What Masks Conceal

by MoanaLeesa

Marinette, recovering from hitting her rock-bottom, is presented with an opportunity to reach for her dream a second time. Adrien, struggling to actualize under Gabriel's control, is presented with an opportunity to develop his own identity. To love themselves is to cast away the mask they've become addicted to wearing. A story of two people crossing paths when they needed it most.

3. Chapter 3

A/N: Things are starting to heat up, and I'm excited.

Apologies for the longer wait. My partner and I are remodeling, so it's been very busy around here, and two of my sisters got married in the last six months, and I'm changing jobs, and I'm lazy...but I'm pumped to give you some juicy bits of this story!

I am just going to embrace that this story is a slower one. I debated cutting some of these scenes to speed up the flow, but honestly, I just can't. I'm too in love with writing wholesome shit. Sooooo, I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them.

All the love to Princess Kitty1 and Lucky Us for inspiring this fic.

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WHAT MASKS CONCEAL

by MoanaLeesa

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Chapter Three

12 months, 13 days ago

Being called to Gabriel Agreste's office unexpectedly was rarely a good thing.

Gabriel Agreste was in no short supply of assistants; while one would organize his documents, another would deliver his lunch, a third would schedule appointments, and so on. But his main assistant—the secretary, assistant team coordinator, and the person you had to impress if you wanted to get within thirty meters of M. Agreste—was Nathalie Sancoeur.

Marinette had a massive amount of respect for Nathalie. The woman was firm and collected, exuding an air of quiet self-assurance with every step and sideways glance—she had nothing to prove and no one to prove it to, save for perhaps her employer. Underneath this layer, though, she had a soft heart and would try to offer empathy to employees at Agreste in her own small ways. A month earlier, Nathalie had quietly murmured to Marinette that she could have the afternoon off to go be with her father—who had suddenly been rushed to the hospital for stomach pain—and Marinette suspected that Nathalie had pulled some strings for her to make that happen.

But there are some things that even Nathalie could not influence. So when she approached Marinette's desk, lips tight and posture precise, and told her that M. Agreste wanted to see her, Marinette knew it probably wasn't so he could congratulate her on a job well done.

As she followed Nathalie, a storm pounded against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the marble-laid halls. It was an unusually strong storm for that time of year, the wind buffeting against the building with the desperation of having something to prove, rain beating down in thick sheets. Thunder, a throaty and tumbling sound, reverberated through the ground, dutifully following some hidden streak of lightning that no one could see. Marinette held back a chuckle at the irony. The universe had even set the stage for her, a perfect backdrop to her impending demise—everything else had gone down the shitter, she supposed. It seemed only right to have the weather cheering for her downfall.

People turned to look at her in astonishment as she and Nathalie passed them. Some murmured to one another, likely speculating about what Marinette would get in trouble for and if she would emerge alive; others poked their heads out of doorways and around corners to get a better look. Even Lila, an incorrigible model who lied with every breath and had an annoying amount of diligence to stay in M. Agreste's good graces, watched her with a narrow-eyed stare and a pleased smile.

She would usually have boiled in rage at this, but today, Marinette was tired. Too tired to care about what anyone thought, and too tired to keep her mask on and act like the good little intern everyone expected her to be. No, she was done with that. She felt angry, for sure, but it wasn't hot and threatening to burst out of her—it was a deep ache, the kind of wrath that originates in the soul. If anything, it sobered her: cleared her mind. It felt...good, in a strange way.

The entrance to M. Agreste's office was shut with two shiny, cold metal doors, thick as the door of a vault. She always thought that these doors were a poignant metaphor for the type of person Gabriel Agreste was. It was heartbreaking for the younger and more naive version of Marinette to learn. Nathalie cranked a polished handle and heaved one open, beckoning her into the office beyond.

Marinette's heart beat steadily as she entered. Behind a huge, white desk, perfectly organized and practically spotless, sat Gabriel Agreste. He was no less intimidating than usual: buttons clasped up to his neck, hands woven together in silent calculation, the ever-present grimace he wore like he smelled something foul. When Marinette had been invited to his office in the past, M. Agreste had usually been preoccupied with something else: flipping through designs, filling out paperwork, typing something into the huge tablet that rested on a stand atop his desk. To busy for you, even if he called you to a meeting. This time, though, he was focused, and made deliberate eye contact with Marinette. His grey eyes seemed to know everything: every mistake, every flaw, every fault.

"Mlle. Dupain-Cheng," he uttered, gesturing to the set of chairs intended for guests. "Sit."

This was when Marinette saw Adrien Agreste. Adrien was M. Agreste's handsome and charming trophy son, occupying the left of the two chairs. Irritation sparked in her. Adrien, for Marinette, was a perfect example of nepotism: sure, he was talented, but so was everyone else in the building. He got way too much favor. Not only that, but he seemed to be friendly with Lila, and Marinette couldn't stand that the most.

Of course he's here, Marinette growled to herself. Why didn't I expect this?

Today, he wearing a simple frost-blue button-down and navy slacks, looking as enragingly-beautiful as ever. He turned to glance back at her—confusion laced his green eyes. He didn't know why he was there, either.

Marinette didn't sit down. "What is this about?"

"Please, Mlle. Dupain-Cheng, make yourself comfortable." M. Agreste gave a slow blink. "I insist."

She glanced back to Nathalie, who was standing in front of the closed door like a dutiful guard protecting her lord. The secretary didn't move, but Marinette could read what her eyes conveyed: It is in your best interest to listen to what he says.

Feeling strangely calm, Marinette finally complied. She tried her best not to look over at Adrien and folded her hands in her lap.

M. Agreste didn't hesitate. "I've called you both to my office because of what happened at a recent photoshoot."

Marinette couldn't say she was surprised. "What about it?" she asked curtly. She could sense Adrien's head turning her way, as if he was trying to communicate something, but she ignored it.

M. Agreste's eyes darkened, which she was shocked was even possible. "Other employees have reported that you made many amateur mistakes on the pieces that Adrien was supposed to wear for the shoot. You-" He peered down at a note on his desk. "-lost one of the pieces, and another piece was inaccurately sized."

"Father," Adrien started, his voice tangled, "it's really fine. We figured it out."

"I saw the proofs. They will most certainly have to be redone, and we'll have spent enough money to pay for two photoshoots. This is unacceptable."

"Who told you this?" Marinette snipped, fatigue pulling on the muscles of her face. "Was it Lila?"

M. Agreste clenched his jaw. "That is of no concern."

"You know that Lila was the one who spilled coffee on the top that Adrien was supposed to wear, right? It wasn't, quote-unquote, lost." She decided not to mention that she suspected Lila had messed with her other designs, as she had no evidence for it; she simmered on it, nonetheless.

Adrien stuttered for a moment, then piped up: "I think it was an accident, father."

"Yeah, no. It was not an accident." Marinette folded her arms and crossed her legs. "But either way, I don't understand why Adrien is in this room and not Lila."

She could see Adrien wince in the corner of her eye.

M. Agreste's mouth pinched into a fine line. He was obviously not used to being talked to this way. "Mlle. Dupain-Cheng, you are the designer. You are in charge of making sure that no piece is lost or damaged, as well as ensuring that there are extras. If anything happens to the clothes, you as the designer must be held accountable."

"Well, you see," she immediately snapped, her voice so composed it frightened her, "I've been told this hundreds of times. And when I first got here, I took it as truth and tore myself apart trying to accomplish your unrealistic expectations; but this expectation doesn't account for the dozens of other people who come in contact with the pieces every day. Including the models."

"Marinette—" Adrien started, but quickly fell silent when she held up a hand to say, I'm not done.

"You are putting undue stress on your designers with impossible standards, so much so that they dread getting a call to your office. It's rare that you ever give an affirmation or a positive comment to balance the criticism your employees face every day. So, M. Agreste," Marinette continued, letting the momentum of her words straighten her back and broaden her shoulders, "who is keeping you accountable?"

A silence consumed the room. Marinette couldn't see Nathalie's face, but she was sure that the secretary was unmoving, waiting patiently for a response from her boss while inwardly groaning at Marinette's outburst. M. Agreste, unsurprisingly, had a blank expression, emotions unreadable.

