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Marinette was currently losing a war against gravity, and gravity was winning by a landslide.
Between the oversized bag of premium cat food digging into her shoulder, the plastic-wrapped tower of scratching post parts under her left arm, and the heavy litter box supplies clutched against her chest, she was less a person and more a walking mountain of pet store inventory. To top it off, Duchess—a Persian cat with the temperament of a displaced dictator—was let out a low, vibrating growl from the carrier dangling precariously from Marinette’s pinky finger.
She was halfway up the stairs to her apartment, her thigh muscles screaming for mercy, when a soft thud vibrated through the wood of the railing.
“Marinette, are you starting a zoo?”
She jolted, the scratching post box sliding a dangerous three inches. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the urge to drop the entire mess just so she could facepalm. “Chat Noir, if you make me drop this litter, I am going to make you eat it.”
The hero didn’t look particularly threatened. He was perched on the railing with the fluid, irritating grace of someone who didn't have to carry their own body weight up four flights of stairs. His tail flicked with feline curiosity as he peered down at the carrier.
“And here I thought we had something special,” he teased, leaping down to the step just above her. He leaned in, his green eyes narrowing as they met Duchess’s flat, unimpressed stare through the mesh. “Who is this fluffy usurper?”
“This,” Marinette grunted, shifting her weight until her spine popped, “is Duchess. Madame Laurent had a last-minute emergency and begged me to watch her for the weekend. Apparently, I’m the only one in the building she ‘tolerates.’”
Duchess hissed. It was a sound that suggested Madame Laurent was a liar.
Chat Noir’s hand went to his chest, his expression shifting into something theatrically wounded. “Cat-sitting? You’re cat-sitting?”
“I am trying to, yes. Now move, you’re blocking the path to my demise.”
He didn't move. Instead, he stepped closer, invading her personal space with that radiant and dreamy rooftop-breeze scent that always seemed to follow him. He reached out, plucking the heavy bag of cat food from her shoulder as if it weighed no more than a croissant.
“I’m hurt, Marinette. Deeply. Truly. My whiskers are drooping,” he said, his voice dropping into a mock-solemn register. He didn't just take the bag, he took the scratching post box too, tucking them under one arm while looking entirely too smug. “You had a feline crisis and you didn’t call Paris’s resident cat expert? The injustice is staggering.”
“You’re a superhero, Chat, not a pet-sitter,” she retorted, though the relief in her shoulders was so immense she almost forgave his ego. She started up the remaining stairs, the cat carrier swinging between them. “Besides, I figured you had enough on your plate without worrying about a Persian with a superiority complex.”
“Never,” he said, following her with an easy, rhythmic stride. “I have a natural rapport with my kin. We speak the same language. Watch.” He leaned down toward the carrier and let out a soft, melodic trill.
Duchess responded by batting a clawed paw against the mesh with the speed of a viper.
Chat Noir recoiled, nearly dropping the cat food. “Rude! Did you hear that? She just insulted my entire lineage.”
Marinette reached the landing and fumbled for her keys “I told you. She’s a dictator. And apparently, she’s not a fan of puns.”
“Well, then she and I are going to have to have a very long, very serious talk about her life choices,” Chat replied, leaning against her doorframe as she pushed it open. He didn't hand the supplies back. Instead, he walked right into her living room like he owned the place. “Don’t worry, Purr-incess. The expert is here. By Sunday, I’ll have her purring in the palm of my hand.”
Marinette set the carrier down and let out a long breath. “I’ll settle for her not shredding my curtains, Chat. Anything else is a miracle.”
By the time the sun dipped below the Parisian skyline, Marinette had finally achieved a fragile peace. Duchess was currently perched on the highest shelf of the armoire, staring down at Marinette with the judgmental gaze of a Victorian headmistress.
The peace lasted exactly until a familiar tap-tap-tap sounded against the glass of the trapdoor.
Marinette sighed, dragging her hand across her forehead and climbed the ladder. She’d been staring at her history essay for so long her brain felt like it had been through a blender. "Chat, it’s late, and I’m really not in the—"
She pushed the door open and stopped.
Chat Noir was standing on her balcony, looking like he’d just robbed a high-end pet boutique. He was juggling a bag of organic salmon treats, a stick with neon feathers attached to it, and a thick, leather-bound notebook.
