Archive of Our Own

Marinette knew she was strong. 

Not hold-up-a-car-to-save-a-cat strong or emerge-from-burning-wreckage strong, but the kind of strong forged through final exams and sheer willpower. The kind of strong that pulled three all-nighters to hand in a polished, colour-coded, cross-referenced assignment with exactly the right font size. 

She made teachers smile. She scrubbed the blackboard and smelt faintly of ink at all times. She walked past the hallways and test sheets folded into origami flowers like she was Snow White. That kind of strong.

What she wasn’t strong enough for, and what tested her patience more than anything else on Earth, was Adrien Agreste.

Adrien, in his perfectly pressed trousers, polished oxfords, and neat polos like he modelled for a catalogue titled Pretentious but Make It Scholarly. Adrien, flipping his collar just to flash her a grin like he knew something she didn’t. Adrien, who reached the top of the class list for the third time this month and acted like it was an accident.

What she wasn’t strong enough for was the way he swept into exams two minutes late, one single pencil tucked behind his ear like some smug academic samurai, casting a glance at her fully stocked pencil case like it was a tragic overcompensation. Then he’d sit behind her, directly behind her, so she could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head while she furiously calculated and colour-coded. And him? Calm. At ease. Scribbling like he was writing a casual letter to a friend.

He'd stroll out thirty minutes early with a paper full of smugly correct answers and a lazy stretch like it hadn’t required effort at all. She was convinced he ate quadratics for breakfast. Probably with organic yoghurt. His stupid, perfectly tousled hair? No doubt styled with hair gel made from powdered Einstein and raw distilled smugness.

Yes. She was strong. But the final straw, the true betrayal, was when he started giving her dating advice.

It didn’t begin with fireworks. There was no dramatic declaration, no earth-shattering realisation.

It started like an illness. Quiet. Creeping. Something you don’t notice until it’s already in your bloodstream.

She’d just been smiling at her phone, not giggling, not swooning, just smiling, when she caught his gaze from across the lecture hall. His eyes narrowed, head tilted like he was calculating an angle. Then a smirk spread across his stupid, perfect face. The kind of smirk that made you feel like he knew something you didn’t.

Which, statistically speaking, he probably did.

“He’s not that funny, is he, Dupain-Cheng?”

She cursed at him in Mandarin.

Then remembered he spoke Mandarin. So she switched to English.

“Anyone sounds like a class act compared to you, Agreste.”

His grin widened, teeth glinting like a toothpaste ad. He leaned over her desk, eyes flicking over her face with practiced ease, his stupid shirt wrinkling like he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Heard that,” he sang, his perfect, unaccented English making her want to hurl her mechanical pencil at his smug head.

Frankly, she was over it.

She had survived three long, humbling years with buck teeth and glasses so thick they made her look like a novelty mirror at a carnival. Her braces had reflected classroom lighting like tiny rows of hazard lights. And the lisp? Oh, the lisp. It haunted every oral presentation, every class introduction, every crushed syllable of her last name.

Her body had been mostly limbs and emergency Band-Aids. She didn’t walk so much as tripped strategically between destinations. Invisible when she wasn’t being laughed at and when she was noticed, it was only ever to be pitied, corrected, or made the punchline of someone else’s day.

But that summer?

Everything changed.

The lisp vanished the moment the braces came off, like a spell had been broken. Her skin, once a battleground of hormonal warfare and every over-the-counter cleanser known to man, finally cleared after an exhausting truce. She’d negotiated for contact lenses like her life depended on it. Gone were the Coke bottle glasses. Gone was the girl who knocked over entire water bottles with her backpack.

And suddenly, people looked at her differently.

Luka, who had never once remembered her name, stopped to compliment her hand-crafted clay pin outside the lecture hall. A second-year engineering student held the elevator open just a second too long and gave her a smile like it meant something. Alya’s sharp-tongued cousin made a point of sitting next to her in studio, brushing shoulders and pretending it was coincidence.

They were noticing her.

And it was new. And thrilling.

And completely, maddeningly overshadowed by one person: Adrien freaking Agreste.

Because while everyone else looked at her like she was someone new, Adrien acted like she hadn’t changed at all. Still called her “Dupain-Cheng” like it was a personal in-joke. Still rolled his eyes when she got flustered, smirked when she snapped at him, and teased her like he hadn’t noticed she’d gone from “invisible” to “kind of a big deal.”