It was Adrien's face that jarred Marinette the most. His eyes were wide, jaw slack; when she glanced over to him, he blinked a few times in utter disbelief. The look on his face made him seem almost...in awe?

Thunder rolled outside.

Finally, M. Agreste spoke. "Mlle. Dupain-Cheng," he stated with a voice as booming as the thunder, "Your work performance has been deteriorating. You have been arriving late, falling asleep at your desk, submitting projects half-done and past the deadline, and making excuses for your shoddy work. You have made your coworkers' jobs harder by not meeting the bare minimum standards for yours. This, you understand, does not represent the Agreste brand well."

Marinette was apalled, to say the least. "Excuses? My—My fucking dad is dying of cancer!" she cried, uncrossing her legs and gripping the arms of her chair so tight that her fingers felt numb within seconds. "I'm working here and at my parents' bakery to help keep them afloat so they can afford his treatment. I moved home to take care of my dad in the evenings so my poor mother can catch a break—eighteen hour days, M. Agreste. I can barely function, and you have the audacity to look at me and tell me that I'm meeting the bare minimum standard for my job?"

"Mlle. Dupain-Cheng—"

"I have fought tooth and nail for this brand for the years that I've been here. Tirelessly working all the time, believing in it and in you. And now suddenly I'm a weak link because my—because my dad is dying? I—I just can't believe the—"

She would have kept going if not for the warmth that appeared on her left forearm. She spun her head, ready for battle, but was halted by a set of intense green eyes. They were wide and earnest, the color of grass in spring; they said, Hold on. Breathe. His hand gave her arm a squeeze before returning to his side.

"Father," Adrien started, his voice more sure and confident than Marinette had ever heard it, "Marinette is an asset. She is going through a hard time right now, but she's an incredible designer and person: intelligent, creative, and a pleasure to work with. If I'm being truthful, Lila has been unkind and dishonest to her, and I've been making excuses for Lila in an effort to keep the peace. I had good intentions, but hearing Marinette talk about her experiences has made me realize that it was wrong." He gulped audibly, his brows drawn together. "At the very least, father, you have to respect her for standing up for herself instead of rolling over, like so many people at this company do...including me." His gaze shifted downward at his last point as if in shame.

For the first time since arriving at M. Agreste's office, Marinette was in legitimate shock. Everything up until now she had anticipated, but...Adrien saying these things about her? Admitting that Lila had been less than honest? Standing up to his father? She had not expected that.

M. Agreste peered at his son over his glasses: fire erupted from them. "I did not ask for your opinion, Adrien."

The dull ache of rage Marinette had been feeling bubbled into something hotter, something much less stable. It gurgled in her esophagus, serving as a blistering warning to keep her emotions in check.

She didn't have to say anything, though, because Adrien did before she could. "Marinette deserves our support. She is part of the foundation of this brand's future."

"Adrien-"

Adrien stood up abruptly—his chair scraped against the marbled floor. His complexion, typically so perfect, was a flustered red. "Having a family member dying of cancer is really hard to go through. Isn't it, father?"

Another heavy moment of quiet as Adrien's pointed words rang through the huge office. Marinette knew that she should be totally consumed with anger at Gabriel Agreste's lack of empathy, which she did feel very intensely, but she also felt...warmed. She studied Adrien for a few moments.

He was mad. Madder than she had ever seen him: with his jaw clenched and hands curled into white-knuckled fists, Adrien had eyes that were blazing with...passion. Passion he had been holding back for fear of taking up space, rocking the boat, upsetting the system that his father was so obsessed with. Suddenly, his huge heart seemed to swallow the whole room and Marinette couldn't deny his good nature any longer. This unveiled side of him practically glowed—he had the energy of an angel scorned, a demigod crossed.

Marinette's breath caught. Lightning flashed outside, followed by a scream of thunder; she felt the vibration of it tremble in her toes and crawl up her legs.

"Marinette Dupain-Cheng," M. Agreste uttered, breaking the silence and focusing squarely on her, "Agreste needs employees who will remain loyal to the brand, no matter what. Since you obviously cannot commit to that, I regret to inform you that we have to let you go."

The thunder faded as his statement came to a close.

"Father," Adrien hissed. "You can't be serious."

The anger she had been holding back rose. It was an anger that was sure of itself, unhesitating, emboldened with Marinette's fatigue and Adrien's sudden support. It felt good, so so good, to let it overflow—like she had been holding back vomit and her body could finally release the toxins that had been building up inside of her. She could feel it press against her lips, begging for escape, wanting for release.

This time, she wouldn't resist it—for better or for worse.

Marinette uncrossed her legs and stood. She towered over Gabriel Agreste at his desk, who seemed undeterred by this movement, but the instinct-driven part of her brain—the part that ensured her survival—relished the control that the high ground gave her.

Her mouth opened. "Let me tell you something, Gabriel Agreste—"

What Marinette said after that was enough for her to be escorted out of the building by security.

...

"It's really nice to see you again, Marinette."

Adrien said this carefully, studying the woman across from him and hoping to get a sense of how she felt. It was hard to pin down; she rarely made eye contact with him and her shoulders were drawn tight. She fiddled with her half-full coffee mug, rotating it by the handle and tapping her bright crimson nails against the white ceramic. She was obviously anxious, but...was it a bad anxious? Or just the kind of awkward one feels when getting coffee with an acquaintance? If it was the latter, he didn't blame her. If it was the former, then he would feel like a fool for even asking her to coffee in the first place.

She blinked a few times, as if being pulled from a memory, and gave him a small smile—slight, but genuine. Her blue gaze flicked up toward him, just long enough to say, "I-It's nice to see you too, Adrien."

Adrien didn't reply immediately, only continued to observe. She wore a simple pink t-shirt and a dainty gold necklace—he remembered that she was never one for extravagances. She had a certain humility about her that wasn't common in the fashion world. Her hair was dark and shiny, twisted into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. A healthy blush dusted the many freckles that scattered over her cheeks and down to her collarbone—she often blushed, from what he remembered. Though, the last time he had seen Marinette, she was a scant little thing—pale, dark circles under her eyes, obviously didn't sleep or eat enough. Stress and grief had been gnawing away at her. Back when she still worked for his father, Adrien tried to take advantage of the photoshoots they were both working on to check in with her, to ask how she was; at the time, though, it didn't seem like she wanted to talk to him very much.

Knowing what he knew now, he couldn't blame her.

"You—You look good." Horror scratched at his throat as he realized what he said. "Er, uh, better. Than when I...last saw you." Shit. "I mean—"

Another smile. This one made her eyes glitter, despite the red that crossed her cheeks. "I know what you mean. Th-Thank you." Her voice was soft, understanding.

A loud groan suddenly emanated from the seat next to Marinette. She and Adrien both looked over to Chloe, who was rolling her eyes in-between thumb swipes on her phone. "What is this, an interview? You both are so formal, it's terribly boring."

Marinette shot a narrowed glare over to Chloe. "It's not like you're contributing anything to the conversation."

Adrien froze. Welp. He wasn't expecting Chloe drama this early in the morning.

To his surprise, though, his childhood friend seemed unfazed. "There's not even a conversation to contribute to."

"Maybe if you weren't on your phone, there would be."

Chloe scoffed dramatically. "Ugh, fine," she grunted, and pushed her phone down into her purse—this time, she carried a Louis Vuitton, which Adrien knew was only one in a very long and always-changing handbag rotation. "But you both have to find a way to be less awkward."

He could feel a smirk flicker over his face. "Now I get it."

Marinette raised a slim eyebrow in his direction. "Get...what?"

"Why you two are friends."

"Oh yeah?" Chloe leaned menacingly over her empty espresso cup, a gesture of challenge and aggression to anyone except those who knew Chloe Bourgeois well—it was playful, indicated by the tiny quirk of her frosty lips. "What makes you say that, Adrikins?"

"Oh, nothing." He took a coy sip of his café noisette and shrugged nonchalantly. "Just a feeling, I guess. A vibe."

Marinette let loose a light giggle. Adrien glowed inside, doing his best not to react too strongly to the sound. He couldn't help the grin he offered her has he set down his coffee. His heart dipped, though, when she avoided eye contact with him for what felt like the hundredth time that morning; her sights dodged his, dipping back down to her drink.