"Good evening, Purr-incess," he chirped, flashing a grin that was far too bright for 9:00 PM. "I’ve returned to fulfill my civic duty."
"Your what?"
"Co-parenting," he declared, stepping over the threshold before she could even think about blocking him. "I realized this afternoon that you were woefully unprepared for the psychological warfare required to handle a Persian of this caliber. Luckily for you, I’ve spent the last four hours in deep meditation and research."
He dropped the treats onto her chaise and held up the notebook. In an elegant, looping script, the cover read: DUCHESS CARE PLAN: PHASE 1.
"Absolutely not," Marinette said, hands on her hips. "There is no 'Phase 1.' There is only 'keep the cat alive until Monday.' Out, Chat. Go patrol a monument or something."
"Marinette, please," he said, clutching the notebook to his suit. "This isn't just about the cat. It’s about professional courtesy. One feline to another. I’ve brought the high-grade feathers." He swished the stick through the air. Whirr-whirr-whirr.
From the top of the armoire, a low, guttural growl emanated.
Chat froze. He turned slowly toward the shelf, his ears twitching. "Ah, the patient is awake. Don't be afraid, Your Grace. Your King has arrived to show you the wonders of the Feathered Serpent."
He gave the stick a masterful flick, dancing the feathers near the base of the armoire. It was a move of pure, calculated grace.
Duchess didn't lung. She didn't play. She simply leaned over the edge, stared at the feathers for three seconds, and then let out a hiss so sharp it sounded like a tire losing air. To punctuate her point, she turned around and pointed her fluffy backside directly at his face.
Chat’s jaw dropped. The feathers went limp.
"Did she just..." He looked at Marinette, genuinely scandalized.
"She’s a critic, Chat," Marinette said, hiding her grin behind her hand. "And she thinks your technique is amateur."
"Amateur?" Chat gasped, clutching his heart. "I am beloved by felines! I have a five-star rating on every rooftop in the Third Arrondissement! Stray kittens follow me for blocks just to hear my jokes!"
"Maybe it's the jokes that are the problem," Marinette suggested, finally walking over to pick up the notebook. She flipped it open. It was meticulously organized into sections: Grooming Standards, Treat Ratios, and Existential Crisis Management.
She looked at the effort—the ridiculous, over-the-top, earnest effort—and felt warmth tugging at her chest. "You actually researched what kind of treats Persians like?"
"Only the best for royalty," Chat grumbled, though he was already kneeling on the floor, trying to make himself look smaller and less threatening to the cat. He popped the seal on the salmon treats. "Come now, Duchess. Let’s not let a little bit of 'cat-titude' get in the way of a beautiful friendship."
Duchess peered over her shoulder, her yellow eyes narrowing at the smell of the salmon.
"See?" Chat whispered, looking back at Marinette with a triumphant spark in his eye. "I’m wearing her down. It’s a game of whiskers, Princess. And I never lose."
Marinette leaned against her desk, watching him talk to a cat that clearly wanted him dead. "You're a dork, Chat Noir."
"I'm a dedicated dork," he corrected, tossing a treat onto the top of the armoire. "Now, sit down. We need to go over the 2:00 AM brushing schedule. It's vital for her emotional well-being."
"There is no 2:00 AM brushing, Chat!"
"Not with that attitude, there isn't."
By Saturday afternoon, the bakery-scented air of Marinette’s room had been replaced by the distinct, salty tang of premium wet food and the chaotic energy of a hero who didn't know when to quit.
“It’s all about the delivery, Marinette,” Chat whispered, crouched in a tactical pounce position on the rug. He held a small porcelain saucer of shredded salmon in his palm. “She needs to feel like she’s hunted the meal. If you just hand it to her, you’re insulting her predatory instincts.”
Marinette leaned against her chaise, arms crossed, watching him with a mixture of disbelief and growing amusement. “She’s a Persian, Chat. Her most intense predatory instinct is judging my choice of wallpaper. And besides,” she added, “don't you have actual criminals to catch? Won't Ladybug get mad that you're spending your patrol time playing waitress to a cat?”
Chat didn’t even look back, his focus entirely on the silver fluff-ball above them. “M’lady is a woman of action. She'd understand the importance of this diplomatic mission.” He paused, his voice softening just a fraction, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And besides, even if she does get a bit nippy about it, it’s worth the lecture if it means I get to spend the weekend with you, Princess.”
