Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

ACT III

Adrien roused like the morning, slowly.

“Can you grab me the jam please, darling?”

Adrien nodded, moving across the kitchen to the fridge. The chef had left for the weekend; it was the lazy kind of morning where the world was too wet to venture further than their front door. Adrien had suggested baking, which really meant he would watch his mom humming around the kitchen counter and taste everything before it made it to the oven “to check for poison.”

He loved watching his mom bake. She had this brilliant, effortless grace. Her hair was short again, out of her eyes with an overuse of clips. His hair was now the same length; he had cried when his father made him cut it for his third year of school. He remembered coming home that day—she had looked up from the couch at his tear-stained cheeks before bursting out laughing.

“We look like twins!”

He didn’t tell her that he had looked in the mirror when he was getting ready for bed that night, counting all the features they shared. Their hair, the shell of their ears, the colour of their eyes.

It had made him feel better.

He passed her the jam, his hands sticky as he opened the lid for her, the smell of strawberries wafting out, their congealed sweetness thick in the air. The macaron shells were laid out for filling. His mom tipped some of the jam into their icing without measuring—that was another thing he loved about her, how she seemed to know the perfect amounts to add in—jam, spices, salt, flour for dough.

Adrien thought it must be the accumulation of years of knowledge in these simple gestures; it showed him that his mom had lived before he even existed. That she had learned things he would never see. 

She scooped a dollop of icing onto each macaron. Adrien stepped beside her, smushing the shells together. His hands were small, and he had to stand on his tiptoes to reach the counter. He couldn’t even imagine what it would feel like to be tall enough to reach it.

They sat in the living room, watching the VHS tapes with cartoons that Adrien had memorised by now. They both still laughed at every joke.

He bit into the first macaron. It didn’t resist his teeth for long, the shell cracking to give way to its almond taste, the filling melting on his tongue in a bright pop of strawberry. His mom hummed as she ate, a soft, happy lilt.

“Good job, Adrien,” she looked at him, and he could see her pale face had brightened in her cheeks, a rosy blush the colour of the icing. “These are delicious!”

Adrien dipped his head, feeling shy. “You did all the work.”

She shook her head firmly, her eyes suddenly serious.

“We did it together—you stirred, sifted the almond flour, and tasted every bit.”

She pulled him close, and he smelt her floral perfume, the sweetness from the macarons in the air as she ruffled his hair and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“My perfect macaron-baking boy,” she praised.

He laughed, soaking in the feeling, letting it settle somewhere deep in his chest.

He could still smell the macarons as he slowly woke. It had shifted into a softer sugar-scent, less of strawberries and more of a caramelised sweetness, something deeper, older. He shifted, his bed narrow. His arm bumped something warm, something soft, and he felt something like hair brush against his cheek.

He shifted closer without realising. The hair grew warmer the closer he got. He felt his chest meet something; his arms moved without thought, wrapping as his nose pressed to the source of warmth. It smelt stronger here—more than sugar, something lived-in like skin, something he couldn’t name but recognised all the same.

The warmth hummed lowly, something pressing faintly against his chest. His arms wrapped tighter, instinctive. He felt it turn away from him, a brush of soft skin against his nose, a small puff of air.

He opened his eyes slowly. The attic was warm, the fairy lights still glowing faintly, the soft blue of early light feeding in.

He came face to face with a pair of shut eyes. Marinette was here. She looked calm like this, her mouth parted softly and a stray wisp of hair brushing against his cheek. In the blue lighting her face looked different, more haunting in its paleness, her hair darker, like something pulled from the depths of the ocean.

They must have fallen asleep.

The end of the night seemed to slip past him—had they talked afterwards? Did they agree to share a bed after what happened? He turned onto his back, staring blankly at the sloped ceiling as he counted the boards above him, hoping the monotony would bring something back.

One of his arms was still trapped under Marinette’s waist. It must have been there the whole night, but he couldn’t bring himself to move it and wake her.

Would she regret it? Would they have to go back to pretending it didn’t happen?

Adrien didn’t think he could do that.

But before he could piece it together, he heard a deep inhale beside him. The quilt shifted, and Marinette lifted her waist as she moved onto her back. He carefully extracted his arm and stayed staring at the ceiling for a moment, waiting for Marinette’s mind to catch up.

“We—?”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

Perfect, they were on the same page.

There was a beat of silence, like Marinette was searching for the right words. Adrien felt his hand reach for hers under the quilt. Her palm was warm as their fingers intertwined; he gave it a small, grounding squeeze.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

He hoped she’d understand he was trying to cover everything with that question.

A pause.

“Yeah, I—I liked it.”

Adrien attempted desperately to squash the feeling of pride building deep in his chest. But they found themselves turning toward each other, and Marinette must have caught the expression on his face. He saw her eyes crinkle at the corners, her smile small and infectious as she giggled.

“What about—”

“Yes. Yes, I really did,” he supplied quickly. Too quickly.

Marinette laughed again, and Adrien found himself grinning too. Any lingering awkwardness dissolved between them. Marinette lifted herself up, pressing the quilt to her chest. He could see the line of her spine as she sat up, the thin scapula, as though she were a tiny bird. His eyes trailed down—the soft freckles on her back, the indent of her spine as it passed the curve of her waist, the two small dimples just above—

“Can you turn around please,” she asked dryly. She had been staring at him with a pointed look.

He sat up on his elbows; the quilt slipped just below his navel. Marinette noticed. He reached his hand out to grab her by the waist, tugging softly.

“Get your clothes later.”

He wanted five more minutes with her before they started their day. Ideally five hours, but he was trying to be realistic.

She swatted his hand away, but her body leaned back and she let him pull her back to his chest. He could feel her breath of laughter, the way her muscles relaxed against him, the weight of her settling against his lap.

He sighed contentedly, letting his forehead drop to the junction between her neck and shoulder, spotting the freckle behind her ear, breathing in her scent. The birds had woken before them, and the drone of cicadas grew louder as the minutes passed.

“Okay,” Marinette finally announced.

Adrien groaned, wrapping his arms together around her waist. “Five more minutes.”

Marinette wriggled out of his grasp. He caught a sliver of skin near her hip bone before the cool morning air settled over his whole body.

Marinette had stolen the blanket.

He looked up to find her laughing at him, stark naked in the bed, already making her way down the ladder into the main body of the cabin, the quilt wrapped around her like a Russian nesting doll, covered head to toe in swaddles of fabric.

Only her face was visible, pink and laughing. It reminded Adrien of Marinette’s baby photo—the one where she was covered in ruffles with wide eyes. So cute.

Then he remembered he was left naked.

“Mari!” he shouted, laughing as he sat up.

All he saw was her hand as a fresh set of clothes landed on the bed.

“We have the whole day ahead of us! Get changed.”

Adrien was grinning; he could feel his cheeks ache from it. He lay back down for a minute, staring at the slanted roof.

A whole day after a good morning. Nothing sounded better than that promise.

—

They ended up scrounging up granola bars from the emergency drawer for breakfast as they got ready. 

The storm from the previous night had faded into the promise of a hot day, the humidity still clinging in the air as they got ready. 

“I don’t want to see Félix.”

It was the first thing out of Marinette’s mouth as they got ready. Adrien assumed it had been messy, but all the better for him, since he didn’t want to let her go. 

They were eating their granola bars on the edge of the cliff, their legs dangling as they watched the morning greet the town below. He could see the thick mass of trees, the smooth expanse of Marinette’s life, the roads leading out of the valley. 

“What’s the furtherest you’ve gone?” He asked her, his finger tracing one of the roads. 

“Hm,” Marinette considered, “Since we moved when I was five, maybe… two towns over?”

She gestured vaguely to the right-hand side of the valley to indicate the towns somewhere in the distance. 

“And what’s the other way?”

“Two towns over. But the opposite direction.” 

He turned to her, “Let’s go there.”

Because he wanted the chance to be unpredictable like Marinette.

She turned to face him, a single eyebrow raised, “You want to go two towns over?”

Adrien nodded, “The left-hand towns, I want to take you somewhere you’ve never been.”

He laced their hands together. This was the best thing about biting the bullet and waking up next to her: the opportunity to casually touch her. God, he wanted to do it all the time, tuck her hair behind her ears, kiss her, press his hand against the small of her back. Everything. 

They walked down the ridge and picked up the bikes from their houses. Stopping to grab breakfast.  

They didn’t say much as they set off.

The road curved out of town in a way Adrien hadn’t noticed before, bending gently between stretches of trees before opening up into longer, quieter fields. The houses thinned quickly—first spaced out, then gone entirely—until it was just them, the road, and the low hum of cicadas beginning to wake in the heat.

Marinette rode a little ahead of him at first, like she knew the shape of the road even if she’d never taken it this far. Her hair was still damp from the morning when she got ready, catching the light in uneven strands as it dried in the wind. Every so often she would glance back, just to make sure he was still there.

He always was.

They didn’t keep track of how long they’d been riding. Time felt stretched out here, pulled thin over the fields, marked only by the growing heat and the way their legs began to ache in that dull, steady way.

At some point, the road stopped feeling familiar—even in the abstract sense—and became something else entirely. Long empty stretches without cars, pines fading to oak as they rode the wind out of Hemlock Creek. 

“Have you been this far?” Adrien called out, pushing himself a little harder to catch up beside her.

Marinette shook her head, breathless but smiling. “I told you. Two towns over.”

“And this isn’t that?”

“No,” she said, glancing around like she was trying to map it in real time. “I don’t think so.”

That seemed to please him more than it should have.

They kept going.

The sun climbed higher, the air thickening until it clung to their skin. Their shirts stuck to their backs, their hands slipping slightly on the handlebars. Marinette slowed first, coasting for a moment before putting her feet down.

“I need—” she laughed lightly, catching her breath, “—five minutes.”

Adrien nodded immediately, already stepping off his bike. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

They stood there for a second, both pretending they weren’t more tired than they wanted to admit. Then Marinette pointed further up the road.

“There’s a gas station,” she said. “I think.”

It was barely that—just a small, sun-faded building with a single pump out front and a hand-painted sign that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. The bell above the door chimed faintly when they stepped inside, the air cooler but thick with the smell of dust and some metallic tinge. 

They bought whatever they could carry easily—more granola bars, a couple of sodas, a bag of something neither of them really wanted but took anyway.

Back outside, the heat hit them all over again.

“Let’s not go back yet,” Adrien said, almost too quickly.

Marinette looked at him, a little amused, a little curious.

“I wasn’t planning to,” she said.

They didn’t get back on their bikes.

Instead, they wandered a little further off the road, past a break in the grass where the land dipped slightly. The field stretched out in front of them, uneven and wild, dotted through with dandelions gone soft and white.

Marinette dropped down first without ceremony, letting herself fall back into the grass with a quiet exhale.