I wonder if she's mad at me about what I said when we were in my father's office.

The thought emerged out of nowhere. It had never occurred to him before; he suddenly grew very uneasy. Why would she be mad? Was it that he defended her? That seemed like a weird thing to be upset at someone about...maybe it was that she didn't feel like she needed defending? But if she was angry with him, then why did she agree to have coffee with him? She seemed so friendly over text.

Adrien bit his lip. Is it that Gabriel Agreste is my father? Nausea spiked in his gut.

Chloe, usually extremely perceptive, didn't catch any of this interaction. "Yeah, whatever," she sniggered. "Don't claim you know shit when you don't know shit."

In a moment that felt like out of a memory, Marinette and Adrien exchanged a knowing look. The way Marinette shook her head and pursed her lips in amusement, sending a puff out of her nose as if to say God, gotta love her, told Adrien that she understood exactly how he felt about Chloe.

This was a pleasant surprise to Adrien. He realized that it felt strange to know someone else aware of Chloe's tendencies, who simultaneously loved her deeply while also knowing not to let her steamroll too much. It was...refreshing. Not to mention validating—years of debating with Nino whether his friendship with Chloe was healthy suddenly felt less heavy to him.

It didn't take long for Marinette to blush and slip away from eye contact again, but that moment between them gave Adrien a bit of reassurance. Maybe their friendship didn't have to revolve around his father or fashion or the brand—maybe it could revolve around something else, something more genuine.

Adrien took a small sip of his coffee, allowing himself the rarity of hope.

The shrill sound of a cell phone ringing wavered around them—Chloe's, to no one's surprise. When she checked the caller I.D., she practically gagged. "Ugh, it's my dad."

Adrien set down his cup and jutted his chin towards her. "Go ahead, answer."

"What if I don't want to?" She wrinkled her nose and held her phone away from her as if it had suddenly grown mold.

"I mean, you don't have to, but he's just going to keep calling," Marinette offered.

After a moment of consideration and without changing her expression, Chloe hit the answer button and held the phone to her ear. "Hi, Daddy," she said into her cell, pushing it out of the corner of her mouth indignantly.

Though Adrien watched Chloe, his attention was actually directed to his peripheral, studying the gentle outline of Marinette's profile. She lifted her mug to her pink lips, took a drink, and set it back down onto the table quietly; she seemed particularly interested in Chloe's conversation with her father, her sights fixed.

There were some undecipherable words on the other end of the line. "Daddy, I'm hanging out with Adrien and Marinette right now," Chloe murmured. After a moment, she covered the speaker of her phone and said to her friends, "He says hi or whatever." The look on her face was one of complete rage—she really did hate being a messenger pigeon.

Marinette and Adrien didn't respond. They knew better than to give Chloe another message to carry.

"Listen, I really don't know," Chloe growled into the phone. "Can I talk to you later?" A few seconds passed. "Who cares about her, Dad? Fuck her."

Adrien and Marinette swapped a brief glance.

"Why should I? We don't matter to her." Chloe's nails, sharp and ready to slice, tapped against the table irritably. "Okay, fine. Okay! Give me a second." She pulled the phone away from her face for a moment and turned back to her friends. She didn't try to hide the snarl on her face. "Something is happening with Mom," she informed them as she stood. "I'm going to go...deal with this. Watch my bag, okay?"

Marinette's movement was sudden; before any of them knew it, she was clasping Chloe's hand. "Wait, Chloe—w-we were going to hang out. Remember?"

Chloe blinked at the touch; fake eyelashes fluttered, buoyant as butterfly's wings. "I have to make some calls, Mom's at it again."

"But…" Adrien watched as Marinette's brows crumpled together in worry.

"For real, Nettie, I gotta go." She pulled her fingers from Marinette's grip softly, like she didn't want to disturb her. She cocked her head and said with an unusual amount of care,"Scary shit, remember?"

Scary shit? Adrien decided not to ask despite his nagging curiosity.

The pause that hung between the two women seemed heavy. Marinette eventually nodded. "Yeah...scary shit." Her voice trembled a little. Adrien didn't know how to interpret the shy peek she gave him. "Good luck, Chlo. Take it easy on the mayor, okay?"

"Maybe." Whatever gentleness Chloe had displayed a second earlier disappeared when she shot them a smirk, still holding her phone aloft in the air. "You two get your interview over with. I expect you to be talking like normal people when I get back."

"No promises," Adrien retorted as she walked away, a laugh lining his throat; Chloe only replied with a middle finger as she strutted towards the door, cell pressed to her ear. A few other patrons watched her in shock as she passed. An old woman gasped.

As Chloe exited the cafe, an uncomfortable silence developed between Adrien and Marinette. She gazed down into her coffee mug, chewing on her lower lip; Adrien watched her has he tried his best to scrape together something to talk about. He didn't always do well in awkward situations.

"How...How is your dad?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to grab them and stuff them back inside. Marinette's back straightened and she met his eyes—her expression was unreadable.

Panic grabbed his windpipe and squeezed. "Er—sorry," he stammered, "I shouldn't have...Chloe told me he was doing well, so—"

"H-He's doing a lot better." The timid pinch of her voice and the stutter of her words remained, but the smile she wore seemed authentic. "Slowly getting back to normal."

A sentence hung at the edge of Adrien's tongue—even though he was unsure whether he should say anything or not, he uttered it anyway. "My mom died of brain cancer when I was twelve."

A sharp pull of air. "Oh my—Adrien," she breathed. "I-I'm...so sorry."

He shrugged. "It's okay. I just want you to know that I get how you feel." Then he shook his head, disbelief hanging above him like a suspended cartoon anvil waiting to drop. "I still can't believe my father wasn't more understanding of your situation, considering all we went through with Mom."

Marinette's face fell; he couldn't see her eyes behind her thick black lashes. "...yeah."

Oh, nice going, asshole. "But, uh, we don't have to talk about that! I'm sorry I even brought it up." That I brought any of this up.

"No, I…I'm glad you did." She gripped her mug as if it was her lifeline. "I never g-got the opportunity to thank you."

"To...thank me?" Adrien was not expecting her to say that. "For what?"

"Well, for...defending me to your father."

"Huh?" He couldn't help but let out a tight pft. "Are you kidding? It's the least I could have done. I hadn't helped you at all up until that point, and he was being a total dick." Which, to be fair, is business as usual even to this day. Adrien's lack of action included.

Marinette perked up a bit and leaned forward onto her elbows, bringing her coffee up to rest on her lips. "I appreciate that," she said, her words more sure and clear than they had been all morning, "but you didn't owe me anything, Adrien. Which is why it meant so much to me when you defended me. Frankly, I-I'm...very embarrassed about what I said in your father's office that day." The blush that she had arrived at the cafe with spread and deepened.

Oh...oh! All at once, everything made sense to Adrien. Relief flooded his limbs. "You—you don't need to be embarrassed!" he insisted, pushing his own coffee to the side. "It was awesome!"

Marinette froze; her pupils shrank with surprise. "R-Really?"

"Let's just say that the only person I've ever seen put my father in his place like that was my mom."

A strangled chuckle. "Well, it felt great in the moment, but it didn't exactly serve me in the long run."

Adrien shook his head. "Take it from someone who has been employed by Gabriel Agreste since the second he could pose in front of a camera," he insisted. "You dodged a bullet."

After a pause filled with contemplation, Marinette gave an interested twist of her lips. "I...think I owe you an apology, as well."

"Thanks and an apology? Heh. I don't do that many things right."

"I-I...I definitely owe you one. I totally misunderstood you while I was at Agreste. I just thought because you hung around Lila…" she drifted off, implying the rest of her statement.

"That I was bad news?" He couldn't help the smirk that planted itself on his face. "Oh, I definitely was. Still am."

That earned him a giggle, complete with a bashful covering of her lips with her red-painted fingers and a glitter in her eye. "No way."

His chest puffed up. "Totally. It's all a golden -boy act; I have a secret dark side." He wiggled his eyebrows playfully. "Many a fanfiction has been written about it."

"I believe that, actually," Marinette quipped, one slender shoulder raising in jest.

"That I have a dark side?"