Marinette’s heart did a clumsy little somersault against her ribs. She opened her mouth to shoot back a witty retort but the words died in her throat.
“Behold, Duchess!” Chat proclaimed, unaware of the minor internal crisis he’d just sparked. “A gift from the Great Cat in the Sky.”
Duchess looked down from the armoire. She didn’t jump; she descended, one slow, deliberate shelf at a time, until she was eye-level with the saucer. Chat’s eyes sparkled with triumph. He leaned in, his voice a soft purr. “There we go. Taste the victory, your highness—”
Whack.
With the speed of a professional boxer, Duchess’s paw flew out. The saucer flipped and salmon bits sprayed across Chat’s nose and the front of his suit.
There was a beat of stunned silence.
“My psychology,” Chat said, his voice an octave higher as a piece of fish slid down his cheek, “might require a peer-reviewed update.”
Marinette let out a snort that quickly devolved into full-bellied, breathless laughter. She doubled over, clutching her stomach. “She—she literally slapped the taste out of your mouth!”
“Chat, what are you doing with my scrap bin?”
Marinette looked up from her sewing machine an hour later to find Chat Noir sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by thread and bright fragments of fabric. He was concentrating so hard his tongue was poking out the corner of his mouth.
“Innovation,” he muttered, tied a knot with his teeth. “The neon feathers were too flashy. She’s a sophisticated woman. She needs textures. She needs… haute couture prey.”
He held up his creation: a lumpy, hand-sewn mouse with a long tail.
Marinette’s eyes widened. “Chat… is that the Liberty print silk I was saving for a pocket square? That was thirty euros a meter!”
“It was a scrap, Marinette,” he defended as he attached a small bell to the mouse’s tail. “And besides, can you really put a price on enrichment? It’s a masterpiece. I call it ‘The Midnight Squeak.’”
He tossed it toward Duchess, who was currently sharpening her claws on a cardboard box. The silk mouse landed with a soft thud. Duchess sniffed it, hooked a claw into the expensive fabric, and immediately began disemboweling it with her back legs.
“Look at that!” Chat beamed, oblivious to the massacre of the silk. “She loves it! I’m a natural tailor.”
Marinette groaned, but she couldn't stop the grin from spreading across her face. She watched him for a moment—the way his ears flopped forward when he was proud of himself, the way he stayed on the floor just to be at the cat's level.
As Ladybug, she was used to his flirting, his puns, and the way he took hits for her in the heat of battle. But she rarely saw him like this. He wasn't trying to save the city or impress a partner; he was just a boy with a lumpy silk mouse and a sincere desire to make a grumpy cat like him.
He was… well, he was actually kind of cute.
“What?” Chat asked, catching her staring. He smirked, leaning back on his hands. “Stunned by my craftsmanship, Princess?”
Marinette rolled her eyes, turning back to her machine to hide the slight flush on her cheeks. “Stunned by your audacity, kitty. Now pick up those thread scraps before I make you into a scratching post.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he chirped, already reaching for a piece of lace for his next 'masterpiece.'
“The trick, Marinette, is the anticipation,” Chat whispered, wielding a slicker brush with the focus of a surgeon. “You have to let her believe the brush is merely an extension of her own ego.”
“Chat, you’ve been talking to that cat for ten minutes,” Marinette said, looking up from her sketchbook. “Just brush her.”
He took the bait. He reached out, gently dragging the bristles over Duchess’s silver flank. For three seconds, it was blissful. Duchess let out a rumbling, gravelly purr. Chat’s face lit up with a blinding, smug grin. “See? I told you. I’m a natural—ow!”
Duchess performed a mid-air somersault that would have made Ladybug jealous, kicking off Chat’s chest with her back paws. A literal cloud of silver-grey undercoat exploded into the air, caught in the draft of Marinette’s desk fan.
“Oh, gods,” Marinette choked out, waving her hand in front of her face as a clump of fur floated into her mouth.
It was everywhere. It was on the curtains. It was stuck to Marinette’s damp lip-gloss. And Chat Noir was currently covered in a layer of static-charged fluff that made him look like he’d been through a dryer vent. One particularly long strand of fur was draped perfectly over his nose like a mustache.