Adrien followed a second later, less gracefully, his shoulder brushing hers as he settled beside her.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The world felt far away out here. No cars. No voices. Just the faint rustle of grass shifting in the breeze and the distant hum of something alive in the heat.

Marinette reached up, plucking a dandelion from beside her head and turning it slowly between her fingers.

“You’ve definitely never been here,” she said.

Adrien huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I gathered that.”

She glanced at him then, something softer in her expression.

“Do you always just… explore places like this?”

He turned his head to look at her properly, the sun catching in his eyes. He thought of his life back in the city. How he would get driven to school, walk to prep school, walk to the hospital— visit his mom— then go back home. 

Why he decided to give his life variety when Marinette was involved, he didn’t know. Probably because he liked how she moved through life. 

“Not really,” he admitted. “I just—” he hesitated slightly, then shrugged. “I wanted to.”

Marinette studied him for a second before nodding, like the answer was acceptable in some way. 

“Okay,” she said.

She leaned back again, stretching her legs out in front of her, the grass bending under the weight of them.

Adrien watched her for a moment longer than he meant to.

Then he reached for one of the sodas, pressing the cold can lightly against the inside of her wrist.

She flinched, laughing, pulling her hand back. “Adrien—”

“Sorry,” he said, but he found as the word left his mouth he didn’t feel sorry at all.

She shook her head, but she was still smiling as she took it from him. They ate slowly, not really out of hunger but because it gave them something to do. The wrappers collected between them, the soda going warm too quickly in the sun.

At some point, Marinette shifted closer without thinking, their shoulders touched again, this time not by accident, neither of them moving away. Their skin was hot with the afternoon sun. 

He leaned back onto his elbows, glancing up at the sky—too bright to look at for long—before turning back to her.

“You could keep going,” he said. “Further than this.”

Marinette let out a soft breath, following his gaze out across the field.

“Maybe,” she said.

But she didn’t sound convinced. He turned slightly onto his side, propping himself up so he could see her better.

“I mean it,” he said. “You could.”

She looked at him then, her head tilted, like she was trying to see herself the way he did. He didn’t really know what he was meaning, if he was telling Marinette to move out of town, or if they were talking about whatever they had found themselves slipping into last night. 

The wind shifted slightly, carrying the faint scent of dry grass and something sweet.

Marinette reached out, brushing her fingers absently against the back of his hand where it rested in the grass. Adrien stilled under the light touch, his breath catching just slightly.

How long had Marinette had this effect on him?

“I think,” she said, looking past him to the endless stretch of field, soft dandelion clocks floating against the blue sky. “I think we should go until we want to stop, there doesn’t need to be a destination, does there?” 

Neither of them said anything. But Adrien knew they really didn’t need to. Because the path back was somewhere behind them, somewhere they didn’t move to find again until much later. 

—

Félix’s room was messy, as always, smelling faintly of crumpled paper. Marinette stood in the entrance, looking at Félix’s hunched form as he crouched over his desk. He was writing something, scribbling with some mad fervour that filled the room with the sound of pencil scraping worksheets. She recognised his textbook, one he had brought to prepare for college— just the reminder that he would be gone caused a tight feeling in her chest. 

She still hadn’t really forgiven him. Even after spending the day with Adrien like nothing was wrong, it was hard to stop the image of Félix’s face up on the ridge from perforating the corners of her vision. 

Before she lost the courage she knocked once on the open door frame. Félix jolted, his chair whirling around until his eyes met hers. 

He was upset. His face was looser— a kind of puffed thing that had always reminded Marinette of a scared cat, his nose looked sharper. 

For a moment they just looked at each other, as if testing the manner of the space between them. 

“Can I come in?” Marinette prompted softly. 

Félix nodded, he left the desk, joining Marinette on his bedroom floor, leaning against the foot of the bed. They used to pour over music records here, take those stupid quizzes Marinette would find in the teen magazines— if your crush likes you, what’s the best style for you. 

Now they were here, and the sunny afternoons of their youth seemed to be ebbing away like the pull of a tide, the same tide that would pull them apart. 

“You Aphrodite-d me.” 

Maybe it was her tone, or what she said, but Félix barked out a laugh and looked at her. His blue eyes analysed her face, his brow softening. 

“Aphrodite? I was trying not to be your match-maker.”

“Not like that— those are cherub’s anyway.” She said tautly, “Aphrodite in the Iliad. You made my decision for me, and you meddled in order to change things. You put me in the fog and tried to drag me back behind the walls of Troy, Félix.”

Félix sighed, pinching his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “I know.” He concluded. 

“Then you need to know I won’t listen, even if you grape-soda me.”

Félix wasn’t looking at her anymore, he was picking absentmindedly at his carpet, watching it pill under his touch. 

“Mari—”

“Please don’t say you’re trying to protect me.” Marinette interrupted holding up her hand, “And don’t say we’re just friends because we have no one else, and don’t say I spend to much time taking care of you.”

She stared at him, urging him to lift his head and meet her eyes. When the silence grew too permeated to ignore, he did. They looked at each other, it felt like they were five. 

“And don’t grow away from me because of my choice, please.” She whispered. 

Marinette saw his brows twitch inward before he hugged her. He never did this. She missed his scent more than she thought. The way his sweater felt warm against her, the faint traces of graphite and warm paper. The scent of his room wrapping around her. He hugged for tightly, fiercely, and she buried her face in his shoulder before she could stop it. 

Her eyes stung, her throat tight for the seconds they hugged. And she felt a rush of air leave her lungs when they pulled apart, she like had been holding out for this. 

“I don’t… I don’t agree with this.” He stated, but his expression looked resolute. “But I won’t stop you.”

Then after a moment he added, “And I don’t want to grow away from you, either.” 

She hadn’t realised how much she needed him in her corner until now. There was a scratch of silence, and Félix used the time to study the posters on his bedroom wall, the campaign maps, the music and movie posters, the colour exploding from the walls. 

“So,” He began, his pitch a little high, “You and Adrien…”

“For the summer.” Marinette nodded. 

Félix nodded, not much showing on his face. 

“And Chloe?” 

Marinette stilled slightly, “Adrien has—explained himself to me.”

Félix’s hand stilled from examining the carpet. “So you believe him over me?”

“No,” Marinette amended quickly, she followed his gaze to the wall, “I just… heard his side, too.” 

“And it was enough?”

Marinette sighed, she could hear the edge in his voice, laced with a faint hurt. 

“Mom and I fought last night.”

Félix raised an eyebrow, his eyes flicked over her face, “Over your Mandarin?” 

“Kind of…” Marinette admitted, her hands twisted on her lap, “She’s upset at who I turned out to be, I think.”

Félix shook his head immediately, “That can’t be true. And you’re more than one opinion.”

Marinette laughed, bumping his shoulder with her own, the foot of the bed was growing uncomfortable, the frame digging into her upper back. 

“I think if I have you I’ll be okay.”

They let the conversation go, the tension waning and with it the adrenaline Marinette had felt over the confrontation. She felt weighted, heavy, like the effort had been sucked out of her. But there was something else, a soft happiness deep in her stomach, a belief that they would be okay. 

The posters of musicians smiled at her from behind their guitars. 

—

Marinette had never thought she’d have a reason to be wary of her own shadow. And yet—there it was, stretching farther ahead of her than it had a few weeks ago, thin and drawn-out across the pavement like something trying to slip away.

If she asked Félix, he’d tell her it was the Earth’s tilted axis—how the sun sank lower in the sky after the summer solstice, how light struck at a sharper angle, how shadows lengthened day by day whether you noticed or not.

If she asked Adrien, he’d probably smile, soft and a little crooked, and tell her it looked the same as always.

If she asked herself, it meant summer was closing it’s doors. 

She kept one eye on her shadow anyway, watching how it shifted and stretched as she worked the ice cream stand, as if she could measure time by its edges. As if she could hold something in place just by paying close enough attention.

Her mom had made red-bean again.

Marinette had known before she even opened the cart that afternoon. The containers were packed too neatly, the lids pressed down too firmly, everything arranged with that careful precision that had replaced conversation over the past week. Sabine’s glances had been brief, her words even briefer—like anything longer might reopen something neither of them knew how to fix.

It had been a crack, Marinette thought. Still fresh from their argument. The kind of damage that ran deeper than she first realised.

More than a festering in their shared language, more than their shared history. Something quieter but undoubtedly worse.

“Strawberry, please, dear.”

Marinette blinked, pulled back into the present. Mrs. Henley stood on the other side of the counter, expectant. Marinette smiled automatically, scooping the ice cream with practiced ease, her wrist moving in a motion she didn’t have to think about.

Her days had settled into this strange, suspended rhythm.

Mornings passed in careful silence at the bakery—two people moving around each other like missteps might shatter the floor beneath them. Afternoons were for the stand or for Félix.

They had slipped back into something that looked like routine. Afternoons that stretched long and golden, heat pressing them into familiar places—the couch in his living room, the worn porch steps, the cabin or spots down in the valley where the sun never quite lingered.

They talked easily. Félix would correct something small, and she would nudge his shoulder, roll her eyes, fall into the same patterns they’d built years ago. The rhythm was still there, intact, waiting for them like it hadn’t gone anywhere at all.

It should have felt the same, and it almost did. But something thinner had threaded itself through it. Something easy to miss if you didn’t look directly at it.

A pause that lasted half a second too long. A glance that lingered, Marinette felt it every time, along with a nagging feeling. Beneath them, something had gone quiet. Like he was waiting, like he already knew how this would end and was letting her take the long way there.

So they stayed for as long as the afternoon allowed.

And then there were the nights. The nights belonged to Adrien.

They unfolded differently—softer, looser at the edges. Bike rides through dim streets, the hum of tires against pavement filling the quiet between them. Walks by the creek where the air cooled and the world narrowed to just the sound of water and the brush of shoulders. Dinners at the Fathoms that stretched too long, conversations slipping easily from one thing to another.

And afterward—his room.

Marinette found herself watching him in ways she didn’t fully understand. The way he flipped through his college pamphlet, the crease between his brows when he lingered too long on a page. The way he turned her sketchbook carefully, like the paper might bruise under the wrong touch.

The way he looked at her.

She had never understood those girls in high school—the ones who clung to their boyfriends like proximity alone could anchor something permanent. She and Félix had mocked them relentlessly, tucked beneath the bleachers, whispering commentary between shared laughter. 

The couples by the oak tree had been the worst offenders—hands tangled together, faces too close, like the rest of the world had blurred out around them.

“Getting mono,” Félix had called it once, deadpan.

Marinette had laughed so hard she’d nearly choked.

Now—

Now she thought she owed every single one of them an apology.

“Mari!”

She looked up.

Adrien was already halfway across the park, coasting toward the pavilion, sunlight catching in his hair. He looked younger like this—unburdened, almost—his smile easy as he lifted a hand in greeting.