"That's what I don't believe."

"Make no mistake, I definitely have a dark side. It's mysterious—in a charming way, not a creepy way."

"Oh, sure," she countered, sarcasm dripping from her voice. "Just watch, it will be revealed that you're, like...dressing head-to-toe in black leather in your free time, rebelling against the institution and secretly hoping that everyone will figure out who you are."

Adrien's breath twisted around his lungs. She's...not entirely wrong. "It's charming, I swear!"

Marinette took a drink of her coffee, eyeing him suspiciously over the rim. "Mm-hmm," she hummed through her sip, unconvinced. She ran a slim finger up and down through the air. "I like your outfit, by the way."

He looked down at himself. He wore a typical ensemble for going out with friends—a hat to cover up his hair, his wire-framed glasses (his thick ones were currently sitting patiently on the shelf in his room), and an argyle sweater vest over a grey long-sleeved shirt. His jeans and black sneakers were concealed by the table. They were items of clothing that Adrien, son of the world-renowned Gabriel Agreste, would never be caught dead wearing.

The smile he wore hurt his cheeks. "It just couldn't be the famous model Adrien Agreste, could it?"

"Oh, certainly not," Marinette replied, setting down her coffee and donning a serious expression. "Why would Adrien Agreste be spending time with his father's ex-employee on a Saturday morning when he has cameras to pose for and models to woo? Much less wearing argyle?"

"Hm, indeed. He must be but a humble computer programmer," he continued. He rubbed the stubble on his chin as he pretended to think. "Or a college student still stumbling to find his sense of style."

"Hey! I know some very sharp-dressed computer programmers." Marinette reached across the table to poke his sweater vest. "Like you, for example."

He brushed invisible dust off of his front. "Why thank you, my lady. It's designer."

"Versace? Armani?" She gasped. "Not Agreste?"

"I mean, someone designed it, right?"

"Hahaha!" The sound had presence—it took up space, like the ring of wind chimes cutting through the air and shimmering around his ears. "Can't argue with that, I suppose."

"It's hard to argue with such sound logic."

More wind chimes. "My best friend Alya would love to talk with you. I'm sure she'll ask me a million questions once I tell her what I've been doing this morning."

Adrien blinked. "You're not talking about Alya Cesaire, are you? She's a columnist at Victoire?"

"Yes, actually. She attended Francois-Dupont with me and Chloe."

"Oh, I didn't know Chloe had another friend!" He suddenly felt a strange envy of Chloe. Not only did she get to attend a public school, but she had the opportunity to reconnect with everyone she went to class with. What teenage Adrien would have given for that life instead of one stuck in his father's massive mansion, being tutored and home-schooled and monitored until his brain melted out of his ears.

Marinette scoffed, shaking her head. A strand of hair fell into her face and she pushed it away. "Oh no, no way. They can't stand each other. They will communicate, albeit quite begrudgingly."

"I see." Even though it made more sense, Adrien couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed.

"Do you read Alya's column?"

"For sure!" Adrien answered, his enthusiasm likely undeniable to anyone within a ten-meter vicinity. Only a small part of him cared. "She's hilarious. I appreciate her because her writing seems very straightforward and professional on the surface level, but it's like...how do I describe it…"

"She's actually making fun of everything she writes about?" Marinette's posture lifted in pride.

"Haha, exactly! No one is safe. There was this one article she wrote about an Agreste fashion show where she writes an absolutely legendary line…" He paused before taking his wallet from his pocket and opening it, suddenly feeling a bit shy. "You can't tease me about this, alright?"

She watched with amused fascination as he pulled a beat-up magazine page from one of the folds. "You have a copy of the article in your wallet?"

Of course he did. Alya Cesaire was one of the few reporters who had the guts to speak the truth about his father. But he didn't answer, opting to simply flash her a sheepish smile instead and begin to read aloud. "...the travesties began with the valet service and ended at the runway. Gabriel Agreste doesn't compromise on fashion, at least, which is a relief and refreshment to his sore-foot and scrambled audiences, and damning to his competitors who cared less about fashion and more about logistics. My dad was so mad, he's never hired that valet service or security team since this article was released."

Marinette sucked in a gasp, her blue eyes widening. "You're kidding."

He threw up his hands. "I swear it's true. He stewed for a week."

"Alya will be ecstatic to hear that." She rested her chin in her hand thoughtfully. "She's been feeling very...disillusioned with her job lately, so I'm excited to tell her that you love her writing so much."

"Why is she disillusioned?" Adrien would be very sad if Alya Cesaire ever stopped writing for Victoire; her column was one of the few that he looked forward to reading.

"Well, it's just hard for her to get interviews nowadays—not to mention that she feels pigeonholed into writing about fashion all the time. I keep telling her that she should go into investigative journalism, but she hasn't made the leap yet."

"Oh...actually, she would be great at that." He thought about her poignant writing style and attention to detail—he couldn't deny that it would suit her very well.

A certain kind of wistfulness came over Marinette, like she could envision her friend working in investigative journalism as they spoke. "Yeah."

The momentum of their conversation lulled to a pause. Marinette, as if suddenly aware of the situation, flushed pink and glanced out the window, once again avoiding his eyes. His stomach sank—it had been going so well. Was he pushing her too much?

A shift of expression on Marinette's face urged Adrien to follow her line of sight out the window and to the street beyond. There, in all of her unabashed glory, stood Chloe; she was speaking emphatically into her phone, her free left hand gesturing wildly in frustration. Passersby gave her plenty of space to ramble, unwilling to cross her path and risk the possibility of being struck by a rogue backhand or sliced by a flailing pink talon.

"So, she calls you Nettie." It seemed that Adrien's filter for conversation completely disappeared the moment he tried to make a friend. For what felt like the fifth time in the last thirty minutes, he wished he could rewind time and say something completely different.

But Marinette, graceful and considerate, nodded; her face lifted from worry to amusement. "She has a thing for nicknames, I guess."

"Nettie's cute. Much better than the nickname she gave me." Adrien shuddered.

The smirk was back, as disarming as ever. "Yeah, Adrikins? What is that about?"

"She called me that when we were children and it stuck. It really is most unfortunate."

"Well, I think it's sweet."

He tried his best not to smile too much. "Thank you." Keep talking. "Do you...often go visit Mme. Bustier at the school?"

Marinette shrugged. "That was my first time in a long time. It was good to see her." He heard her swallow hard. "Th-Though, I think she'll be ordering more of my parents' pastries, so...I'll probably be around the school m-more often." The little stress line between her eyebrows deepened a bit.

Adrien was careful about his next words. "We can, uh, do something after I'm done tutoring sometime. That is, if you're at Francois-Dupont. Maybe we can walk around, or catch a movie, or...whatever you want to do, really." It occurred to him that it could sound like he was asking her on a date, but he quelled that thought quickly—they didn't know each other well enough, as far as he was concerned.

Marinette's blush expanded threefold and she stiffened; Adrien watched, his heart sinking, as her jaw clenched and unclenched while she processed. She's going to say no, he told himself, preparing for rejection. She's going to say no.

But she offered a weak nod instead. "S-Sure, yeah. I, uh, I would...I would like that."

Adrien could have keeled over and died from happiness.

He had plans. With a friend. That wasn't Chloe.

Nino would be so proud of him.

In a flurry of blonde hair and cream cashmere, Chloe burst back into the cafe with pure loathing in her eyes. She stomped past the other tables, customers sending her glares as she stormed across the room like a bull charging a matador, and plopped back into her seat, slamming her very expensive designer purse onto the floor. She folded her arms and crossed her legs—uncrossed her legs—then recrossed her legs.

Adrien held back a wince. Hell hath no fury like an inconvenienced Chloe Bourgeois.

Marinette made a move as if to touch her, but paused and tucked her hand back under the table. She knew better than to touch Chloe while she was pissed. "Uh...you okay, Chlo?"

"Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous." Her knee jiggled furiously, likely a coping mechanism to prevent her from drop-kicking someone. "My mother is a narcissistic, insecure asshole with nothing better to do than continue interrupting our lives."

"What did she do this time?" Adrien asked, leaving back into his chair and finishing off his now-cold coffee.