He blinked, looking down at his fur-coated gloves. “I think,” he sneezed, the mustache-hair flying upward, “that she might be blowing her coat. Or she’s just shedding out of spite.”
Marinette laughed so hard she fell back against her pillows. “You look like a giant, rejected stuffed animal!”
“I’m a victim of my own success!” he protested, though he was grinning through the sneeze.
Chat was sitting on the floor, surrounded by lint-roller sheets and the remains of the silk mouse, while Marinette sat on her chaise, finally relaxing with a cup of tea.
Suddenly, Duchess stood up. She stretched her front paws out, her claws kneading the air, and let out a long, melodic yawn.
Chat went still, holding his breath. “Watch this,” he mouthed toward Marinette, his eyes wide. “She’s coming for the salmon treats. This is it. The bond is sealed.”
Duchess trotted across the rug with purpose. She bypassed the open bag of treats. She bypassed Chat’s outstretched hand. She didn't even give him a parting glance as she leaped—with surprising agility—directly onto Marinette’s lap.
She circled once, twice, and then plopped down into a heavy, warm loaf of fur, tucking her paws under her chest and closing her eyes with a definitive harrumph.
Chat stared. He looked at the cat. He looked at Marinette. He looked back at the cat.
“She’s purring,” Chat whispered, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated betrayal. “I gave her the finest silk. I researched the salmon ratios. I took a saucer of fish to the face for her!”
Marinette reached down, her fingers sinking into the soft fur behind Duchess’s ears. The cat leaned into the touch, a loud, motor-like purr vibrating through Marinette’s legs.
“I guess some things can’t be bought with salmon, kitty,” Marinette teased, her heart doing a weird, fluttery little dance at the look on his face. He looked like a kicked puppy—or, more accurately, a very confused kitten.
“I am the cat!” Chat cried, throwing his hands up in theatrical despair. “I’m the one with the ears! I’m the one who speaks the dialect!”
He slumped against the side of the chaise, pouting up at Marinette. “You’re a sorceress. That’s the only explanation. You’ve used some sort of bakery-witchcraft to steal her loyalty.”
“Maybe she just likes my face better,” Marinette said, her eyes softening as she looked down at him. He was still covered in a light dusting of silver fur, his hair a mess, looking completely ridiculous and entirely too endearing.
Chat let out a dramatic sigh, resting his chin on the edge of the chaise, just inches from Marinette’s knee. “Fine. I see how it is. You two can have your girls' night. I’ll just go be lonely on a cold, dark chimney.”
“Oh, stop it,” she laughed, reaching out with her free hand to flick a stray bit of fluff off his ear. “You can stay for one more treat. But only if you promise not to use the word ‘cat-titude’ for at least twenty minutes.”
“Ten minutes,” he countered, his smirk returning. “I have a brand to maintain, Princess.”
The chaotic energy of the afternoon had finally simmered down into a comfortable, domestic hum. The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic whir-click of Marinette’s sewing machine and the occasional soft chime of a bell as Chat Noir, draped lazily across her rug, twitched a ribbon toy for a deeply skeptical Duchess.
Marinette glanced over her shoulder, her needle pausing mid-stitch. Chat was leaning his head against the leg of her chaise, his mask silhouetted against the warm glow of her desk lamp. He wasn't even looking at the cat anymore, he was staring at nothing in particular, his expression unusually grounded.
“You know,” he said, his voice dropping into a soft, melodic register that didn't have a trace of his usual bravado. “I was thinking about Madame Laurent. And the bakery. And the way you didn't even blink when she asked you to watch this fluffy menace.”
Marinette turned back to her fabric, and smoothed a seam. “She was stressed, Chat. Her sister is ill and she didn't have anyone else to turn to. It’s just for a weekend.”
“It’s not just a weekend, though. It’s the commissions you’re working on, and the schoolwork, and the fact that you’re currently sewing while a superhero and a Persian dictator occupy your bedroom.” He shifted, his leather suit creaking slightly in the silence. “Why do you always say yes, Marinette? Even when your plate is already a mountain?”
Marinette shrugged, though the movement felt a bit stiff. “Someone has to do it. If I can help, why wouldn't I? It’s just… what you do for people.”
“Most people would say no,” Chat countered gently. He turned his head then, his green eyes catching the light as he looked up at her. There was a weight to his gaze that made her breath hitch—a look of reverence that she wasn't used to receiving without a mask on. “You spend your whole life taking care of everyone else, Princess. I don't think you realize how rare that is. Or how much it matters.”