She waved back, small and quick, her other hand still wrapped around the scooper. He didn’t miss it. He never did.

By the time he reached her, he’d already leaned his bike against the railing, already stepping into her space like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He dropped his bag, and her eyes caught on the familiar strip of fabric tied around his tennis racket—paisley, unmistakable. Winking up at her some sort of declaration. 

Her brow lifted. “Got your charm back, I see.”

Adrien’s mouth curved. “Why, Marinette,” he said, stepping in behind her, his voice dipping closer as he leaned over her shoulder, “I never lost my charm.”

“You’re about to lose gelato privileges instead.”

He stilled, just slightly, the grin slipping at the edges as he stepped back. “What happened to not making friends pay?”

“Well…” Marinette hummed, shifting her weight, one hand settling on her hip as she gestured at him with the scoop, “I don’t usually kiss my friends. So I guess you’re off the list.”

“Then let me earn one.”

“Shouldn’t you be playing tennis?”

“Carson’s not here for another hour.”

She sighed, exaggerated, even as something lighter tugged at her mouth. “Chocolate chips?”

“Obviously.”

They sat under the pavilion staring out towards the lake.

A couple of kids chased ducks along the shoreline, their laughter carrying across the water as they splashed too close and stumbled back, soaked at the ankles. Adrien watched them with a small, distant smile—like he was remembering something just out of reach.

“You know,” he said after a while, “I think I’m a little jealous you grew up here.”

Marinette glanced at him over the edge of her cone.

He lifted his hands slightly. “I know—it wasn’t perfect. But… it’s nice. The park, the creek, the quarry… all of it.”

“It is nice,” she admitted. The words came easily, automatic. “But the grass is always greener, right?”

“The city’s different,” he said. “Faster. Everyone’s going somewhere.”

“I think I’d like that,” she said. “Not knowing who’s in every house, turning onto a street you’ve never been before.”

“There you go,” he teased softly. “Craving anonymity again.”

Marinette didn’t answer right away.

Her gaze drifted past the lake, past the trees lining the far edge, to nothing in particular. Anonymity. The word sat strangely in her chest, like something that didn’t quite belong to her, no matter how often she reached for it.

Was that what she wanted?

To disappear into somewhere bigger, louder—where no one knew her name, where no one expected anything from her? Or… her fingers tightened slightly around the cone. Was it simply the act of starting over?

She thought of her mother, the one that existed in fragments of stories. Half-told, half-avoided. Pieces Marinette had never quite known how to fit together.

When the Communist Party took over there had been hunger. That much she knew. Then the riots, then the people who openly opposed the government slowly disappearing from her mom’s hometown. And then— leaving.

Marinette had always imagined it as something decisive. Brave. Her mother choosing something better, stepping onto a ship with her head held high, leaving behind everything that couldn’t follow.

But the older she got, the less it felt like a choice.

Her grandparents hadn’t come with her. They’d been too weak by then—that was how her mother had put it. Too weak for the journey.

Marinette had never asked what that meant, exactly. She’d never asked what it felt like to walk away knowing they couldn’t follow.

Her throat felt a little tight.

Was that what a “fresh start” really was? Not possibility, not freedom—but loss, just dressed up in softer words? Did her mom have to feel that again after their bakery had been vandalised? The night they argued she hadn’t thought of ask. 

She didn’t know how her mom felt about a lot of things, not even about her daughter. 

She let her gaze drop to her hands, to the faint stickiness of melting ice cream against her fingers.

Her mother had built everything from that point forward with a kind of relentless steadiness Marinette wasn’t sure she understood.

Early mornings, the quiet hum of ovens warming. Flour dusting the counters, her mother’s hands moving with practiced certainty. Lunches packed the night before, always balanced, always enough. Her hair parted and braided with careful fingers before school, never rushed, never uneven.

Ledgers filled in neat, precise lines—black ink, red ink. Numbers checked, then checked again.

Everything held together through effort, consistency, staying. Shū zhēn, her mother’s Chinese name was one that perfectly encapsulated her. Loyal. 

But Marinette had never felt like she was cut from the same cloth, that she was built for that kind of staying. It wasn’t new. It had been there for years, quiet but persistent, threading through her whenever she thought too long.

Her stomach twisted faintly. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate it. Didn’t see it. If anything, that made it worse—because she did see it. She saw how much had been given up, how much had been built in its place.

Still, something in her pulled in the opposite direction.

She thought of her name.

Měi lì. Beautiful.

It had always felt like something she was supposed to grow into, rather than something that belonged to her as she was. Something defined elsewhere—by standards she didn’t quite meet, by expectations she didn’t fully understand.

Sometimes she wondered if leaving would make it easier.

Or if she’d just carry all of this with her anyway.

“Hey.”

Adrien’s voice pulled her back.

She blinked, refocusing, the lake snapping back into clarity.

“I don’t think I want to be unknown,” she said slowly, the words forming more carefully now. “I think I just… want to be known by the right people.”

Adrien considered that.

“Do you think anyone knows you?”

Félix’s name came to her immediately then, just as quickly, something in her hesitated.

She thought of the pauses. The way things had shifted just slightly out of place, like a picture frame nudged crooked on the wall.

“I know Félix talked to you because he wanted to protect me,” she said.

“Are you with me to prove something to him?” He said it without malice, his tone gentle. 

“No,” she said, more firmly than she expected. The answer came from somewhere solid, something she didn’t have to question. “It’s not like that.”

It wasn’t that simple.

“Why can’t emotions count?” she pressed, a little softer now. “Why does everything have to make sense to be right?”

Adrien was watching her fully now, that same quiet understanding settling into his expression.

“What you feel will always matter,” he said.

His hand lifted, brushing lightly along the edge of her ear, down the line of her neck, smoothing the fabric at her collar. The touch was gentle, grounding—and it sent a flicker of warmth through her all the same.

“Don’t worry about Félix,” he added. “You’ll figure it out.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, leaning into him despite herself. His arm settled around her waist like it belonged there, warm and steady.

“One thing I know,” he went on, “is that when it comes to you, Félix loses his head a little.”

“That just means I drive him up the wall.”

“He wouldn’t stop talking about you in his letters,” Adrien said. “Marinette this, Marinette that—Marinette and I learned poker, Marinette and I designed a pulley system.”

She shook her head, but something warm loosened in her chest anyway, her shoulders easing as she let herself rest there for a moment—just listening to his breathing, steady and close.

“I’m probably overthinking it,” she murmured. “It’s only been a week.”

“You care.” Adrien said, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head. “I think one fight— no matter how much it might hurt— isn’t enough to leave each other behind.”

She nodded. It was true, he used to tie her shoes, they swapped lunches under the bleachers, they passed notes in class until they got detention slips— then they passed notes in detention. 

“And you think we’ll be okay?”

“I think you’ll be okay,” Adrien finalised, giving her waist a small squeeze before stepped away.“One day, I’ll become a very funny story you tell his college friends.”

He took another step back, already reaching for his bag, flashing her a grin.

“‘Félix’s hot cousin.’”

Marinette laughed. “You wish.”

“You’ll come watch me play?”

She nodded, watching as he swung his bag over his shoulder, already moving, already halfway out of the moment.

“I’ll help you clean up later!” he called, mounting his bike.

She nodded again—too late for him to see.

The park settled back into its usual rhythm once he was gone. The lake, the kids, the long stretch of afternoon pulling quietly toward evening.

She let out a small breath, something in her easing despite the uncertainty still sitting underneath it. The good thing is that they were growing slowly, shifting little by little. Like shadows, stretching longer without you noticing—until one day, you looked down and realised they didn’t match what you remembered at all.

Marinette turned back to the stand, reaching into the compartment beneath the counter. Grabbing Félix’s fantasy book, her pencil poised.

She opened the chapter.

—

The space between Adrien and Félix lingered, pressing into the walls, into the floorboards, into the quiet spaces between words. The windows were open, but the air didn’t move.

Adrien sat cross-legged on the carpet by Félix’s bed in a careful space free from the clutter of Félix’s notes or lose worksheets he was doing to prepare for college. Adrien felt akin to a black hole in the clean space of carpet, like he was sucking a sort of energy from the room. 

A deck of cards fanned loosely in below him in a game of solitaire, more something to do than anything else. Félix was at the desk, chair tipped back on two legs, one foot braced against the wood to keep himself balanced. He hadn’t said much in the last ten minutes. Not unusual.

“Carson’s having something on Friday,” Adrien said, like it had just occurred to him. He didn’t look up right away, eyes still on the cards as he shuffled them once, twice. “A party, I think.”

Félix made a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a response.

“It’s after game night,” Adrien added. “We could all go. Just for a bit.”

The chair creaked as Félix let it fall flat again. “We don’t have to.”

“I know.” Adrien glanced up then, brief. “I said we could.”

Félix’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp in that way that never quite dulled. Measuring, maybe. Or waiting for the rest of it. 

Adrien shrugged, easy. “If you find it awkward at game night you can just stay home while Marinette and I go.”

A pause.

“So she already said she’d go?” Félix asked, the words lacked bite, more curiosity. 

Adrien huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Yes, Sherlock Holmes, he invited both of us after tennis.”

“You two seem to be hanging out a lot,” Félix went on, like that settled something. “I won’t be able to hide behind her on Friday, then.”

“Mm.” Adrien shifted a card back into place. “Didn’t you say you didn’t need Marinette to protect you?”

“Yeah,” Félix agreed.

It had been easy exchanging letters, words could be crossed out and pages restocked with carefully tailored conversations. The last conversation they had had before Adrien came here was at his mom’s funeral, and neither of them had felt much like talking. 

“Father asked about you before I left,” Adrien said.

“That’s surprising,” he replied, flat.

Adrien’s fingers stilled on the deck. “He’s impressed you got into engineering. I think he’s even more impressed that you won’t dip into the trust mom set up for it.”

Félix’s expression didn’t change, but something in it tightened, just slightly. “That sounds like your problem. All I see is more money for you.”

Adrien understood why he didn’t want to touch it, but Emilie was his Aunt, after all. She had set it up for both of them, possibly with the hope they would one day be amicable enough with each other to share. 

Adrien felt they had started to break through before he went and kissed Marinette. Not that it wasn’t worth it, only that he had definitely crossed some line drawn between them.  

“It would be more money,” Adrien said, easily. Then, after a beat he softly added, “But I’m not touching your half, I’d like you to use it.”

That earned him a look—longer this time, less dismissible. “You’re very generous lately,” Félix said. “It’s unsettling.”

Adrien smiled faintly. “You’ll survive.”

Félix’s gaze lingered a second longer, then slipped away, back to the edge of the desk, the window beyond it. Outside, the trees stood still, dark shapes against a sky that hadn’t decided if it was done with the day yet.

