative opinion' and Adrien called 'my father seeing me as his personal property' had resulted in an explosive row that ended with Adrien packing his bags and walking out the door. He had said goodbye to his friends, got on a plane, and left, leaving no one any the wiser as to what he planned to do.

Gabriel, when pressed for further information in multiple interviews, said stiffly that he was sure Adrien would come back when his 'youthful and inexperienced tantrum' had 'cooled off'. In response, Adrien gave one single interview that the more trashy papers called an 'exposé'. Nino, Alya and Marinette, as well as most of Paris, had been profoundly shocked by it. Adrien's calm, unsensational account of his teenage years was all the more chilling for how simply it was told. He spoke of years of being trapped in a house that never felt like a home, of being forbidden contact with children his age, even of not being allowed to go to school. That had changed, eventually, but the situation had not really improved. Adrien had been Gabriel's prized possession; everything in his life was ordered around his purpose: to model Gabriel's fashion lines. He had been on a strict diet and a carefully monitored timetable, watched most of the time, expected to constantly adhere to a complicated set of rules and guidelines. He had had no choice over any aspects of his career, instead simply being informed of what he was to do and when. The relationship between father and son had been more like that between employer and employee, though fraught with tension, hurt and resentment.

The results of this story were predictable. Some people called it a cry for attention, presuming it was made up or exaggerated; others were appalled at what they considered amounted to child abuse, and Gabriel Agreste's reputation suffered accordingly. Either way, it had been a most uncomfortable time for Adrien's friends, who all blamed themselves for not realising how bad his home life had been. Marinette, especially, had been devastated by her own blindness. How could she not have seen, whether as herself or as Ladybug, how lonely and lost Adrien had been? His departure had been hard for her and it was harder still to lose the remaining link she had to him, for contact between Adrien and all his old schoolmates (with the sole exception of Nino, though they did not talk as often as Nino would have liked) dwindled and disappeared within a few short months. Heartbroken, Marinette had set herself the difficult task of getting over a relationship that had never even begun, and was never entirely sure whether she succeeded.

For a while the media buzzed incessantly about the scandal; then the next celebrity gossip started and just like that, Adrien Agreste was almost forgotten. Things were quiet for a year or two. Marinette, Nino and Alya went to university and started jobs and adult life.

Then the stories started appearing. At first it was just a paragraph or two, in a write-up of some fashion show or a critique of some new designers. Interest built quickly, though, and soon Adrien Agreste began to become an increasingly popular topic. The newspapers followed what they called a meteoric rise to fame as Adrien began to make waves in the fashion world. Before long, everyone knew how he had started his own company and was making thousands, if not millions, by the age of only twenty-three; once more his face began to be seen in countless campaigns, but this time under his own company's name, not Gabriel's. Marinette, who had done her best to avoid news of him where she could simply because of how much it hurt to hear his name, knew in spite of herself that he was in London, New York, Los Angeles, Rome, Barcelona, Milan, Madrid, Tokyo… never in France.

Then, on the anniversary of their first date, Nino had proposed to Alya, who had accepted before he had even managed to get most of the words out of his mouth. When they had shared it publicly (or rather: when Alya had updated her Facebook relationship status to 'engaged' about 0.4 seconds after Nino slipped the ring onto her finger), Adrien had messaged Nino with heartfelt congratulations. To everybody's astonishment, he added that he was coming to Paris next month. Would Nino and some of the others like to meet him for coffee?

And now here he was, in the flesh, the young man Vogue had recently called 'Paris's own success story', with his sad past and long absence hanging heavy in the air between them all.

Marinette, hating the awkward silence, squeaked out with relief: "Oh, look, our drinks are here!"

In the brief flurry of each drink and pastry being distributed, the awkwardness died away and everyone began to feel slightly more comfortable. Adrien asked Nino about his DJing and they talked about that for a while, discussing his not insignificant successes and his plans for the future. Marinette settled into her chair, happy to listen to the conversation and only make one or two contributions when the topic changed to Alya's current work as a journalist. She ate her delicious croissant and, quite suddenly, wondered why she didn't feel as happy to see Adrien as she might once have expected to.

Just then, Nino asked him about his travels and Adrien, after a brief pretence of not wanting to show off, launched into an enthusiastic description of all the wonderful places he had been and the incredible people he had met. Marinette watched him as he talked, her mind whirling. Why did he seem so different to the Adrien who had once sat in front of her at collège? She realised that her whole body had been thrumming with tension since she had arrived. She had put it down to being nervous around Adrien, but now she wasn't so sure.

