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“What do you think ‘allow me’ implied, little lady?”
“That you would get me my things so I could quickly wipe my makeup off myself and then zonk out until twelve in the afternoon,” Marinette deadpanned, her arms falling helplessly into her lap.
“Nuh-uh. It’s Friday night and you deserve a bit of care.” He snapped open the bottle, pressing the towel to the plastic and tipping it upside down.
Marinette didn’t comment on his unexpected knowledge and precision; too stunned—and tired—to obligate his determination. Instead she let it happen, no matter how strange it felt when Chat Noir said, in the softest voice possible, “C’mere,” and she listened.