“She wanted you to have it,” Adrien said again, he shot Félix a crooked smile, shrugging. “Father may be an awful parent, but stingy he is not.”

Félix let out a soft breath through his nose. “I don’t suppose you’ll want for money after joining with Chloe’s family, either.”

“That’s not happening.” Adrien’s voice didn’t shift. “At least not anytime soon, Chloe’s free to do what ever she wants, and so am I.”

Another pause. Thinner this time.

Félix’s fingers tapped once against the wood, then stilled. “So that’s what you told her…” He murmured, more to himself. 

Adrien took the chance to focus back to solitaire, he pulled a queen of hearts from the deck. He searched absentmindedly for a place to stack it before speaking honestly.  

“I’m not trying to be deceitful.”

Félix tilted his head slightly, studying him again, like he was something that had changed shape without warning. “Then what are you trying to be?”

Adrien considered that, briefly. The cards shifted in his hands, edges clicking softly together.

“Helpful,” he said.

Félix almost smiled. It didn’t quite make it.

“Try harder.”

Adrien let that sit, unbothered. Then, like he was circling back to something he’d meant to say earlier, “she notices, you know.”

Félix didn’t move. “Who.”

Adrien’s eyes flicked up, just once. “Marinette.”

There it was. A small shift, barely there. He had Félix’s attention, a kind of focus only Marinette could pull from him, just as Marinette had for Félix. 

“Noticing isn’t the same as understanding,” Félix said.

“No,” Adrien agreed. “But she does that too.”

Félix’s mouth pressed into something thinner. “You’ve been talking about me.”

“Sometimes.”

“And she told you what, exactly?”

Adrien turned the deck over in his hands, thumb running along the edge. “That you disappear,” he said. “Just enough, even when you’re together.”

Félix looked at him properly now.“And that bothers her?” he asked.

Adrien met his gaze, steady. “You know it does.”

Félix looked away first. “I just know how it will end, I don’t like watching her walk headfirst into a mistake.” he said again, but it landed differently this time. Less certain. Less finished.

Adrien didn’t push. He also tried not to be offended at being called a mistake. 

He scoffed a little, running a hand through his hair as he looked at Félix. It was almost endearing, the way Félix’s mouth was pin-straight and his eyes were glaring daggers away from him into some stain on his desk. 

“You’re not the only one who knows,” he said instead.

Félix’s brow creased, faint. “Knows what?”

“That’s I’m temporary.”

Silence pressed in again, heavier now. Adrien’s voice, when he spoke next, was softer. “Losing someone isn’t always sudden.”

Félix didn’t react, but he knew who Adrien was referring to. 

“Sometimes they’re still there,” Adrien went on. “Just not with you anymore.”

Félix’s expression had gone still in a different way now, an expression Adrien couldn’t quite read. 

He knew Félix understood. His mom’s eyes staring up at him from her bed, the way she had slept through the days and tossed fitfully through the nights, the rattles of pain when she breathed, the only sign that she knew he was there was her hand twitching in his. 

“That’s… a very specific kind of tragedy,” Félix said after a moment. 

Adrien’s mouth curved, faint and tired at the edges. “Feeling lonely while someone is right beside you isn’t that rare.” While Félix caught up, Adrien added, “I don’t think she’d handle it well… not with you.”

Félix’s jaw shifted. “You’re assuming a lot.”

“I’ve seen the two of you.” Adrien’s shoulders lifted, then fell. “I don’t think I’m assuming anything.”

Félix’s gaze flicked back to him, quick and searching. Adrien didn’t look away this time, just picked up his cards and resumed his game.

“I’m not permanent here,” he said, like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter. “You are.”

Adrien could tell the lesson landed from the way he heard Félix’s fingers dig in slightly against the desk, the smallest scratch of wood. 

“So whatever this is,” Adrien went on, nodding vaguely between them, between the space that wasn’t just his and Félix’s anymore, “you should probably fix it before it turns into something harder to come back from.”

The room felt warmer, suddenly. Or maybe just quieter.

Félix exhaled slowly, gaze drifting past Adrien, unfocused for a second.

Then, abruptly—“Are you sleeping with her?”

Adrien blinked, his eyes widening for a fraction. “What?”

Félix’s nose wrinkled, faintly, like he’d just confirmed something unpleasant. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I—no,” Adrien said, a little too quickly, the words catching on themselves. “That’s not—”

Félix held up a hand, stopping him with a firm shake of his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, too loudly. “Just… please forget I asked.”

Adrien stared at him for a second longer, then let out a bout of laughter. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told.”

The tension, sharp as it had been, loosened to a space they were comfortable with. Adrien felt that had traversed a hill and were standing back at the bottom, the problem some peak behind them. Félix shifted in his chair, letting it rock back again, foot braced once more against the desk like before, like nothing had changed.

“Friday,” he said, after a moment. “We’ll go. Briefly.”

Adrien watched him, then nodded once. “Okay.”

—

Game night slipped back into place easier than Adrien expected.

The table was the same—slightly uneven, resting on the porch surrounded by the small chairs they now used. The deck of cards had softened with use, edges worn smooth from too many shuffles. The faint sound of wind chimes carried softly into the evening from somewhere up their street.

Marinette sat across from him, her cards fanned too wide in her hands, easy to read if you knew what to look for. She did that sometimes—played like she had nothing to hide, especially when she did. 

Félix sat beside her, leaning back just enough to seem disinterested, though he was humming— something Marinette was taking seriously, so Adrien assumed must be an important tell. 

It was familiar again, thankfully. Nothing like those tense game nights where he had painfully had to try to avoid her. 

“You’re bluffing,” Marinette said, narrowing her eyes at Adrien, though the smile at the corner of her mouth gave her away. She matched the number of chips anyway, the starting bet growing conspicuously high. 

“I’m not,” Adrien replied lightly, tapping his cards against the table.

Félix didn’t even look at him. “He is.”

Adrien exhaled a quiet laugh. “You haven’t even looked at me.”

“I don’t need to.”

Adrien winked to them both, placing his hand face down as he went to turn over the flop. 

Marinette leaned forward slightly as he did so, conspiratorial like he wasn’t sitting right in front of the pair. “He’ll fold— I’ll bet you a soda for it.”

“I’m not rising to that,” Félix muttered.

“Because you’ll lose?”

“Exactly— I don’t bet for sport— I do it to win.” He spoke dryly. 

Adrien watched the two of them, something settling low in his chest. They moved around each other easily again, their rhythm had returned.

And they were absolutely teaming up against him. 

He looked at his hand, then at the flop cards, before giving up and folding his hand with a sigh, tossing the cards toward the centre. 

“You two are cheating somehow,” Adrien said, though there wasn’t much weight behind it.

“It’s called a strategy,” Félix corrected.

“It’s unfair strategy.”

Marinette grinned. “You’re just losing.” She teased as she checked, rapping her knuckles twice against the table. 

“I’m being manipulated.”

Félix finally looked at him then, as he checked as well. Adrien saw his brow lifting. “You agreed to play.” He countered. 

“Unbelievable,” Adrien murmured, crossing his arms. 

Marinette laughed, bright and easy, the sound cutting through the room in a way that felt… right again. Félix’s mouth curved slightly. He hummed appreciatively at the conversation. 

Adrien leaned back in his chair, watching them gather the soda lids into a makeshift pool before turning over the next card.

This was what it was supposed to look like. He could see it now, clearer than before—how they fit together without him, how their conversations folded in on themselves, how their silences didn’t need filling. He wasn’t excluded, not exactly. Just… not essential.

Temporary. The thought didn’t sting. It settled instead, nicely, that they would be okay. 

Marinette glanced up at him. “You’re unusually quiet.”

“I’m concentrating,” he said.

“You folded,” Félix pointed out.

Adrien smiled faintly. “I’m concentrating on losing with dignity.”

“Get used it to,” Félix said.

Marinette nudged Félix’s arm. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice.”

Adrien watched the exchange, something warm threading through the edges of it. Whatever had shifted between them—it was holding. Félix won the round, leaving Marinette grumbling as she gathered the cards, haphazardly collating them into one big pile. 

“Don’t hate the player,” Félix chided. 

“Are we still going to Carson’s thing?” Marinette asked, shuffling the deck now, more carefully than she had before.

Félix shrugged. “Briefly.”

Adrien met his gaze for half a second. That was more than he’d expected— the game night had gone well for him, then.

Marinette nodded, satisfied. “Okay.”

Adrien leaned forward again, resting his arms on the table as she dealt the next round. The cards slid into place, one by one.

—

The music pressed out of Carson’s house in uneven bursts, louder near the doors, thinning as it reached the yard. It didn’t really fade so much as loosen, the bass lagging behind everything else like it had somewhere better to be.

Marinette slipped out the back before anyone could stop her.

The air was cooler, or maybe just quieter. The light from the house didn’t reach as far here, leaving the sky open in patches between the trees. Carson lived where the rich kids lived, tucked just outside of town further up the hills. Here, some of the houses were just used for the summer, the odd fourth of July weekend, treating this place as a tourist-town. 

She tipped her head back, letting the noise settle somewhere behind her, breathing in that familiar scent of pines that you forgot over the years living in Hemlock.

“You disappeared.”

Adrien’s voice came from the behind her, softer than the music, like he hadn’t meant to interrupt anything.

“I needed a minute,” she said.

Adrien nodded, like that made sense. He moved toward her, standing close enough so his biceps met her shoulders, hands tucked into his pockets. They stayed like that for a second, staring out past the trees up towards the night sky. 

“Thank you,” Marinette said.

He glanced at her. “For what?”

“For earlier.” She shifted her weight slightly, still looking out past the yard. “With Félix.”

Adrien let out a small breath. “I didn’t really do anything.”

“You did.”

He hesitated, then shrugged, quieter this time. “I just reminded him what matters.”

Marinette smiled faintly to herself. “That sounds like something.”

“Maybe.”

The song inside changed, the tempo slowing, the tune carrying further toward them. Uncomplicated, less tangled with everything else.

Marinette listened for a second. “I like this one.”

Adrien tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to place it. “It’s slow.”

“That’s why I like it.” She huffed a quiet laugh. “But I don’t get how you’re meant to dance to it at a party like this.”

“It’s tricky” he said vaguely. Adrien glanced at her, something shifting in his expression, almost like he was deciding something. “I could show you,” he said.

Marinette turned to him properly then, a small smile pulling at her mouth. “Oh, lots of slow dance experience?”

He took the bait, “Just practising for the right partner.”

She watched him for a second longer as a faint blush coloured her cheeks, then stepped closer. “Alright.”

There was a brief pause as he figured out where to put his hands—one settling at her waist, careful, the other taking hers. Marinette adjusted without thinking, her hand finding his shoulder, their fingers fitting together more easily than expected.