Which somehow made it worse.

Like in the library, when he leaned across the aisle between stacks and whispered, “You really think Luka’s worth three paragraphs of texting? Mystery, Dupain-Cheng. Men are tragically simple.”

She could survive equations. She could survive public speaking. She could survive the gauntlet of teenage existence.

But Adrien Agreste, with his smug critiques and dangerously accurate academic nudges?

That was a different kind of warfare entirely.

—

The grades were posted on the announcement board outside the lecture hall.

Adrien was already leaning against the wall, arms crossed, the picture of lazy confidence as the crowd gathered. His golden hair caught the overhead lights like some kind of divine spotlight had chosen him to be annoying today.

Marinette shoved her way through the knot of students, scanning the list until her eyes landed on the top slot.

1. Adrien Agreste – 98%
2. Marinette Dupain-Cheng – 96%

She groaned softly, her forehead thudding against the wall beside the list.

“You’ll dent the drywall before your GPA,” came a too-familiar voice from behind her.

She didn’t look at him. “Go away, Agreste.”

“Aw, come on. You were so close this time.” He stepped up beside her, the smugness practically radiating off him. “Maybe next exam you’ll finally catch me. I believe in you.”

She turned to glare at him. “I hope your calculator explodes in your face.”

He smirked. “Please. My calculator sends me love letters.”

Before she could fire back something biting, a hand touched her shoulder gently.

“Hey,” Luka said, appearing at her side like a cinnamon-scented breeze. “Don’t let it get to you. Ninety-six is insane. I barely scraped a seventy.”

Marinette blinked at him, startled, but he was already offering her a reassuring grin.

“You’re brilliant, Marinette,” he said. “Everyone knows it. Agreste just,” He waved vaguely in Adrien’s direction.

She let out a light laugh, tension melting from her shoulders. “Thanks, Luka. That’s… actually really nice of you.”

Adrien’s grin had frozen.

He watched as Luka leaned a little closer, said something quiet that made Marinette blush. She tucked her hair behind her ear her nervous habit and smiled at Luka like he was the human equivalent of a warm blanket.

Adrien didn’t realise his arms had dropped from his chest. Or that he was frowning.

Luka shot him a friendly nod. “Congrats on topping the class, man.”

Adrien’s jaw flexed. “Yeah,” he said, voice flat. “Thanks.”

Marinette didn’t even look at him.

She was still talking to Luka.

—

Luka had a sketchbook balanced on one knee and a gentle smile when he said, “Hey, you free Saturday night?”

Marinette blinked. “Uh—what?”

He tapped his pencil against his page. “There’s a jazz night at the open mic. Thought you might want to go. With me.”

She flushed, surprised but not unpleasantly. “Like… a date?”

Luka smiled. “Only if you want it to be.”

She agreed, still a little stunned, and spent the rest of her class trying not to overanalyse the fact that someone had actually asked her out like it was no big deal.

Naturally, she told Adrien. Casually. Offhandedly. Except maybe with a touch too much satisfaction.

“I have a date Saturday,” she said, nudging her tray onto the cafeteria table next to his.

Adrien didn’t look up from his notes. “With?”

“Luka.”

That got his attention. He raised an eyebrow, finally glancing at her. “Luka? The guy who wears his beanie indoors and thinks silence is a personality trait?”

Marinette narrowed her eyes. “He’s sweet.”

Adrien leaned back in his chair, utterly unfazed. “Sweet. Right. Is that before or after he lets doors slam in your face?”

“He does not—”

“He didn’t hold the door for you yesterday.”

She frowned. “That’s not…he was carrying a guitar case.”

“Right,” Adrien said dryly. “So heavy. Must’ve broken both arms on the way in.”

Marinette scoffed, stabbing her fork into her salad. “You’re just mad someone actually asked me out.”

“I’m mad you think that’s the bar,” he retorted. “Also, you don’t like him, you’re wearing your earrings.”

She blinked, thrown for a second. “You noticed my earrings?”

He glanced back down at his notes, annoyingly casual. “You wear the cherry ones when you’re nervous.”

“Still going,” she said flatly.

“Of course you are,” he said, under his breath. “You love doomed experiments.”

She kicked him under the table. He yelped.

She smiled.