It wasn't a flirtatious line or a cheeky compliment, it was a simple, observed truth, and coming from him, it felt dangerously intimate.
Marinette’s heart gave a frantic, clumsy thud against her ribs. Heat rushed to her ears, and she suddenly found the tension of her bobbin infinitely more interesting than his face.
“I—I just don't like seeing people struggle, that’s all,” she stammered, her fingers fumbling with a thread. “It’s not a big deal. Anyway, I think Duchess is actually considering playing with that ribbon. You should probably focus on that before she decides your boots are more interesting.”
She could feel his gaze linger on her for a second longer—heavy and thoughtful—before he let out a tiny, soft huff of a laugh.
“Right. Back to work,” he murmured, flicking the ribbon with a practiced wrist. “ I have a crown to defend, after all.”
The moment passed, the levity returning as Duchess let out a half-hearted bat at the silk, but the warmth in Marinette’s chest didn't fade. She kept her eyes on her sewing, but for the first time that night, the machine’s rhythm felt perfectly in sync with the pulse in her throat.
The second night brought soft rain that tapped against the glass of the skylight, blurring the lights of Paris into a shimmering, watercolor mess. Inside the loft, the air was warm and heavy with the scent of vanilla candles and the faint, lingering aroma of the bakery downstairs.
Marinette stepped back into her room after a quick trip to the kitchen, a fresh mug of tea in her hand. She stopped mid-step, her breath catching in her throat.
Chat Noir had fallen asleep—or was very close to it—on the rug. He was propped up against the base of her ladder, his legs stretched out and his head tilted back. And there, settled right in the crook of his arm, was Duchess. The dictator was tucked into a perfect, fluffy loaf, her chin resting on the black leather of his forearm. The steady, low thrum of her purr was the only thing competing with the sound of the rain.
Marinette felt a tug at her heart. He looked so incredibly peaceful, his superhero persona softened by the dim amber light.
She set her tea down on the desk and crept closer. She sat on the floor beside them, her shoulder just inches from his. Duchess opened one yellow eye, blinked slowly at Marinette, and let out a tiny, welcoming chirp.
"I see you two finally reached an agreement," Marinette whispered.
Chat didn't open his eyes, but a small, sleepy smirk touched his lips. "It was a grueling negotiation," he murmured, his voice thick with drowse. "I had to promise her the soul of my first-born."
Marinette smiled, her gaze dropping to the cat. Duchess looked so soft, her silver fur catching the lamplight. Without thinking, Marinette reached out to scratch that specific spot behind the ears that Duchess loved.
At the exact same moment, Chat moved to do the same.
Their hands met mid-air, then landed together. Marinette’s palm came down directly over the back of Chat’s hand, her fingers curling slightly over his knuckles.
The world went silent. The rain outside seemed to fade into the background, leaving nothing but the warmth of his skin against hers and the frantic, sudden drumming of her own heart.
Marinette froze. She should pull away. She should make a joke or tell him to watch his reach. But the air felt thick, charged with the same quiet gravity of their conversation the night before.
She looked up, and found him looking back. His eyes were dark, focused, and swirling with something unsaid. He didn't move. He didn't pull back. Instead, his fingers shifted almost imperceptibly, his thumb brushing a slow line over the side of her hand.
The spell broke when Duchess shifted, letting out a soft grunt of annoyance at the lack of active petting.
Marinette pulled her hand back quickly, her skin tingling where his had been. She tucked her hair behind her ear, her face heating up so fast it was a wonder she didn't steam. "Oh—um. She’s... she’s definitely awake now."
"Right," Chat cleared his throat, sitting up and rubbing the back of his neck. The cocky smirk he tried to plaster back on was a little crooked, a little less stable than usual. "She’s a demanding one. A real heart-breaker."
He didn't leave, though. She expected after a moment like that Chat would have made a quick joke and disappeared into the night. But tonight, he stayed simply watching the rain.
"I think I’ll stick around for a bit," he said quietly, his voice regaining its comforting warmth. "In case she decides to stage a coup while you’re sleeping."
Marinette looked at him—really looked at him—and let out a breath. "I think I'd like that, Chat."