The music reached them in pieces, softened by distance. As he lead they moved slowly at first, a half-step behind the rhythm, then closer to it. It felt different out here. Less like dancing, more like trying to figure out how they moved. The way Adrien would anticipate her, tugging her closer in their primitive box-step. 

Marinette let out a quiet breath. “This feels… serious.”

Adrien smiled faintly. “It’s not meant to.”

“Then why does it feel like it is?”

He didn’t answer. He offered his arm and she turned once, the grass uneven beneath her feet, the house slipping in and out of view behind them.

Maybe it was the domesticity of it all. She could imagine it slow clearly, dancing to the hum of a faded record, the night pressing in like an embrace, their combined movement breaking it’s hold. 

“We should do this every summer,” Marinette said, before she could think better of it.

Adrien nodded, like it was obvious. “Yeah.”

“We’d move to the better cabins,” she went on, a little lighter now. “The ones up in the hills—”

“Or the next ridge over,” he suggested.

“Those are the really expensive ones,” she said.

“Then we’ll get one.”

Marinette laughed under her breath. “Obviously.”

The words settled between them, easy to say, easier to pretend. Adrien’s hand shifted slightly at her waist as they turned again.

“It would be nice,” he said.

“It would.”

The song stretched thinner toward the end, the rhythm loosening. Marinette rested her head briefly against his shoulder, just to see what it felt like— warm, steady.  They didn’t stop right away, even as the music faded, inside, the party carried on like nothing had changed.

But out here, it felt quieter than it should have been, just their slow breathing and the crunch of grass under their feet, the twinkle of fireflies somewhere deep in the forest, like tiny flashes of a polaroid camera. 

—

Throughout the next week everything seemed to slot into place. Félix and Marinette went right back to how it was, no delicate pauses or careful wording, the silences turning comfortable once more. She sat next to him, his three suitcases open and bleeding prospective luggage that was wholly unnecessary.

She subtly reached toward yet another heavy fantasy volume and nudged it under the bed with her foot, just as Félix turned toward her with an arm full of clothing.

“I saw that.”

“Saw what?”

He sighed, dropping the pile of clothes into suitcase number two. When he had asked Marinette to help him pack, she had assumed her opinions would be listened to. But apparently, college was the place where every possible situation happened—which explained why he needed his snow boots and fishing hat despite the fact the city had neither snow nor anywhere to fish.

“You really need all of this?” she asked, giving up and flopping onto his bed.

Félix simply nodded.

“You’re not even leaving for another two weeks.”

“I scheduled to start packing early.”

Marinette turned her head slightly, squinting at him. “Of course you did.”

“It’s practical.”

“It’s over-kill.”

Félix didn’t respond, crouching beside the suitcase instead, pressing down on the clothes like he could convince them to take up less space through sheer will. The zipper strained slightly when he tried to pull it across.

“It’s not going to close,” Marinette said.

“It will.”

“It won’t.”

He paused, then looked up at her, unimpressed. “You’re not helping.”

“I am helping,” she replied. “I’m preventing you from bringing an entire library.”

Félix glanced briefly toward the edge of the bed, then to the floor. “You’ve already hidden at least one.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He stood, brushing his hands off lightly, then stepped over to the bed. Marinette didn’t move as he crouched and reached underneath, pulling the book back out with very little effort. Félix set it on the pile without comment.

“You’re not going to have time to read all of these,” she tried again, pushing herself up onto her elbows. “You’ll be busy. Making new friends.”

“Backup plan,” he said. 

“That’s reassuring.”

He moved to the next suitcase, opening it with a quiet snap. This one was somehow worse—half-filled with things that didn’t seem to belong together.

Marinette leaned over the side of the bed to look. “Why do you have three notebooks that are exactly the same?”

“They’re not the same.”

“They look the same.”

“Have you and your mom made up?”

The sudden twist in the conversation almost gave her whiplash. 

She stared at him for a second. “No.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Félix took it all in his stride, simply nodding. 

“Don’t worry, it will sort itself out.”

Marinette let herself fall back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. The fan above them ticked softly as it turned.

“You’re going to forget something important,” she said.

Félix shrugged, “I can’t take you,” he began, “But I won’t forget.”

Her chest warmed. 

“You know, I like us.”

“I like us, too.” He looked at her, there was something in his expression. “It’s beginning to look like the end.” He admitted, quietly. 

“It’s felt like that this whole summer.” Marinette breathed. 

Félix barked out a laugh, “I’ve always noticed too late.” He muttered. 

“I’m sorry.”

Whether he knew Marinette was apologising for more he didn’t say. 

“I’m sorry, too.”

They stared at each other. And Marinette took a moment to count all the things that had changed. 

His eyes were the same blue, but they were less icy. His face at sharpened much more than how it had been when they were kids— back when he looked like a cherub. He had grown too— not just taller. 

But many things were still the same. Combing over the memories as Felix packed helped. The fishing hat that Marinette had to dive into the creek for. The snow boots that had gotten them up the ridge so many times. The books they had poured over for campaign inspiration— one party more enthusiastic than the other. 

She watched as Félix adjusted something in the suitcase, shifting it slightly to the left, then closing it again with more success than before. 

The room felt smaller with everything laid out like this—his things spread across the floor, the open cases, the quiet sense of something already in motion.

Marinette rolled onto her side, watching him.

“Are you taking this?” she asked, reaching out to pick up a shirt from the bed.

Félix glanced over. “Yes.”

“You hate that shirt.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“Don’t you find velvet scratchy?”

“That was one time.”

“And then you never touched velvet again,” she added.

Félix took the shirt from her and folded it, placing it carefully into the suitcase anyway. 

“It’s the shirt I wore when we went to the school dance.”

Their final year of school in it’s small auditorium. The cheap streamers, Marinette’s corsage slipping around her wrist as Félix had led her into the hall. The night had been fun. They drank too much punch and Félix had stolen some of his dad’s whiskey, which they drank from a flask behind the bathrooms while no one was looking. 

He had worn that shirt, she remembered now, it looked different in this light. He complained about the tight cufflinks, how the neckline kept twisting, the weird texture. But he had worn it anyway. Marinette watched him for a moment longer, then reached out again, patting the shirt where it sat in its suitcase.

Félix zipped up the second suitcase, this one closing without resistance. He stood there for a second, looking at it, like he was mentally checking something off.

Marinette watched him, then glanced around the room again—the parts that were still the same, the parts that already weren’t.

“You’re going to overpack,” she warned.

Félix didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth shifted, just slightly. Outside, the light had started brightening, the room moving into the warmth of the day, like it was ready to let the day in. Marinette reached down, nudging another book with her foot, just enough to push it out of the pile. Félix noticed immediately.

“Don’t,” he said.

“I didn’t do anything.”

He didn’t bother arguing this time. He just picked it up and put it back.

—

The quarry lay hushed and empty when Marinette and Adrien arrived, as though the world had forgotten it. They moved carefully across the broad stone slabs, their footsteps softened by the lingering warmth trapped in the rock. Evening unfurled around them; the sun dipped low, brushing the jagged cliffs with molten gold, turning every edge into something briefly, breathtakingly alive.

Below, the water stretched out in a quiet expanse of blue-green, its surface shimmering like glass. Beneath it, smooth pebbles rested—centuries of patience shaped by the steady insistence of water against stone, time made tangible in every softened curve.

They settled side by side on a narrow outcrop that hovered just above the water’s edge. There was no tide here, only the gentle rhythm of small waves lapping at their ankles, cool against sun-warmed skin. Their feet stirred the shallows lazily, sending ripples spiralling outward in slow, overlapping circles.

Marinette had slipped out of her house earlier than usual, her mother’s expressions still lingering in her mind, the quiet ache of their argument pressing too close to ignore.

Instead, she had shown up at the Fathom’s with a picnic basket in hand and a quiet determination in her eyes, simply telling Adrien to come with her. He hadn’t questioned it.

Now they sat together as the sky deepened, orange bleeding into rose, then violet, the first hints of night threading through the fading light. Marinette opened the basket and handed him a sandwich. Adrien accepted it with a soft murmur of thanks, their fingers brushing briefly—just enough to linger.

And for a while, that was enough.

“Do you wish you had siblings?” Marinette asked. 

They looked at each other. Adrien’s hair had gone golden with the light, his eyes a lush green, the corners of them squinting slightly as he considered her question. She moved closer, letting their thighs touch, leaning into his side so she could feel the rumble in his chest as he spoke. 

“A sister would’ve been nice, I think my mom would’ve liked one, too.” She heard him inhale, “it took awhile for me to come along, and by then it was too late.”

“Too late?” Marinette asked softly. 

“My mom she…” 

Marinette could hear the effort in his voice, the slight hoarseness. 

“My mom passed of ovarian cancer.”

Silence echoed across the quarry before rising back up to meet them. The slow trickle of water, their feet cutting through in swishes. The sound of pines brushing together from the forest behind them. 

“Adrien…” Marinette lamented.

Adrien didn’t respond, his focused pulled to the other end of the quarry, the cliffs of jagged rock in the distance.

“It just kept coming back. It kept coming until she couldn’t take it anymore.” He breathed out.

“That must’ve been so hard— on all of you.”

He shook his head, his hand reaching to run it through his hair, “I think father took it the worst. Mom accepted it all pretty quickly, she knew—”

Adrien stopped for a beat before continuing. “I look— well, looked— a lot like her, I don’t think he’s used to it yet.” 

“That’s not fair on you.” She affirmed. 

“I know.” Adrien said. 

But he said it delicately, like there were nuances Marinette hadn’t been told. She supposed that was like any situation with family. It was a long history, full of moving parts, of emotional journeys and ever-changing people. 

There must have been a reason Adrien still seemed hell-bent on receiving his father’s approval. 

She felt lips press to her forehead and the moment broke. Adrien was back to how he usually was, amenable, unworried, confident. He grinned down at her, that crooked smile that made his dimples deepen and softened his jaw and made her want to kiss him all at once. 

“Swim?” He asked. 

They continued their conversation in the water.

Or— as much as Marinette could continue with Adrien entirely incapable of leaving her alone for more than a few seconds at a time.

She had just managed to take a breath and angle herself downward, arms cutting cleanly through the surface—

only to be hauled right back up again.

“Adrien—!” she sputtered, pushing wet hair out of her face. “I’m trying to dive down, stop— stop lifting me up!”

His laugh came easy, bright against the quiet of the quarry. One arm was still loosely around her waist, keeping her afloat whether she liked it or not.

“You’re just so cute,” he said, like that explained everything.

“It explains nothing,” she shot back, though the edges of her frustration were already softening.

He shifted slightly in the water, still grinning. “Félix told me the myth, you know. About this place.”

Marinette narrowed her eyes, already suspicious. “What did he tell you?”