—

Now it was Monday and her heels clicked confidently against the tiled floor. She strode at an alarmingly fast pace for 8:00 a.m., into the student council room like a woman on a mission. Or perhaps war.

Adrien rolled in just before the bell, casual as ever, like the mystical, infuriating timekeeper he was.

The attack came instantly.

“You moved the bake sale forward. There’s no way you expect students to produce their baking a whole week early.”

“The bake sale’s still over a month away. I doubt half the school even know what they’re baking,” Adrien said breezily, settling into his chair with a smile. “We don’t all have our calendars mapped out to our wedding day.”

He leaned across the desk, eyes glinting.

“Speaking of weddings—how’d the date with Luka go? You finally filling in that empty seat at the sweethearts' table?”

Marinette’s nose wrinkled as she crossed her arms.

“It was lovely. He took me to a jazz night.”

Adrien roared with laughter, tossing his head back like she’d told the best joke of the year.

“Wow. He was that uninterested?”

“Just because you don’t have a musical bone in your body—”

“Mari, I—”

“Play piano,” she finished for him, exasperated. “I heard you the first hundred times, Mozart. And don’t call me Mari.”

“I’m just saying, jazz bands are loud. You can’t talk over a trumpet. If he actually wanted to hear you talk, he’d have taken you somewhere quiet. Dimly lit cocktail bar. Cozy booths. A place where secrets slip out.”

He grinned.

“Although, knowing your track record, you’d probably just spill your drink.”

Marinette opened her mouth, fully prepared to unleash verbal war, when Alya approached with the cautious energy of someone approaching wild animals.

“Guys, as fun as this is, watching you two spiral into a snark-nado, we do have the upcoming gaming competition to organise.”

Marinette turned sharply, eyes glittering.

“I’ll leave that to Paris’s biggest player to organise.”

“Might be for the best, considering the girl who never gets a rematch after round one.”

“Maybe you’d notice my winning streak if you weren’t busy spending half the match customising your avatar.”

Alya slapped a hand over her mouth, clearly trying not to laugh.

Adrien leaned forward, hair messily falling over his eyes, shirt sleeves rolled up like he studied on tropical yachts and lounged on decks between deadlines.

“It takes forty minutes, actually,” he said, flashing his trademark smirk. “There’s a reason I turn heads. Not all of us have something shoved so far up our arse people can spot it from space.”

Marinette had to hand it to him, he earned a point for that.

But she flipped her hair anyway, aiming to catch him in the face as she turned on her heel, skirt flaring dramatically. She strutted from the room like she was storming a catwalk, Alya hurrying after her.

Adrien caught her best friend stifling a laugh and looked triumphant.

“I hate him,” Marinette hissed, the hallway speeding past as her heels clicked furiously on the linoleum.

Alya jogged beside her, still grinning. “You know, he does have a point. You told me Luka barely spoke to you all night. And the saxophonist was practically in your lap.”

Marinette grimaced.

She hated when Alya was right.

And she loathed Adrien Agreste even more.

She knew there wouldn’t be a second date with Luka.

—

She detested the way Adrien slinked up beside her in the lunch line, all golden grins and boy-next-door charm, like he hadn’t just committed the high crime of queue-jumping in broad daylight.

“You’re cutting the line!” she cried, folding her arms in front of her like a shield. “What, your private chef doesn’t flambé the crème brûlée just right?”

“Why, Marinette,” Adrien drawled, as if her irritation was his favourite flavour, “everyone knows nothing compares to your parents’ desserts.” He tilted his head, voice light and teasing. “Pity how such a sweet environment produced such a sourpuss. Tell me, did your parents mix up the sugar and spice?”

“Did yours spill in the arrogant bastard mix by mistake?” she shot back.

“My dad’s got perfect vision. Didn’t need those microscope-glasses you used to wear,” he said, his smile all white teeth and smugness. “Need me to read out the menu, Mari?”

Before she could hurl something appropriately venomous like a fork at his perfect face, they reached the front of the queue.

“Adrien, darling!” cooed Lorraine, the lunch lady, her eyes lighting up like he was the second coming of sliced bread. “I made sure sticky date pudding was on the menu, your favourite!”

Lorraine was all but fluttering her eyelashes at him like he’d hand-crafted the pudding with his bare, piano-playing hands.