The next morning arrived with a kind of golden, syrupy light. For Marinette, it also came with a heavy, warm weight on her chest and a sharp, leather-clad elbow digging into her ribs.
They had fallen asleep in a messy heap of pillows, discarded silk scraps, and lint-roller sheets on the floor of her bedroom. Chat was still out cold, his breathing deep and even, while Duchess was sprawled across both of them like a fluffy bridge, pinning Marinette’s shoulder to the floor.
A sharp knock at the trapdoor startled them both.
“Marinette? Dear? Are you awake? I’ve come for my little angel!”
“Madame Laurent,” Marinette croaked, her voice thick with sleep. She scrambled to sit up, accidentally jostling Chat, who let out a startled, feline yelp.
“Is it an akuma?” Chat hissed, hand flying to his baton before his eyes even fully opened. “Wait—no. It’s morning. And I’m covered in… is this lace?”
“It’s my scrap bin, move!” Marinette whispered urgently, shoving him toward the balcony. “Madame Laurent is here! You can’t be seen in a civilian girl’s room at 8:00 AM!”
“But the Care Plan!” he protested, tripping over a discarded cat toy. “We haven't finished the last day’s grooming ritual!”
“Go!”
She managed to usher a very rumpled, very confused man out onto the roof just as she pulled the trapdoor open for her neighbor. Madame Laurent stood there, clutching her pearls, her face lighting up at the sight of her cat.
“Oh, my sweet Duchess! Did you miss your mummy?”
Usually, at this point, Duchess would have bolted into her carrier, eager to return to her life of luxury. Instead, the cat dug her claws firmly into Marinette’s rug, let out a low growl, and then—to everyone’s shock—trotted toward the balcony window where Chat Noir’s tail was still visible through the glass.
“That’s… odd,” Madame Laurent blinked, adjusting her glasses. “Duchess never likes anyone, Marinette. Truly. My own nephew tried to pet her last Christmas and he still has the scars to prove it. She’s quite the solitary soul.”
“I guess she just… found some common ground this weekend,” Marinette said, her face heating up as she watched Chat’s masked face peek over the ledge of the balcony, thinking he was being subtle.
Duchess let out a mournful meow, looking directly at the window, then back at Marinette. She didn't want to leave. She wanted the chaos. She wanted the lumpy silk mice and the boy who told bad puns.
“She really is quite taken with you,” Madame Laurent marveled, finally scooping the protesting cat into the carrier. “You must have a very special touch, dear.”
As her neighbor descended the stairs, Chat Noir dropped back into the room with a flourish, though he was still picking silver fur off his sleeves.
“You heard the lady,” he said, his voice dropping into that soft, smug tone that now made Marinette’s brain skip a beat. “She never likes anyone. And yet, she stayed.”
“I think she just liked the salmon, Chat,” Marinette said, leaning against her desk and trying to reclaim her bossy, competent composure.
“No,” Chat stepped closer, the morning sun catching the gold of his bell. He looked tired, messy, and unexpectedly gentle. He reached out, his gloved thumb catching a stray strand of silver hair on Marinette’s cheek and tucking it behind her ear. “I think it runs in the family. We felines have a very hard time leaving you, Marinette.”
Marinette’s internal processor surged and then promptly short-circuited. “I—uh. The family? You aren’t—she isn’t—I’m not a cat!”
Chat let out a low, musical laugh. He didn't push it. Instead, he took her hand, his leather-clad fingers lingering against her skin for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and pressed a light, lingering kiss to her knuckles.
“Thanks for the co-parenting, Princess. I have a feeling my work experience here was… paws-itively life-changing.”
“Get out,” she groaned, though her smile was wide enough to ache. “You cannot list this as work experience, Chat.”
“Watch me,” he winked, and with a quick salute, he vaulted over the railing and disappeared into the Parisian skyline.
Marinette stood there for a long time. The rug was a mess, her silk scraps were ruined, and she was pretty sure she’d be finding silver fur in her bed for the next three months.
She looked down at the floor and saw it—the lumpy, hand-sewn mouse Chat had made from her expensive Liberty silk. He’d forgotten it in his haste.
She picked it up, running her thumb over the messy, earnest stitches. He was ridiculous. He was a menace. And as she tucked the little silk mouse onto her shelf right next to her bed, Marinette realized that, much like Duchess, she wasn't particularly looking forward to the quiet anymore.