“The miner’s wife,” Adrien said, lowering his voice just enough to be dramatic. “She drowned here years ago. Now she waits at the bottom—pulls people down if they swim too deep.”

He wiggled his fingers vaguely beneath the surface for emphasis. “I’m trying to protect you.”

Marinette stared at him for half a second.

“I’ll thank her when she gets you.”

Adrien blinked. Then laughed—really laughed this time, the sound echoing lightly off the stone walls around them.

“Wow,” he said, shaking his head.

She took another breath and dipped beneath the surface and this time, he let her go. For a moment, the water swallowed her in cool silence, the world above dissolving into blurred light and shifting shapes. Her fingers brushed against smooth stone, the quiet down here thick and undisturbed.

Then— arms around her again.

She broke the surface with a gasp, immediately shoving at his shoulders. “Adrien!”

“I gave you at least five seconds,” he defended, entirely unrepentant.

“That’s not enough time!”

“It is if you’re efficient.”

She splashed him in response, a sharp flick of water that caught him full in the face. He sputtered, then grinned—slow, crooked, dangerous.

“Oh, you’re going to regret that.”

“Don’t you—”

Too late.

He lunged, water surging around them as she shrieked, laughter breaking through despite herself. They slipped and turned in the shallows, sending ripples racing outward in uneven circles, the quiet surface of the quarry fractured into motion and sound.

For a while, the world narrowed to that—water, laughter, breathless protests that held no real resistance. 

Until eventually, the energy softened. Their movements slowed, drifting instead of chasing. The water held them gently, as though the quarry itself had decided, just for a while, to soften its edges.

They floated close—close enough that their shoulders brushed when the small movements of the water carried them together, then apart, then together again. Above them, the sky deepened into a rich indigo, the last traces of sunset dissolving into something quieter, more infinite. One by one, stars began to pierce through.

Adrien tipped his head back, eyes tracing constellations that hadn’t fully formed yet.

“So,” he said, voice low, the playfulness from earlier now smoothed into something softer, “did you ever want siblings?”

Marinette, half-floating, half-treading water, gave a small nod. A strand of her hair clung to her cheek, damp and dark.

“A sister.”

“A sister?” he echoed, turning his head slightly toward her. “Félix wasn’t a good proxy?”

She huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound rippling across the water. “If Félix learnt Mandarin, my life would’ve been easier.”

Adrien smiled at that, but it faded just a little as he watched her.

“Does it stress you out?” he asked after a moment. “All the traditions, all the…”

“Pressure,” Marinette finished for him. 

The word lingered between them. It was a shared word they both knew too well. It was again, a moment where Marinette realised how similar Adrien and her truly were. 

“It feels…” she started, but didn’t finish.

The water lapped quietly at their shoulders. Somewhere far off, a bird called once, then fell silent.

Marinette stared up at the sky, her expression unreadable in the dimming light.

“Do you ever realise that…” she began again, softer now, “the only one who’s going to be with you for the rest of your life, is yourself?”

Adrien didn’t answer right away. He shifted slightly, staying afloat with slow, practiced movements, his gaze drifting from the sky to her face.

“Yeah.”

“I am just stuck in this body— in this brain. And I— I didn’t get to choose.”

“And who would you choose?” Adrien asked.

Marinette couldn’t say, only that some parts of her felt broken. 

“Would you choose anyone?” Marinette turned the question back of him softly. 

There was a pause before he spoke. “I think I realised all of that sometime after my mom died,” he said finally.

His voice was steady, but quieter than before.

“I was looking into the bathroom mirror, and I saw her eyes staring back at me.” He let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “And—and I realised I always loop when I write the letter ‘f,’ but never with ‘i’… like my father.”

Marinette turned her head toward him now, the water lapping around her chest.

“Or I hum sometimes,” he continued, “when I’m alone. I don’t even remember starting it.” His lips curved faintly. “Like my mom.”

The water shifted, bringing them a little closer again.

“I wouldn’t choose someone else…” he said, quieter still, “I am myself, but—I’m also pieces of a lot of people I’ve known.”

His eyes met hers.

“And it brings me comfort.”

Marinette held his gaze, something fragile flickering there.

“What if parts of me don’t like the other pieces?” she asked. “Sometimes I feel selfish… other times I feel like a burden… other times I feel lonely.”

The words came out more easily than she expected, as if the water had carried them up for her.

Adrien didn’t hesitate. “That’s the best part about being with yourself for the rest of your life,” he said gently. “You have so much time to figure that all out, Marinette.”

Silence followed—but it wasn’t empty. It stretched, warm and steady, like the water holding them up. Then Adrien moved, closing the space between them completely.

“Marinette,” he murmured.

She barely had time to look at him before he spoke. “you are beautiful.” A soft kiss pressed against her cheek.

“Interesting.” Another, closer this time.

“Intelligent.” The third landed just at the corner of her lips.

“Creative.” This time he dipped lower, pressing his lips to the side of her neck.

Marinette let out a surprised laugh as goosebumps raised themselves down her arms, she pushed lightly at his shoulder.

He only grinned, water beading along his jaw.

“You don’t have to be enough,” he said, softer now, though the smile lingered. “You can just be Marinette. You can find a balance.”

She stilled a little at that.

“I think…” she said slowly, “I need to accept that I’m different first.”

A pause.

“And that it’s not bad.”

“It’s not,” he said, without hesitation.

Another quiet moment passed. Then, almost carefully, Adrien spoke again.

“Can I—call you by your Chinese name?” he asked. “I heard your mom call you it.”

Marinette blinked, caught slightly off guard. “What, Měi lì?”

“Is that how you say it?” he asked, trying it tentatively. “Mei-li?”

She smiled, a small, genuine thing.

“Try scooping on the first vowel,” she said, lifting her hand from the water to demonstrate, fingers tracing the shape of the tone. “Měi lì.”

Adrien watched the movement, then her face. Then he said it again. Softer this time. Slower.

“Měi lì.”

Something in the way he said it, gentler, almost reverent, made her chest tighten. A charged silence followed. 

“You…” Marinette started, her voice quieter than before. “You said it like you knew the meaning.”

Adrien’s lips curved slightly. “And what does it mean?”

She hesitated, then, almost shyly she spoke. 

“Beautiful.”

He huffed out a quiet breath, something fond threading through it.“Well,” he said, “I could’ve guessed that.” His gaze didn’t leave hers. “Your mom named you well.”

The words settled over her, warm and steady. Marinette memorised everything. The feeling between them, At the way the faint starlight reflected in his eyes, at the softness that lingered beneath everything he said.

Then she closed the distance, letting the water pull her toward him.  

The kiss was gentle at first uncertain initially before it deepened, anchored by an urgency. The water shifted around them, rippling outward.

When she pulled back, just slightly, she didn’t move far, she could still feel the pulse of his heart beat as her arms looped around his neck. Somewhere in the distance, the quarry remained vast and silent and unchanged.

Marinette thought she could get used to the next two weeks. To the feeling; the slow, unfolding process of becoming someone she understood. To her name. 

Especially if he was there to say it like that.

—

“Adrien, phone for you!” Amélie called from downstairs.

Adrien looked up from the floor of his room, his college pamphlets spread around him: the dorm tour, the green grass of the common, the large study halls and packed libraries. Smiling faces glossy from the print finish.

“I’m coming.”

He stepped over them as he went downstairs. The family landline was corded and screwed to the wall of the kitchen, slightly yellowed with age. Amélie lingered in the doorway, her face cautious.

“It’s your father.”

Adrien nodded as he reached for the receiver. His father hadn’t called all summer, had barely said goodbye the morning he left—just a sharp nod from the entrance of the manor as Adrien departed with his suitcase.

“Hello, sir.”

“Adrien.”

His father’s voice was grainy from the call, but unmistakably his—gruff, always slightly impatient. Adrien leaned lightly against the counter, checking Amélie was out of earshot before speaking.

“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.” He tried not to let the disappointment sound.

“No, I imagine you weren’t.” A pause. The line buzzed. “I’ve finalised arrangements for your preparatory programme.”

Adrien stilled. “Sir?”

“I’ve arranged for the dean to meet you before it starts, so you’ll need to begin packing shortly.” There was no room to argue in his tone.

“I— But the manuals said prep school wasn’t for another two weeks. You said I should take the summer off and just start with the semester—”

“Plans have changed.” It was said simply. “It’s a good opportunity to come earlier. You’ll get the first introduction with your professors. Get ahead.”

Adrien’s heart clenched.

“When would I leave?”

“You’ll take the train back to the manor in two days.”

Silence stretched, buzzing through the distance between them. All he could think of was Marinette—the look in her eyes when he would tell her he was leaving early. It was too soon. He had barely gotten used to having her by his side, hadn’t settled into what being with her felt like.

“Father—sir.” He amended, sure his voice had broken slightly. “I’ve got plans.”

“With who?”

“…a friend.”

“I’m sure they’ll understand.”

And that was it. Stated plainly, as though his father knew anything about his life—or the people in it.

“Son,” his father continued, and Adrien hated how warm it made him feel to be called that. “I’ve already sat down with the dean and organised your lodgings. It’s your responsibility to follow through.”

A thin justification spun around their relationship like gossamer. His mom never treated him like that—like he had responsibilities to fulfil.

“Can I come home to pack?” 

He felt like he was five again, tugging at his father’s sleeves. The silence hummed. 

“I will have Nathalie send your things over.”

He didn’t even want to see him off to college. It was almost ridiculous how much it hurt. It had been like that whenever his mom’s cancer had come back—his father taking late dinners in his office, footsteps in the hallway only when Adrien was in bed, Nathalie appearing in place of him at school events.

“Father?”

“Yes, Adrien.”

“Do you… still blame me?” He said it cautiously, like he was peering into some dark room, unsure if he wanted to find what was inside.

His father’s tone raised slightly. “Your mother knew it was against my wishes.”

The it was him. The arduous number of fertility treatments, the bad timing— it was him. 

“The doctor’s said I didn’t cause it! Father—” it came out almost pleading.

“Sir.” The phone barked as he corrected Adrien. It felt like touching a hot poker. “And we both know that’s not where my reservation’s lie.”

She had told him when he was younger, when she was in hospital hooked up to chemotherapy. The slow drip of the yellowed medicine seeping into the thin lines of her veins. 

“Mommy’s sickness happened while I was busy growing you,” she had told him gently, pulling her frail fingers through his blonde curls.

“Why couldn’t you get better before I finished growing?” He had asked, his hands clasped on his lap, afraid the slightest touch would knock one of the machines, or the chair, or her. 

“The medicine would’ve made you very sick. You would have stopped growing,” his mom confessed. “I wanted you my darling, for so long, I wouldn’t put you through that.”

He remembered sitting on his mom’s lap, looking up at her pale skin and hollow cheeks, the pink beanie masking the lack of hair.