"Enough," was Chloe's jaded answer. She raised a clawed finger to signal the waiter. "Fuck it, I'm having another espresso."

…

Ever since her conversation with Chloe in the nail salon, Marinette had given the Bijou masquerade some thought.

She pondered over her predicament while she sewed the ladybug gown—and she worked on the gown a lot. For a whole week, if she didn't have anything else she needed to do, she pinned and cut and trimmed and stitched her way into oblivion. It felt so good to sew again. She had forgotten how it felt to be absorbed in it, consumed by it, like nothing else in the universe existed except for her, her project, and her thoughts. With every shock of fabric and pull of red thread, she was piecing a dress—and herself—together.

She couldn't do much in this world, but she could make clothes. It was something.

Marinette would always automatically think of a new project as soon as she finished a piece. She would look at it, be proud, and then automatically ask herself: Well, what now? Back when she sewed incessantly, she would just move on to the next project, content to drown in measurements and trimmings rather than worries and anxieties.

But now, as she gazed at the finished ladybug gown on her dress form, finger tapping her chin, she didn't feel the need to preoccupy herself with another project. Something urged her to stop—reconsider. Adrien's voice, smooth and laced with a secret, echoed in her mind: Take it from someone who has been employed by Gabriel Agreste since the second he could pose in front of a camera: you dodged a bullet.

Marinette had never looked at it that way before.

The dress that stood in front of her was totally different than the rough design she had shown Alya. Typically, Marinette pre-planned every step of her sewing process the way a gardener landscapes: sketches, drawings, plans, spreadsheets. Nothing out of place or unaccounted for. With this dress, however, she took some risks. Lots of last-minute changes, new sketches, and re-patterning resulted in something completely unlike her original vision; while her first sketch was a large ball gown with curling patterns and pretty lace, almost princess-like, this dress was sleek and form-fitting. After watching the ladybugs crawl around her apartment, Marinette decided that they weren't pretty, delicate little fairy-creatures. They were brave, determined, adventurous. Little bugs with a purpose, independent and capable and yet so often reduced to spotted playthings plastered on children's clothing. She wouldn't continue that trend by sewing a princess ball gown to represent them. No, she had to have something unusual and almost alien, refined yet warm, eye-catching but not gaudy.

For the final piece, she had attached maroon, midnight, and crimson fabric together in smooth shapes to mimic the look of a wing across the body, two shots of fabric with the classic red-with-black-dots pattern as an accent through the middle; dark opera gloves clasped to the sleeves and a high neck met with an ink-and-silver cape that shimmered in the dim light of her apartment. Silver trimmings, angular cuts, and a floor-length detachable crimson skirt parted at the center to reveal elaborate black, red, and silver boots. Really, the dress was a very intricate leotard with a skirt attached to create what Marinette hoped was a regal and otherworldly aura.

She didn't know how she felt about the finished product. It was the sort of thing where she had stared at it for so long that she really wasn't sure what she was looking at anymore. But it didn't matter anyway—the masquerade was this Friday. It was Monday and she had all week, but she had plans to hang out with Adrien Tuesday afternoon and had a huge suit order to finish for a wedding on Wednesday and Thursday. She had just enough time to make a matching mask, but not much else other than that.

Marinette's stomach began to gurgle and writhe when she remembered that she would see Adrien the next day—and they would be spending time together.

There was a long box of misshapen macarons—rejects from Papa's recent baking session—sitting on a nearby table. She quickly stuffed a lumpy raspberry macaron into her mouth, hoping the fruity sweetness would settle her nerves.

She didn't understand why she was so nervous. Having coffee with him had gone so well! They chatted and joked, and though she stuttered through a lot of it, Adrien had seemed to enjoy himself. Not to mention he had asked her if she wanted to, quote, "walk around, catch a movie, or...whatever you want to do, really." Marinette swore she had almost blacked out. She didn't know what heavenly beings were on her side that gave her the strength to respond, but she had miraculously replied with a yes. And only a few days later Adrien had texted her with a suggestion to drop by her parents' bakery on the way home from Francois-Dupont on Tuesday afternoon.

To be perfectly clear, today was Monday.

And she would be walking with Adrien Agreste—the Adrien Agreste—down a Paris street to sit at a table and eat pastries on Tuesday.

Tuesday, as in, tomorrow.

The dress she had been examining swirled in her vision. Her chest tightened, like someone dug their fingers into her lungs and squeezed. She was panicking. Why was she panicking? This wasn't a big deal, not a big deal at all. Right? But then why was she feeling so anxious?

Marinette wiped the sweat from her brow and pulled her phone from her back pocket with shaking hands. I need to call Alya.

Alya took a maddeningly long time to answer. When Marinette first heard her voice, she thought she had reached her voicemail—but Alya's words settled her stomach a bit when she realized it wasn't a recording talking.

"Hey, girl," said her best friend. "I'm so glad you called, I have an update for you."

Relief to not have to immediately relive her anxieties and the apprehension of mysterious news swirled into a strange concoction in her gut. "Oh?" was all she could say.

"Yeah. Have you checked your mailbox yet today?"

Shit, she forgot to check her mail. "No. No, I haven't. Why?"

"Okay, well, um...I may have fucked up." A hiss of teeth on the other line. "I put a press pass for the masquerade in your mailbox this morning, just in case you wanted to go this weekend, but I talked to my boss and she really really wants me there. So...I don't know if that's good news or bad news for you, but I'll need you to give me that press pass the next time we see each other. And, also, like...please don't use it."

Marinette felt her heart sink. She glanced over to her finished dress, awaiting her patiently in all of its fairy-like splendor, and held back a sigh. "...um, yeah. That's okay...yeah, it's okay."

"Uh...you sure?" Alya's voice was trimmed with guilt. "You don't sound okay."

Marinette scrambled for a moment to find words for her feelings. "Oh, sure, I mean...I still haven't decided, so this makes the choice easy for me."

"I'm sorry, girl. I shouldn't have suggested it in the first place, it was unprofessional of me." The apology was slow and saddened; Marinette could tell that Alya had been beating herself up about it all day. "If it makes you feel any better, karma bit me in the ass. I have to reschedule my interview with Bubbler again."

Marinette smirked as she set down the pin cushion she had been holding and pulled the measuring tape from around her neck. "That doesn't make me feel better, but I appreciate the sentiment. Have you set a new time with him yet?"

A groan. "To be determined. But I don't want to talk about that. Why'd you call, everything good?"

Marinette gulped. She already felt better simply having Alya on the phone, but she couldn't deny the bubbling uneasiness that burned her insides. "Um, no, actually. I'm—I'm, uh, not good."

"Uh-oh. What happened? Did Chloe finally push you past your breaking point?"

She scoffed. "No, Alya."

"You have to admit that it's a reasonable guess."

"Well, apparently you talk to her nearly as much as you talk to me, so there is likely very little guessing required on your part."

"Ha, fair enough. So what's actually wrong?"

The truth was tangled in her throat. Why is being vulnerable so difficult? "So, uh...do you remember when I worked with, uh, Adrien Agreste?"

A tch. "Yeah, I sure do. He was a little weird, right? He hung around Lila but also, like, defended you to his father when you got fired? I thought he was an asshole until he did that."

"Yes, him. He's friends with Chloe too."

"Oh, god. He is an asshole, isn't he?"

Marinette's heart fluttered a bit. "Um, n-no, actually. He's—he's quite kind, to be honest."

A pregnant pause on the other line. "...what exactly do you mean by that?"

"Well...we might have g-gotten coffee yesterday."

"Oh my god! Are you serious? Mari! How can you not be good?" A rapid shuffling. Marinette could only assume that she was frantically repositioning herself to listen to this story better. "How did you reconnect? Why did you go to coffee? Was it a date? How soon can you get me an interview with him?"

"Alya, slow down. It wasn't a date, we were catching up. Chloe was there."

"Oh, boo."

"Sorry to disappoint you," she laughed shortly. "He said he loves your column. Does that cheer you up at all?"

"A tiny bit, yes. He likes my column?"

"Not like, love. Said that the story you did on one of his dad's shows was his favorite—apparently, your writing made Gabriel Agreste squirm."

A loud thunder of a ha. "Wow, I suddenly like this guy a lot more now."