“Lorraine, I can’t thank you enough,” he said, clasping his hands together like a saint. “I swear your meals are the gods’ ambrosia.”

The woman blushed, practically swooning as she heaped two extra spoonfuls of the dessert onto his tray and selected the reddest apple from the bunch like she was presenting him with a crown jewel.

Marinette stared down at her own tray. Her lunch looked like it had been ravaged by hungry raccoons in a dark alley.

Before she could snap out of her rage spiral, Adrien, ever the audacious prince, whipped out his wallet, tapped his card, and swapped their trays like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You have to try the extra toffee,” he said, completely unapologetic. “Might make you sweeter.”

Marinette glared daggers at his back, her fingers white-knuckling the tray. She stormed off without so much as a grunt of thanks and slammed herself down beside Alya, who looked way too amused for someone watching her best friend combust.

The pudding was infuriatingly delicious.

She hated knowing he was watching her across the cafeteria. She could feel it. His gaze had the same intensity as a spotlight and none of the warmth.

“Adrien swapped your lunches,” Alya observed, picking up her spoon and casually stealing a scoop from Marinette’s pudding mountain. “Again.”

“He’s trying to silently manipulate me,” Marinette hissed, eyes narrowed in conspiracy. “I bet he’s going to ask me for a favour any day now. These free lunches are mental sabotage.”

Alya raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by the theory but not unsympathetic. She didn’t say anything, just gave her friend a pointed look and helped herself to more toffee.

“Oh, already got lunch, Marinette?” came a voice from behind.

It was Simon. His brown curls were as chaotic as ever, and his jumper looked two sizes too big, hanging off his lanky frame like a dish rag on a coat hanger.

“Yes,” Marinette said, though it came out more like a question.

“Shoot. Next time we should sit together,” he said with an awkward shrug. “There’s this great spot under the bleachers.”

Marinette blinked. “Sure,” she replied, hesitant.

He ambled away, and Marinette turned to Alya with a look that screamed Did that just happen?

“Was that Simon? The same Simon that called you brace-face and put gum in your hair?”

Marinette could only nod, the pudding now sitting in her stomach like a brick.

Alya gaped. “And he just invited you to the make-out spot. God, the nerve of these men.”

Marinette nodded solemnly. The change in the boys who used to treat her like a joke was... unsettling. At least Adrien was a consistent irritation. He’d always treated her the same. Aggravating, yes, but never cruel.

“I haven’t done anything different.”

“You didn’t. They just finally got high-definition vision and your gorgeous eyes came into focus.”

“Alya, everyone could see my eyes all too clearly with those glasses.”

Alya chuckled, feeding her a spoonful of pudding. “You’ve always been beautiful to me.”

There was one thing to be said for becoming a swan, suddenly, the eels came slithering up from the lakebed, hoping to pull the little duckling back down.

—

The next time she saw Adrien, she was perched on the school steps, inspecting her pink jumper for lint like it held the secrets of the universe. The afternoon sun was buttery and warm, casting golden shadows across the courtyard. Just as her shoulders began to relax, a familiar chill swept over her.

“You missed a spot.”

His voice was smug and far too close. A hand brushed lightly against her back, plucking at an invisible thread.

Marinette stiffened. “School’s over. Clock out already and stop bothering me.”

“Can’t I just look out for a friend?”

She raised a hand over her eyes and scanned the area theatrically. “What friends? Oh, Agreste, aren’t you a little too old for imaginary playmates?”

“Only the ones with horribly pink sweaters and matronly skirts my aunt would wear to bingo.”

Oh, he was going to pay for that.

“Mari! Sorry I’m late!” a voice called.

Nathanaël appeared, his red fringe covering one eye and his backpack bursting with art supplies. “Ready for drawing class?”

Adrien’s eyes narrowed. Marinette hadn’t realised how tall he was until now, towering over Nathanaël like a cat eyeing a mouse.

“Faking a hobby? Weak,” Adrien said, his voice light but sharp.

Marinette rolled her eyes and grabbed Nathanaël’s wrist. “He introduced me to it. Leave the Michelangelo’s alone. Don’t you have some moody sonata to compose?”

—

That night, Marinette sat hunched over her sewing machine, transforming what her mother had called “fabric scraps” into the blueprint for vengeance.