But I put you through this.

When he got older, it was always there—that his existence had meant the cancer had time to spread.

How could he disagree with his father about that?

Instead he listened to the sound of his father breathing into the line, the steady rhythm of someone who was there.

The night his mom died, he had spent the long hours before dawn wandering through the rooms of the manor, trying to commit everything to memory—like he could embed every moment with her into the walls, like he could keep from losing her entirely.

After three months, there was a morning where he got up, walked to school, endured his classes, wandered through the city, and came home. It was only when he was brushing his teeth that night that he realised he had gone a single day without thinking of her once.

He had felt so guilty, like not remembering her every second meant he didn’t miss her.

And he had gone through it alone, just as his father had.

“I expect you to call me upon arrival to your dormitory.”

“Yes… sir.”

That was it. The line clicked dead just as Adrien felt his body slump. He leaned against the kitchen wall, holding the phone by his thigh. His head dropped back, the plaster cool against him. He closed his eyes, breaths coursing through him as he cycled through each inhale and exhale.

How badly did he want to scream? To argue until his limbs gave out and his tongue felt heavy with the words he would spit.

he had always imagined being eighteen would feel different. That we would wake away from the clutches of puberty and find himself changed, mature, different somehow. 

Instead he simply felt like himself, and none of his problems had magically resolved under the light of eighteen candles. 

—

“I still feel like a kid.” He said to Marinette. 

They were on the porch swing, the porch where they held game night while he was here. He could picture it, even under the warm glow of the lanterns, and pale moon casting shadows over Marinette’s face. 

It would be the three of them, player poker, laughing over crimped soda lids and hiding expressions behind their hands as the final river-card was overturned. Maybe Marinette would smile at him, that smile that made him believe she could see right through his forehead and into his thoughts. 

She wasn’t smiling now. Instead she had a sort of expression from when they had first met on the platform, the warmth from her yellow dress, and that look like he was a puzzle she needed to piece together. 

“Why?” 

He focused on his hands, the tilt of the porch swing, the soft sounds of moths hitting the lanterns. 

“I’m stuck under his thumb, like I’m at his beck and call.” 

Marinette hummed faintly, short and tuneless, bringing her hand up to touch his arm, “You don’t need to martyr yourself.”

He shook his head. He wanted to explain it wasn’t that simple, that it was layered over the guilt of his mom, the long looks across the dining table during dinner, the absence of his father throughout his life carving some desperate mark on him.

He tugged her a little closer, like her weight against his chest was the reassurance he needed. They listened to the crickets, the sound fainter than the cacophony at the start of the summer, like the weather was weaning them off. It felt like everything was ending. 

“I wish I had met you earlier.” He breathed into the silence. 

If he had met someone like Marinette earlier maybe something would’ve changed. 

He wanted to see her in thick scarves and winter coats, he wanted to walk with her along the city river, watching the fall leaves touch the water. Most of all, he wanted his mom to meet her, this sugar-smelling girl who saw the world differently. 

Maybe, if Marinette was there, he wouldn’t have cared about his father’s wishes. Maybe he wouldn’t have learnt to mask his own needs while he was by his mom’s bedside. Life could’ve been different. 

It was odd, days without her felt wasted. 

“But then we wouldn’t have had this summer.”

She was looking at him, brown eyes and her cheeks slightly flushed. He found all he could do was stare back at her. 

The kiss came unhurried. She sighed into his touch, her mouth was warm around his, her hands pressing into his chest as he wrapped his around her waist. It was slow, sapping the last of the heat from the summer into the space between them. She made a small sound of pleasure as he deepened it softly, her hands finding traction around his neck, her fingers curling into the hairs at his nape. 

He broke it softly, his forehead pressing hers, and for a moment they shared the space. He could feel her small puffs of air hot against his nose. 

“I— I need to tell you something.”

She pulled back slightly, tilting her head in question. “Like what?”

“I got a call from my Father. And—” but he couldn’t say it, couldn’t turn the conversation.

“Adrien?” She asked, he leaned in toward him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek and if that didn’t make him feel twenty times worse about what he had to say…

“I’m leaving in two days.” 

He said it hurriedly. Like if he didn’t do it immediately, he wouldn’t be able to at all, like it was painful to say. There was no softening it, no stretching it out into something kinder. He watched it settle over her features, watched the way it changed her.

She had pulled back again to look at him, her mouth partly softly as a look of understanding smoothed her features. Her eye’s suddenly shone brighter under the lamplight, her lashes thick. 

“Two days?” She asked. 

Adrien felt it land before she even finished the words. He nodded, once.

“I know,” but he spoke too fast, like he was already trying to get ahead of it. 

“I know I said— I thought it was two weeks. It was supposed to be. He just—” Adrien exhaled, sharp through his nose, his hand dragging back through his hair. “He changed it.”

His gaze dropped to the space between them, to where the porch boards blurred slightly under the low light.

“I need to head back for early admissions.” he said, quieter.

The swing shifted under his weight as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped like he was trying to hold something together.

“I would’ve told you earlier if I’d known. I wouldn’t have—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I wouldn’t have let it be like this.”

This abrupt. This small.

A hollow sort of laugh left him, barely there. “It sounded ridiculous when I tried to argue with him,” he muttered. “It’s just earlier. That’s all. It’s the same place, same programme—just…” He trailed off, shaking his head faintly.

Just less time. It was then Adrien realised he had been rambling. He glanced back at her then, something breaking through him when he saw the glint of tears on her lower lashes. 

He moved then, reaching his hand out to cup her face, rubbing his thumb softly along the apple of her cheek. Her lower lip quivered before smoothing. 

“If I don’t go,” he continued slowly, “it’s not just missing a train, or a meeting, or whatever he’s set up.” A pause. “It’s… choosing something else. And I don’t know if I’m allowed to do that.”

Allowed. The word sat there, Adrien let out a faint, humourless breath.

“Stupid, right?” he murmured. “Eighteen and I’m still thinking about what I’m allowed to do.”

There was a pause before she nodded, her gaze dropping briefly to where his hand held her face, like she was steadying herself on the feeling of it before looking back up at him.

“You have to be practical,” Marinette said, gently. 

Adrien hated that he agreed. 

—

The night before he left she stayed. They didn’t do much. Watching each other as Adrien finished the last of his packing, sitting together pouring over some forgotten comic. Adrien memorised her in pieces, the curve of her nose, the slight of her smile, the way her top lip curled under her teeth when she was laughing. 

The way she moved when they made love, purposeful and taking, her fingers running along his back. The way she moved toward him like a tide, the sounds she made, small and gasping, fleeting and full all at once. 

She came with a cry, curling around him so familiarly it made him follow soon after. They lay together afterwards, basking in the sounds of the night from his open window, talking about nothing as Marinette drifted off to sleep.

Adrien tried to follow her like he always did. He counted sheep, thought of lyrics to his favourite songs as they played softly in his head. He listened to the sounds of the curtain fluttering in the breeze, the soft chill the night brought creeping around them. 

Marinette rolled over in her sleep away from his hands clasped around her waist. He let her go, turning onto his back to stare at the ceiling. 

Adrien had always thought that the people you met stayed with you long after they were gone.

He remembered something from physics’s class. Back when he thought it would be his career and everything about it fascinated him —how the fabric of the universe bends around mass. Not just the vast things, like stars collapsing in on themselves, but everything. Dust, light, anything that existed mattered. It all left some kind of pull behind it.

His mother, for example.

He had felt the weight of her death settle into him, the axis of his life tilting quietly around it. Time didn’t move the same after. It curved—folded—drawing him back again and again to the room she had left the world in.

But it wasn’t only that.

It was the smaller things that lingered.

The songs she used to hum under her breath. The sound of a wooden spoon tapping the rim of a pot. The soft rhythm of her footsteps in the hallway before she would pause at his door.

Those were the things that stayed. Like something unseen, pulling at the edges of his life.

He wondered, then, what kind of weight this summer would have.

Where it would settle.

He could almost see it already—somewhere ahead of him, years from now. In a narrow apartment wedged into the middle of the city, waking to the hum of traffic and hearing Marinette’s voice threaded through it. Sitting on a porch much later in life, flipping absentmindedly through records and realising—too late—that he had chosen her favourite again.

He would find her everywhere.

In the constellations.
In the creek.
In the crackle of a fire catching in dry wood.
In the stillness of water at night, holding the sky in its surface.

He wondered when this would begin to feel like something distant. When these days would fold into memory, into something he would call his boyhood.

But for now he was here.

And whether this summer would burn through him like a star collapsing in on itself, or pass as lightly as a flicker of light as time stretched—he could feel its weight all the same.

Marinette was beside him.

Close enough that he could trace the quiet curve of her waist beneath the sheets, the scatter of freckles across her back, the way her body dipped into the mattress and drew him, slowly, toward her.

And it felt inevitable— that he would follow.

“Marinette,” he whispered, but it couldn’t disguise the way his voice cracked. 

She was asleep, her soft breaths whispering into the night like a confession. 

He brought his hand up, slowly, his finger tracing the freckles on her back like mapping constellations. His touch was feather-light, he could feel her ribs move as she breathed, the warmth beneath her skin. 

The night was long. 

—

When Marinette woke she knew instinctively that he had left. There was something in the cold emulating from his side of the bed. She didn’t even open her eyes, just let her fingers stretch out to the sheets he had rumpled as he left. The rivets scratched her palm, the day burning into the room, the irony of a perfect summer’s day. 

Adrien had left. 

She didn’t want to open her eyes, she scrunched them up tighter as though it was a bad dream. Her heart felt small within her chest, a slow pit forming in her stomach, the world turned, the morning birds called the day into fruition.

Why couldn’t time stop? 

Her hand clutched tightly had the sheets, if she concentrated hard enough, Marinette could imagine the warmth of her palm was the residual life that had once slept beside her, the small of his back pressing against the mattress, like he had only gone to take a shower or fix them breakfast. 

His scent was there, something deep and Marinette rolled toward it, her face pressed into the pillow. It was the thought that it might be the last time she would smell him this closely that brought the influx in. 

That he was gone, that she was alone. 

By the time she managed to get up her brain felt strangely empty, like she was numbed from the inside out. The room felt different without his clothes in the wardrobe or comics littered on the floor. It was neat, clean, free from him like he was never there. 

She dressed quickly, her mind carefully blank as she did, zipping her jeans, shrugging on her shirt, her fingers fumbling with her buttons. She glanced around the room before she left, her eyes landing on the beside table. 

There was a cassette tape. 

Small, plastic, Mari scrawled on the label. 

Adrien would be at the train station right now. She could still get there before he left. The house was empty as she emerged into the hallway, the Fathom’s family car was gone from the driveway. She used the key under the pot-plant on their porch to lock up as she left. 