Yeah, me too, Marinette thought to herself. And it's scaring me a little bit. "He agreed with me that you would make a great investigative reporter."

"Oh, don't start with that again, Mari. You know I'm too deep in my job." Another shuffle, then an indignant moan. "Speaking of, my boss is calling me. This conversation is not over, Marinette Dupain-Cheng. You understand?"

She didn't doubt it. Alya would never give her a choice in the matter. "Yes, mademoiselle."

"Don't yes mademoiselle me. And don't forget to take that press pass out of your mailbox—can you hold onto it until next Monday evening? I'll swing by, I'm going to be too busy prepping for the masquerade this weekend. My magazine is taking it much more seriously than I originally thought they would. So, y'know, please don't use it."

Her lungs suddenly grew tight. "Sure, y-yeah, no problem." It felt like a lie.

"I'm sorry, girl. I really gotta go, but I'll bring wine Monday night and you'll tell me all about it, yeah?"

That sounded a bit like heaven. "Deal. Now answer before your boss hangs up, you goob."

"Yeah I will love you bye!"

Then the beep of an ended call.

Marinette set her phone down on the kitchen table, stuffed another macaron into her mouth, and looked around at the explosion of sewing supplies that had overtaken her apartment. She sighed through the pastry on her tongue and continued chewing begrudgingly. "Guess I have to put the dress away, huh, Tikki?" The words were muffled with macaron.

Only the squeak of the hamster wheel responded.

…

It was a peculiarly warm day for late February as Marinette and Adrien walked the puddled streets of Paris, despite the grey clouds that loomed overhead and the intermittent sprinkle of rain that would occasionally dampen the ends of Marinette's bangs. Thankfully, she dressed for the weather: her favorite sage-colored jacket, comfy-but-cute brown plaid flair pants, short black rain boots, and a tan scarf to protect her from a sudden chilly breeze. She made sure to wear waterproof mascara, just in case they were caught in the rain (which she definitely didn't fantasize about, no, not at all), and light makeup with a ton of setting spray. She braided her hair in twin pigtails so any frizz the humidity caused would be hidden in a plait. She could do nothing for the way her bangs curled, though, and tried her best not to mess with them despite the nagging temptation.

Marinette knew that maybe she was being a bit meticulous about her appearance today, but it was easy to do while walking next to an actual model. Not just any model—a tall, blond, beautiful-inside-and-out model. A down-to-earth, forgiving, funny, charming model. One that seemed to like being around her. One who she liked being around, much more than she thought she would.

Adrien wore a simple maroon sweatshirt layered under a charcoal rain jacket and a pair of jeans. A cap covered most of his hair, but little bursts of blond peeked from underneath the trim and coiled in the moist air, like little swoops of sunshine. Somehow, the foggy day made his green eyes stand out even more than usual: they were so bright that Marinette was convinced she could even see them in her periphery. Their color reminded her of fresh green pears, the kind that Marinette's father would hand-pick and peel to make Poires Belle Héléne as a treat on weekends.

Marinette watched in fascination as Adrien fiddled with the unfurled black umbrella in his right hand. She quietly and shamefully wished it was her hand he was gripping. "I'm sad to say that I've never been to your family's bakery before," he said softly, almost an apology.

She managed a chuckle through a thick swallow. "I-I'm very excited for you to try it. My parents are fabulous bakers, especially my dad." She prayed that her blush wasn't too obvious, though she knew deep-down that it was.

"So I've heard. Any recommendations from the Pastry Princess herself?" The smile he gave jellied her knees. And those eyes! Like two glowing green lightsabers slicing right through her.

"Oh, well, you can't really...go wrong with anything, really. Everyone likes something different!" What kind of answer was that? "Heh."

Adrien, per usual, took it in stride. "Hm, okay. Maybe I'll just pick something—can't really make a bad choice when it's all good, right?"

"R-Right." Cool, suave, collected Marinette was inside her somewhere—exactly where, though, she had no idea. Panicked Marinette could really use the help. Think of something to say, think of something. "So...how was, uh, tutoring today?"

The model's glow suddenly doubled. Marinette almost had to squint. "Oh, jeez, those kids are driving me bonkers. They're so sassy." He laughed merrily, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Smart as whips and they don't even realize it."

Thank god, he seemed to have liked that question. "What do you mean?" Yes, please tell me more so I don't have to feel horribly awkward trying to make conversation.

"You know," he responded with a thoughtful cock of his head, "they'll convince themselves they don't understand when that's exactly what holds them back."

A pang flicked at Marinette's heart—she knew he wasn't talking about her, but she suddenly felt very seen. "Maybe they...need more support?"

"That's why I'm there. Madame Bustier asked me, actually, after I came to her looking to donate to the school."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I told her that I was sad I never got to go to public school. She offered the position in lieu of the donation." He shrugged nonchalantly. "So I did both."

Madame Bustier always had a sixth sense for the good ones. She supposed she should consider that reassuring—it was no secret that Madame Bustier ordered pastry delivery from her parents' bakery if only to chat with Marinette. "That's very kind of you. The Paris education system is good but it's really complicated and it doesn't leave much room for emotional support. I'm glad to know there is more than one educator, even if it's a tutor, that cares about the hearts of Paris's students."

Those green eyes widened and blinked—the smallest and most genuine of smiles crossed his beautiful face. "That's...exactly how I feel," he murmured, as if in disbelief.

She suddenly felt the air suck from her lungs. A rush of relief flooded her when she saw a familiar building come into view. "Oh, look, we're here," she emphasized a bit too strongly, pointing towards the bakery with one finger and wiping her other sweaty palm on her corduroy jacket sleeve.

If he had dog ears, they would have perked up. "Oh?"

"Ready to have some delicious pastries?" The question was awkward and fumbling, but she had managed to act casual enough that a small bit of pride sparked in her chest.

"Yes I am!" was his immediate response.

While Tuesdays were often a busy day for the bakery, this was not true for this Tuesday. Only a few customers occupied the small tables, sipping teas or nibbling on croissants, chatting lowly while the familiar noises of baking filled the background: her father and mother chatting in the kitchen, the hum of the oven, the whir of the mixer. This was a familiar environment to Marinette – her shoulders eased, her jaw relaxed, her spine unraveled.

"It's warm in here," was Adrien's quiet observation. Since he didn't immediately take off his jacket, she didn't think he was talking about the temperature.

She nodded, unable to hold back her smile. "Find a seat, I'll go grab Maman and Papa."

"I can come—"

"No!" she interrupted. "N-No, that's alright, we, uh, can't have customers in the back for health reasons. Please, sit and relax, take a look at the pastries in the display case and decide what you would like. It won't take but a few seconds."

"O-Okay," Marinette heard him mutter as she rushed behind the counter. She wouldn't waste a moment before her parents laid their eyes on Adrien. When she suggested this as an outing to Adrien, she didn't think about the fact that all her parents knew about him was that he benefited from nepotism and hung around Lila, the model that made her work life a living hell. She had never told them the full story about what happened in Gabriel Agreste's office that day—she supposed she hadn't told anyone, save for Alya.

While the lobby was warm, the kitchen was almost hot—it was like someone had slapped her across the face with a freshly-made crepe. "Whoa," she let slip, "it's steamier in here than usual."

Tom looked up from his work on the far counter. His face was red and sweaty; when he spotted Marinette, though, the creases of his face lessened. "Oh, Marinette!" he exclaimed. "It's good to see you again, love."

"Is Marinette here?" called a familiar voice from the back storage room. Soon enough, Sabine emerged, looking significantly less flustered than her husband but disheveled nonetheless. Sabine always handled stress better than Tom did, something that Marinette unfortunately did not inherit. "Hello, dear! We weren't expecting you back today. Did Caline enjoy her chouquettes?"

She briefly recalled her interaction with Madame Bustier just an hour ago. "Yeah, she loved them, but uh—"

"Sorry we're a bit scattered right now, sweetheart." Tom grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his damp forehead. "We just got a huge order in for that big masquerade happening this weekend. You know the one? Bijou?"

Suddenly feeling queasy, she cleared her throat. "That's...great, Papa. Good for business. You're making some ahead of time?"