Maybe it's just because he's grown up now. But it seemed something more than a simply physical change. Something about the way he held himself, self-certain, even a touch arrogant. Something about the expensive designer clothes he wore that were somehow too obviously expensive and designer. Something about the way he was talking now, dismissing five-star hotels as 'tacky' and telling a long and involved story about how he had had to demand a new room because they hadn't listened to his request to be able to see the Coliseum. Marinette frowned. It all seemed so… constructed. As though Adrien was deliberately trying to play a part, projecting an image for all to see. Even his very enthusiasm seemed manufactured somehow; there was no heart to it, no real feeling – she got the impression he was simply playing a part because that was what he thought they would want to see. He reminded her of someone… Who was it? Someone else who cared so much about people's opinions that everything about their image was carefully crafted to invite attention and admiration…

It hit her all at once. Adrien reminded her of Chloé Bourgeois!

Horrified at her own thoughts, Marinette gave a quiet gasp. Everyone looked at her, Adrien pausing his story. Blushing again, she picked up her coffee and drank deeply, looking innocently at them over the rim of the cup. The conversation resumed, though Alya was giving her an odd look that she staunchly ignored.

How could she compare Adrien to Chloé? The very idea was ridiculous. Chloé was a narcissistic, rude, self-centred, shallow socialite who still delighted in either snubbing or completely ignoring Marinette whenever she happened to see her, depending on what mood she was in. Adrien was polite, gentle, and kind. Perhaps she was just still annoyed by the BMW episode. After all, he had only wanted to be on time to see his friends. That wasn't a crime, was it?

Driving dangerously is a crime, she thought, in spite of herself. And then, as it dawned on her: He didn't even apologise to me!

She imagined how she would react if a complete stranger had pulled that stunt and then refused to apologise or acknowledge they were in the wrong. She'd be furious. But she had just stammered to Adrien, practically apologising herself for calling him a dick! And he had laughed!

At this precise moment, just as her anger was reaching its full height, she heard her name. Snapping out of her trance, simmering with suppressed rage, Marinette looked up from her coffee. Adrien was leaning towards her across the table, his green eyes fixed on her and sparkling with interest.

"And what about you, Marinette? What do you do?"

Curtly, biting back the angry words she wanted to say, Marinette said: "I work as a tailor."

Her rude tone seemed to take everyone by surprise, but Adrien didn't look offended; he raised an eyebrow, almost as if she was challenging him. He was still staring at her, and for some reason it made her uncomfortable. She realised that he had never looked at her so directly in the entire time she had known him. Half resentfully, she thought: He's finding out I'm more than what he expected.

The group seemed to be waiting for her to elaborate on her statement, but when she didn't, Alya jumped in. She often came to Marinette's defence, still the fiery, outspoken one to her best friend's quieter nature – she had frequently said that she felt Marinette needed protecting. Marinette both thought this was hilarious, given that she was Ladybug, and appreciated it because actually, sometimes she did.

"Anyway, Adrien, we actually had something to ask you."

"We?" echoed Adrien, his eyes still on Marinette. His head was tipped sideways slightly, like a cat, trying to figure something out.

"Well, Nino," Alya amended. Marinette glanced at her in time to see her shooting a go on, tell him look at her fiancé.

Nino cleared his throat. He looked embarrassed, an unusual expression that didn't sit well on his open, likeable features.

"Yes. Um, well, I… I have a question for you. Or a request. Um…"

Finally distracted from whatever was so fascinating about Marinette, Adrien looked over at Nino, who was staring straight down at the table.

"I know we haven't seen each other in years," he mumbled, "and a lot of things have changed, but the truth is… you were my best friend for a really long time, and I still think of you that way, even if you don't, and—"

"Spit it out, babe," said Alya encouragingly. Nino gave her a quick, grateful look, and continued.

"—Adrien, will you be my best man?"

There was a stunned silence. Marinette watched Adrien as the meaning of Nino's words sank in. His face had suddenly lost that carefully cultivated look of lazy arrogance, the green eyes growing rounder in his surprise. It made him look much younger and more innocent, once more the boy she had known in school.

"Seriously? Do you really want me?" There was a crack in Adrien's voice that, in spite of everything, tugged at Marinette's heartstrings – it was the tone of someone very lonely who has just discovered that someone else cares about them. That's the first sign of real emotion he's shown all day, she thought.

"Yeah, dude!" Nino was more confident now that he wasn't about to be rejected. "You're the closest to a brother I ever had. Of course I want you to be my best man."

Adrien visibly struggled to maintain his composure. "But I've… I've been such a shit friend. You don't deserve someone like me."

"Oh, shut up, man. Are you going to or not?"

"Well – yeah, of course I am, you idiot!"

The two boys got up, chairs scraping loudly across the floor, and hugged, thumping each other's backs in what was evidently supposed to be a manly way. Alya and Marinette exchanged grins.

"Cute," murmured Marinette.

"Saps," scoffed Alya, watching Nino affectionately. Then she turned to Marinette with a wicked grin that would have struck fear into the heart of anyone who knew Alya even remotely. "I hope you two have fun planning everything."

"Huh?"

Then the realisation occurred to her.

Adrien was the best man.

She was the maid of honour.

Merde.