She could go there, right now, see the train taking him back to his regular life, like the time that had stretched over the heat had been a lapse. 

Instead she crossed the street. She heard the rattle of the screen door as she opened it, lining her shoes instinctually in her hallway and sliding into her slippers. It was grounding, the familiar padding and feel of it against the floor, the patch still mending the hole on the side. 

Her mom was in the kitchen, the sounds filtering in as she walked toward her. Sabine had her back to her, her arm reaching towards a pot. Her mom stiffened slightly when she recognised Marinette’s footsteps, turning before she faltered.

She saw her daughter’s face, the way it was paled, the precipice written into the lines of her mouth. 

“Měi lì, sweetheart?” She asked into the space between them. 

Marinette ran to close it. 

Her mom smelt of something familiar and floral, the linen of her apron so familiar as Marinette clutched her. She was taller now, but it didn’t stop her from feeling small, of curling into her mom and pressing her head into the crook of Sabine’s neck, breathing in the scent of her hair. 

“Měi lì!” Her mom spoke, a soft surprise fading into something so maternal it made Marinette sob. 

“Adrien he— mom he left.” 

Her Mandarin almost stuck to her tongue as she stuttered it out. 

Her mom had been right, she was rusty— it felt like she was five years old, sounding out words at the dinner table eager to copy the smooth enunciations her mother made.

Her soul felt rusted too, as if her tears had bleed through the cracks in her heart, leaving trails of corrosion in their path.  

“Sweetheart, I’ve got you.” Sabine cooed. 

All Marinette could do was cry, small hiccuping sobs that disappeared into her mom’s shoulder. The time passed slowly, dripping through molasses. She pulled back, her mom’s eyes immediately searching for hers, concern plain of her face. Sabines hands were still wrapped around her daughter’s elbows, holding her there.  

“Does it always feel like this?” She croaked out. 

Her mom’s face softened, a knowing look on her features that made Marinette feel deeply understood. 

“It will today.” She answered. 

Marinette wanted to ask about tomorrow, about next week, next year. Would she be cursed to have some part of her heart shrivelled by the heat of this summer? Would she always remember Adrien’s scent— catch notes of it years from now down a deserted street? Would she feel this lonely forever? Would she find someone like Adrien again?

Instead all she could do was wipe her nose with her sleeve, a watery laugh escaping her weakly,“I’m sorry.” Her shoulders dropped as the tension left with a whoosh, she felt tired. 

Sabine shook her head firmly, her hands squeezing Marinette’s elbows before reaching up to cup her daughter’s face in her hands, catching a stray tear with her thumb. 

“You should not be sorry. You should hug me again.” 

—

The pines softened Marinette’s steps as she climbed toward the cabin. Bottle caps were still nailed into the odd tree, marking the path as she scaled the final steep before the clearing. She clutched her messenger bag tightly, the breeze tugging at the loose ends of her hair.

She hadn’t seen Adrien off at the station.

It hadn’t felt right. Watching him go would have made it too real—too abrupt—to see the doors slide shut, the conductor pacing the compartments, asking for his ticket. It would have felt like he was choosing to leave her.

Marinette knew he was, partly.

But it wasn’t that simple. Adrien’s life had to continue, just as hers did. It wasn’t some happy-ending VHS tape her parents would play after she’d gone to bed—the static bleeding up the stairs, the soft lull of transatlantic voices dipping into her dreams.

She reached the clearing, sweat beading at her brow. She pulled at her bandana—different from the paisley one she had given Adrien almost six weeks earlier, when something between them had first tipped, uncertainly, into friendship.

He’d taken it with him, she assumed.

The thought warmed her—him miles away on some inconspicuous railway, the soft fabric caught in his hands as he thought of her.

She hadn’t told him the whole truth at their first campfire.

There were many ways to read the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. She had told him Orpheus looked back because he loved her too much not to make sure she was there.

But there were other interpretations.

Love requires trust. 

As Orpheus led his almost-bride through the dark caverns of the underworld, it was the only thing he could cling to—the belief that she followed behind him. Marinette imagined it: the pitch-dark, their bare feet against sharp, crumbling stone, the air thick and unkind.

Orpheus didn’t look back only out of love.

He looked out of fear.

He couldn’t trust Hades’ promise— perhaps he couldn’t trust Eurydice’s presence at all. And it was that fear that ruined him, collapsing his future with a single glance.

He never learned to live with the loss. Not really. The knowledge that he had almost reclaimed her hollowed something out of him, left him wandering the world in mourning. He sang until there was nothing left but the echo of it—until he followed her into the dark as he died.

That was why it had felt right not to look back. Marinette wasn’t scared. She trusted him, deeply, deeper than she thought she could in their short time together. 

She learned that the feeling of loss could be avoided by something like trust. 

Marinette and Adrien had both learned something about loss. Both in themselves and in each other. 

And as they parted ways, it was a kinder ending than most.

Marinette sat at the edge of the cliff, legs swinging over the drop, the valley stretching wide beneath her. The afternoon sun had begun its descent. Her mother had made her eat before she left—quietly, carefully—placing more on her plate than she could manage.

Sabine hadn’t asked questions. Hadn’t pressed. She had only treated it with a quiet gravity Marinette was grateful for.

The heat sat differently now. Less suffocating than early summer. The earth had shifted, her shadow stretching longer, the cicadas quieter.

It didn’t make her sad anymore.

She was almost glad Adrien had left more suddenly than she expected—like tearing a bandage instead of waiting for the slow unravel of a dandelion clock.

Time slipped past her in long, unbroken stretches. She traced the movement of cars in the valley below, picked out figures along Main Street—tiny, distant, purposeful. Families, couples, someone carrying too many bags.

Marinette decided she would leave in the spring.

It felt right—to arrive somewhere new just as the world began again. Wild daffodils pushing through forest paths as she stepped out of them.

She would save working with her parents. Then she would go—anywhere.

She imagined a city. People who looked like her. Conversations she could carry in Mandarin without hesitation, her mother’s voice warm with approval over the phone. Maybe design, like Adrien had suggested. Maybe painting, like Félix always insisted she was good at.

Or something else entirely.

What mattered was that she could move forward.

She reached into her bag, pulling out the cassette, sliding it into the player with a soft click. The foam headphones pressed too tightly against her ears, but she didn’t adjust them. She pressed play.

A brief whir.

Then—

“Hey, Mari.”

She laughed softly. Adrien’s voice was bright, easy, the faint hum of a record spinning somewhere behind him.

“I wanted to make you this.” 

The music swelled.

The same song from the party—the one that had followed them out behind the house. The one they had moved to, slow and uncertain.

Tears came without warning, blurring the valley into glass.

The melody threaded through her memory. She leaned back, closing her eyes, letting the sun press against her face as if it were still that first day—everything ahead of them, nothing yet decided.

By the time Félix arrived, the tape had long since reached its end.

She didn’t turn when his footsteps crossed into the clearing. He didn’t seem surprised to find her there.

His hair was still neatly set, his shirt pressed. But his jeans were worn at the knees, and something in his expression had softened—something she didn’t quite know how to read.

A dull kind of embarrassment settled in her chest. As if Adrien’s absence had cast light over everything Félix had warned her about—everything she had chosen not to see.

She kept her gaze on the valley. “Now would be a good time for an ‘I told you so.’”

Her voice came out lighter than she felt.

Félix didn’t take it. Instead, he stepped closer, his foot nudging against hers as he sat beside her, their legs hanging over the edge.

“Do you think the future changes how we remember the past?” he asked.

She frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Hypothetically,” he said, lifting a hand before she could interrupt, “if we stopped being friends—if something went wrong—would it change everything that came before it?”

She considered it.

At first, maybe. She would sort through their memories, separate the good from the bad, convince herself of whatever version hurt less.

But that wouldn’t last.

Eventually, it would soften. Turn into something quieter. Sadder. The kind of memory that lingered without sharp edges.

And maybe, much later, it would return to what it had been—untouched, almost.

“For a little while,” she said.

Félix nodded, as if that confirmed something for him. He knew where her thoughts would led to with a conversation like this. 

She wondered how she would come to hold the memories of Adrien. Whether they would stay as they were now—soft at the edges, sun-warmed and bright—or if time would turn them, sharpen them into something else. Something harder. Would she grow sad when she thought of him, or would there come a point where sadness gave way to something quieter, something almost distant?

She hoped it wouldn’t become anger.

That felt like the cruelest version of it—to take something that had once meant so much and reduce it to something brittle, something easy to dismiss. She didn’t think she could bear that, to look back and find the feeling changed beyond recognition.

But she didn’t know.

She didn’t know if they would ever meet again, or what time would make of them if they did. Lives moved forward whether you were ready or not. People shifted, reshaped themselves in ways you couldn’t witness from afar. And if she ever stood in front of him again—years from now, somewhere unfamiliar—she wasn’t sure she would be the same Marinette who had known him that summer.

She wasn’t sure he would be the same Adrien, either.

And maybe that was the point.

Orpheus had looked back because he couldn’t trust what he couldn’t see—because he needed proof that what he loved was still there, still his, unchanged in the dark. But love had never asked for proof like that. It had only ever asked to be carried forward, without certainty, without guarantees.

She understood, now, why that kind of love failed. Because it tried to preserve something that could not survive being questioned.

If she held onto Adrien the same way—turning back, measuring, wondering what had changed and what hadn’t—she would lose him all over again. Not in one sharp moment, but in pieces, worn down by comparison, by doubt, by the quiet insistence that things should have stayed as they were.

That wasn’t how she wanted to remember him.

So she wouldn’t look back—not in that way. Not to check, not to confirm, not to weigh what had been against what was. She would let the memory exist as it had been: whole, untouched, belonging to a version of herself that no longer quite existed, but had been real all the same.

Félix bumped his shoulder lightly against hers. “Don’t look so miserable. It’s only hypothetical.”

She smiled faintly, turning to him. “Right. Because we’re not going anywhere.”

His expression shifted—something brief, trusting—before he nodded.

“Right.” It sounded like an agreement. 

Marinette pushed herself to her feet, stretching before offering him her hand. “Then we should probably do something useful. Your campaign isn’t going to finish itself.”

Félix took her hand, letting her pull him up. “I don’t leave for another two weeks,” he said. “We have time for something else first.”

“A campaign of our own?” she asked.

“Something like that.”

She tilted her head. “Can I switch out of seer class?”

Félix’s mouth curved. “Win it.”

“Poker?”

“Obviously.”

“Easy,” she said. “And if I lose, I’m invoking grape soda.”

He raised an eyebrow. “We’re bringing that back?”

“We had a temporary exception,” she said. “Special occasion.”

Félix laughed—sharp and real—and fell into step beside her as they moved back toward the trees, the forest swallowed the last of the light, the evening felt cooler.

Summer was ending.

But something else—quieter, less certain—was just beginning.