"Just the ones that can be chilled and still be of good quality at the end of the week," Sabine clarified, wiping her floured hands on her apron. "Did you need something, Mari?"

Right. Adrien's waiting in the lobby. "Ahem, so...remember when I was employed at Agreste and worked with Gabriel Agreste's son Adrien?"

Tom's soft expression hardened. "Yes. I do."

"Dear," Sabine murmured, stepping forward and touching Tom's elbow gently.

This may be more challenging than I thought. Might as well just say it outright. "Well, I never told either of you this mostly because it shocked me and I didn't know how to feel about it, but Adrien actually defended me to his father right before I got fired and he's really nice and we're kind of friends now."

Both parents straightened in surprise. "What?"

"And he's in the lobby."

"What?"

…

Adrien knew little to nothing about pastries. He usually just ate whatever was put in front of him and didn't ask any questions—it was easier that way. He couldn't decide whether he felt intimidated or excited by all of the delicious-looking options, each tray labeled with names of desserts he knew he had eaten before but couldn't place when. Of course, there were classics like eclairs and croissants, but there were others in the display case that he was reminded existed at all: a light and flaky cake called Mille-feuille, little buns titled Brioche, and a golden-brown wheel dusted with nuts and filled with cream named Paris-Brest.

"Wait," he muttered to himself, "Wasn't this one invented for the big bicycle race…?"

"Paris-Brest is a specialty of mine."

The voice was booming, almost quaking. Adrien, unnerved by the interjection, slowly pulled his sight upward to meet the gaze of a very large man. Adrien thought his bodyguard was one of the biggest men he had ever seen—but this fellow put that to the test. He wore a huge apron, face sweaty, flour striped across his cheeks like war paint and his thick mustache twitching; his electric-blue eyes were narrowed and one brow raised in suspicion, massive arms crossed against his broad chest. If not for the fact that he stood in a bakery, Adrien would have believed this man to be a pro wrestler or a bodybuilder—not a baker.

Adrien gulped; he hoped it wasn't too obvious. "H-Hello."

"I'm Tom, Marinette's dad."

That Tom? This man hardly looked like he was in recovery from cancer. "It's very nice to meet you." Adrien pulled out an award-winning smile, the one he used to alleviate uncomfortable situations.

Tom's stare moved down to Adrien's feet and back to his head as if he were sizing him up. "You must be Adrien Agreste. Impossible not to recognize you, considering your face is everywhere."

"Yes, monsieur, I am. I used to work with…" Oh. Of course. He, Adrien Agreste, the son of the very man who screwed over Marinette and her family, was here in their bakery on some random Tuesday. Why didn't he consider this before he arrived?"...w-with your daughter."

The huge baker's jaw tightened. "So I've heard."

Shit. Adrien scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "So, uh...you recommend the Paris-Brest?"

"Yes, it's delicious," a softer voice offered, "which Tom would be very happy to give you. Isn't that right, Tom?"

A much smaller woman appeared and set a tiny hand on Tom's gargantuan forearm. Adrien recognized the shiny dark hair, delicate build, and friendly demeanor immediately.

Tom only grunted in response to her suggestion.

The woman gave Adrien a familiar grin. "Hello, I'm Sabine."

"You must be Marinette's mother," he commented before he could stop himself.

"Ha, yes. I won't ask how you can tell. Marinette will be out in just a moment, she's traying the last of some pastries." She paused. "Actually, they're fresh Paris-Brests if you would like one."

Relief flooded his chest. Sabine seemed much more casual and open to him—not that he blamed Tom. "Y-Yes! That would be lovely, thank you."

A loud clatter erupted from the kitchen; Tom and Sabine visibly flinched in unison.

Sabine's soft eyes crinkled at the edges. "Tom, would you go check on Marinette please? She may need help."

Tom sucked on his teeth but complied, grumbling as he went.

As soon as the kitchen door closed behind him, Sabine offered Adrien an apologetic shrug. "You'll have to forgive Tom. I assure you, he is very soft-hearted, but…"

"...protective of his daughter," Adrien finished, holding up a hand. "I understand."

Sabine gave a kindly grin and waved to a few tables by the window. "Please, take a seat," she said, "I'll bring you a cup of tea."

"Thank you, madame."

Adrien chose an unoccupied table by the center window. As he waited, he caught himself picking at his cuticles—a prick of pain indicated he had gone too far. He looked down to find that a strip of red followed the length of his left thumbnail.

Shit, he thought to himself, my manicurist will be so pissed.

Adrien was nervous...really nervous. Was it because of Tom? Meeting Marinette's family, who his father indirectly hurt when he fired her? He wished he had thought of this beforehand. If he was to be friends with Marinette, which he wanted very much, he wouldn't feel good about her parents hating him.

Sabine reappeared swiftly. She brought a tray holding a steaming cup of what smelled like English Breakfast tea, a creamer filled with milk, and a container of sugar.

She set it down on the table and slid into the seat across from him. "Marinette and Tom will be a few moments," she said with a light giggle. "Marinette dropped one of the trays of Paris-Brests."

"It's no problem. Thank you for the tea." He picked up the cup and blew on the steam. Even though Sabine seemed perfectly nice, his palms were still offensively clammy. "And...thank you for welcoming me into your establishment, especially considering…" His words drifted into silence. Considering what, exactly? It seemed like there were too many offenses to count. He could hardly believe he was still here at all.

Sabine cocked her head. "What do you mean?"

He pull a deep breath and set his cup down. "I mean...my father, he...certainly didn't do your family any favors." Unable to tear his eyes away from the table, he managed to utter, "I feel terrible."

"Adrien, you are not responsible for the decisions your father makes."

His breath hitched. When their eyes met again, he could see the resolve in her dark eyes: she meant what she said. "But, Marinette—"

"Marinette will be fine," the woman stated, giving a small puff of amusement from her nostrils. "And Tom may seem big and scary, but he's mostly bark. He feels like it's his fault his daughter went through all of that."

"But, he—he didn't choose to get sick."

Sabine threw up her hands in defeat. "I know, I know. I've told him a million times and he won't listen. So, Adrien, learn from Tom: don't apologize for the things you can't control."

A weight had been lifted off his shoulders that he didn't realize was there. "I see where Marinette gets her wisdom from."

"Don't let her fool you," Sabine smirked, straightening her already-perfect posture. "She can pull some stupid moves sometimes, especially when she gets in her own head." She jutted her chin toward the kitchen where Marinette and Tom were surely cleaning dirty pastries off the floor. "Like just now."

"Don't we all?"

She pressed a hand into her clavicle and laughed, the sound like little wind chimes. It reminded him of Marinette's laugh. "Fair enough."

A few seconds of comfortable silence passed. Now that she had cleared the air, Sabine –unlike Tom and even Marinette at times—made him feel at ease. She produced a wise and welcoming aura, as if all she wanted from him was to be himself. It was refreshing. He took a sip of his tea, allowing the warm liquid to flood his limbs and relax his throat.

"So, are you and Marinette dating?"

It took all of Adrien's strength not to spit the tea he was suddenly choking on. "What?" He pushed through coughs. "No, uh—no, we're just friends. I, uh…" he paused in thought for a moment. He didn't want to make the fact that he tutored at Francois-Dupont public information—not that he didn't trust Sabine to keep a secret, but paparazzi were just as sneaky as they were slimy. It was hard enough to keep his students quiet about it. "...I know Madame Bustier personally. Marinette and I reconnected at the school while I was visiting."

"I see," Sabine responded. "Well, you're welcome here any time, Adrien."

His heart fluttered. "Th-Thank you, madame."

"You're welcome, dear. And just Sabine is fine."

They chatted for a few more minutes, the conversation easy, until Marinette and Tom approached the table; the plate with Adrien's Paris-Brest seemed minuscule in comparison to Tom's hand. He was practically holding it with two fingers.

Tom set the plate next to the cup of tea. "Hope you enjoy." The words were stern but genuine; they sparked a bit of hope in Adrien's chest that maybe Sabine was right.

He smiled up at the man. "Thank you, monsieur."

After a cursory nod, he turned and headed back towards the kitchen, grumbling something about needing to finish a huge pastry order. As Tom slunk away, Marinette came into view; she held a plate of raspberry-pink macarons with both hands, her shoulders strung up tight. The little worry crease between her brows was back.

Sabine glanced from her daughter and back to Adrien. "Well," she said with a contented sigh, "I suppose I should go help Tom. You two be sure to say goodbye to us before you leave."

And with that, Adrien and Marinette were alone at that little bakery table, a view of a rainy Paris street and the sweetness of Tom's delicious pastries to frame the beginning of what Adrien hoped—almost desperately—was a friendship.

…

The afternoon went so, so well.

Marinette didn't know if it was the irresponsible amount of sugar she was eating or the warmth of the bakery, but it didn't take long to ease into a conversation with Adrien. They talked about so many things, mostly inconsequential—hobbies, interests, lighthearted anecdotes. Marinette learned that Adrien practiced fencing and played piano, which according to him were "rich kid activities" to which he gave an eye roll; it didn't stop Marinette from insisting that he play for her sometime, to which a begrudgingly agreed. The tables turned on Marinette, however, when Adrien ask if she would show him some designs. To her dismay, she felt she had to say yes—she would occasionally forget that he was the son of a renowned fashion designer who likely hated her, and it was moments like these when she was reminded of her own convoluted and complicated story.

Other than the occasional awkward chuckle or sheepish glance, Marinette felt that she was closer to Adrien already. After they told her parents goodbye and left the bakery, she was pleasantly surprised to find that Adrien walked a bit closer to her—the umbrella was in his opposite hand and his arm was only inches away from hers, the presence of him pulling her in like a magnet conspiring her doom. He looked her in the eyes more often, smiled more frequently, laughed without hesitation. Again, she thought of what it would be like to hold his hand.

Not that she would do it! No, no way. Too soon. Even though this new closeness was simultaneously invigorating and torturous, like she had one foot in one reality and her other foot in another, what was happening was...good. Really good. In fact, it was almost jarringly good, so good her head spun.

As it turns out, you often don't realize how depressed you are until you don't feel as depressed anymore.

Time for a therapist, Marinette, she thought to herself as she watched Adrien giggle at a particularly dorky pigeon that just crossed their path. A few droplets of rain fell into the sunny wisps that poked out of his ball cap; he squinted up towards the sky, said something coy about the weather, and unfurled his black umbrella. They walked together under that umbrella, even closer than before, her heart tighter than it was a moment ago. She didn't need a therapist to know that she didn't want—or need—to ruin this moment by indulging her selfish impulses.

No. Actually, she didn't feel it was dishonest when she thought to herself, I am happy with this.

"Marinette, I...can I be honest with you?"

His words came out of nowhere. Earnest, nervous, hopeful. "Always."

A small smile and little sigh from the nose showed her that he appreciated her equally-earnest response. "I am...lonely."

The emptiness in his eyes, greyed behind the fog that hung on his glasses, was riveting. Just a moment ago, they were full of his smile, reflecting the rain and the street and the overcast sky. Now she could only see his heart beneath them—the broken one, the aching one. The longing one.

How could she feel so happy and so sad at the same time? Happy that he felt he could be honest with her, sad that this was part of his truth.

But then, just after, she felt...understanding. "Yeah. Me, too."

"What about your parents?" The question wasn't accusatory, but a good one that had a complicated answer. They had, after all, just come from seeing her parents, who offered them pastries and comfort and kind words.

She regretted turning the conversation towards her own issues. He was the one who confided in her about his loneliness, shouldn't she be asking him the questions? Guilt sagged at her shoulders. "My parents…" She paused to consider what exactly she wanted to say. "My parents have always been supportive, and maybe they seem like they have their shit together because they're awesome and kind, but...they're struggling, too." Struggling didn't seem like enough to express exactly what they were going through, but it would do for now.

Adrien's silence indicated his empathy for her answer. "Well, don't you have Alya?"

Marinette shrugged. "It's not fair to depend on one person for your happiness. She is there for me, but she has her own life to live, you know? I want to respect that."

His eyes glimmered. They were approaching the intersection where they would part ways—Marinette to her apartment, Adrien to his house. Marinette felt Adrien's pace slow, as if he too didn't want this to end quite yet. She met his stride willingly.

"You're a great friend," he said to her, his tone low and wistful.

Ba-bump, ba-bump. Was he talking about her being a great friend to Alya? Or to him?

Did it matter?

What she said next felt impossible to hold back. "You are, too."

The was his face lit up made her thankful, for the first time in a while, that her mouth spoke before her brain could intercept.

They stopped. This was the intersection.

"Are you sure you don't want me to walk you back?" he asked, his brows crumpled with concern.

Marinette thought of how much she would love it, how their conversation would probably continue, and how tempted she would be to offer him a cup of coffee and a leftover profiterole...then she thought of the mess of red and black fabric all over her apartment and winced. "No, thank you. Really, I'm fine."

"...only if you're sure." He, however, did not sound confident in the decision at all.

The rain pitter-pattered on the taught fabric of the umbrella. The quiet that hung between them was almost magnetized, the shifting of the skies vibrating at the base of Marinette's spine. There was only a light rain now, but a storm was coming. She could feel it electrify the air.

Marinette was overcome with emotion all at once. Alya, Chloe, and now Adrien...they were holding her up. Moments like these kept her head above water while she was re-learning how to swim. Marinette was so grateful, so amazed at the generosity of her friends...and so, so humbled.

It wasn't always this way. She used to be there at hand and foot for everyone else all the time, bending over backwards for her friends, fighting for what was right and just and beautiful, rejoicing and grieving with loved ones and strangers alike. Deep down, the gestures were genuine, but also a way to sate her insecurities of her own self-worth—she grew to realize that over time. Facades, no matter how established, will always break eventually. Months of sitting and thinking and crying alone gave her room to see that. Now, she was broken and finding a way to mend herself, bit by bit and piece by piece, into a version of Marinette that existed without the dissonance of her screaming ego fighting against her inner truth. The process wasn't pretty or romantic or mystical, but it was hers. This afternoon helped to heal her a bit.

Maybe now, she was healed enough to finally be there for someone else. Not be there for them to reassure some discontented part of herself, but really be there for them.

For him. Specifically.

With a resolve she had not felt in a long time, she turned to him. "Adrien."

His eyes widened at the sound of his name. He blinked a few times; she refused to be distracted by those long blonde lashes again. She had something important to say. "Y-Yes?" he stammered.

"You are...a good person," she breathed, focusing on the emotion moving through his eyes as she spoke, "who deserves to have someone who will see and hear you for who you are." Marinette lifted her chin. "Because who you are is worth celebrating. So if you ever want to feel seen or heard...I'm here for you."

This space between them was electric, but this time it was not because of the incoming storm.

After a moment of Marinette trying to decide whether she felt heavier than stone or lighter than air, Adrien's lips curled into a smile. Not a model one, or a kind one, or even a happy one.

It was...relieved.

Suddenly, he reached down and grabbed her hand.

Every muscle in her body tensed. She did not, in any conception of their time together, consider this to be a possibility. Oh, fuck! She screamed inwardly. What the fuck, he is taking my hand-

But she didn't have to panic for long. Brought the umbrella to her hand, still cradled in his, and pushed it into her palm; he squeezed his fingers around hers, forcing her to take it, before he let go.

Marinette's heart was pounding in her stomach, her skin on fire despite the chill and the rain. "Wh—What…?"

The look he gave her was nothing short of intense. "That was one of the kindest things anyone has ever said to me."

Her breath was sucked from her lungs.

Without any warning, he stepped out into the rain. A few intentional steps backwards further down the sidewalk toward his house—he intended to leave her his umbrella. He would have to walk back without it. She wanted to cry out, to argue, but her voice caught in her throat.

"To be there for you as well, Marinette…it would be an honor." Droplets fell from the brim of his cap, his hair, the end of his nose; he pressed his hand to his chest and dipped his head, the slightest of bows. "I hope you will allow me the privilege."

She was at a complete and total loss for words.

"See you soon. Please let me know that you get home safe."

And with a shy little wave, he turned on his heels and began the walk back to his house, seemingly undeterred by the increasing flow of rain. Marinette could only stand there dumbfounded, watching his form disappear into the mist.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder cracked. Then, after that, Marinette simply had no choice in the matter.

…

:)