Adrien had some bloody nerve saying she dressed like his aunt. Tomorrow, she’d show him exactly what “matronly” looked like.

For years, she’d been invisible to most boys at school. All except Adrien. He’d been a constant. Her academic rival, her personal plague, the thorn in her side since forever. He’d grown like a cursed beanstalk, turning into the Isaac Newton of fashion week, gliding through the halls like he’d been born on a red carpet.

They first met when he was shoving a wad of gum under her desk. He’d claimed he was trying to remove it. She’d muttered “rich kid” under her breath.

He’d heard.

And the rest, as they say, was an epic tragedy of passive-aggressive insults and unsolicited pudding bribes.

His attention had never been kind. It had claws. It had bite.

And now, with everyone else finally noticing her? She didn’t know how to handle it.

But Adrien’s attention? She knew that brand all too well.

And somehow, that was almost worse.

—

Marinette walked into school like it owed her money.

It wasn’t on purpose exactly. But, it was deliberate.

The short skirt she'd sewn the night before swung with every stride, daring gravity to do its worst. It was bubblegum pink, stitched within an inch of decency, and sat high on her waist like it paid rent. She'd paired it with her usual oversized jumper, off-shoulder, naturally, which only made the hemline look even more scandalous in comparison.

The hallway practically rippled as she passed. Boys parted like the Red Sea. Eyes bugged. Mouths hung open. Even Sabrina dropped her clipboard.

“I think I just saw God,” Louis whispered to Max.

“Blasphemy,” Max replied, “She’s clearly the devil.”

And Marinette?

She kept walking. Head high. Eyes forward. She didn’t smirk, but she could have. It was her runway and she was doing a walk of spite. Adrien Agreste had called her skirt matronly yesterday. So today, she came dressed like she’d robbed a Parisian fashion doll blind and left the limbs behind.

She swanned into the student council room and chaos paused like it was catching its breath. Nino’s mouth formed an ‘O’. Nathaniel almost stabbed himself with a pencil. Simon actually choked on his gum.

And Adrien?

Didn’t. Look.

Not once. Not even a twitch in her direction. He sat there, arms folded, flicking through the tournament budget like it was the most fascinating thing in the world and not as if the actual seventh wonder of modern fashion had just strolled in and taken the seat across from him.

Coward.

“Morning!” she said, way too chirpy.

Nino was the first to recover, blinking like a man who’d stared directly into the sun. “Hey, uh, we were just... going over volunteer stuff for the gaming competition.”

“Put me down,” Marinette replied smoothly. “I’ll help run the bracket.”

“Are you sure?” Adrien said, still not looking up. “Might be hard to concentrate. You know... with the windchill and all.”

Marinette’s eye twitched. “I dress for impact, not insulation.”

“Mission accomplished,” he muttered under his breath.

“Sorry, was that a compliment?” she shot back.

He finally looked up. Just a flicker. A glance. Then back to his notes like she didn’t exist.

She crossed her legs slowly. Deliberately.

That got him. His jaw tightened, just slightly. Victory.

The meeting continued, or limped along, more like. Discussion about snacks devolved into an argument over which energy drink made you less likely to hallucinate. Adrien made one too many dry comments about how short their list of snacks was and Marinette threatened to sabotage the seating chart.

By the end, as everyone started packing up, Adrien stood. Marinette reached for her bag, turning to leave…

And suddenly his jumper was in her face.

“What—?”

“It’s cold,” he said casually, Marinette urging traitorous butterflies to calm down in her abdomen as his hands brushed the fabric of her skirt, already tying his sweater around her waist from behind. “And Bustier’s doing dress code patrols again.”

She stiffened. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“I’d rather not witness your inevitable scolding. You get snappy when flustered.”

“You get punchable when smug.”

“Perfect,” he said. “We’re both consistent.”

He tied the knot, snug and low on her hips, tugged the hem down at the front of her skirt, then stepped back like it hadn’t just short-circuited her brain. Like her entire lower half wasn’t now wrapped in Adrien Agreste’s expensive aftershave and moral superiority.

She stormed out before he could say anything else, jumper still wrapped round her waist.

And she hated how warm it was.

—

It started with a note.

Folded into a little triangle and flicked across the desk like they were still in middle school. Marinette didn’t even see it coming until it landed on her open planner between her meeting agenda and a very aggressively highlighted reminder: BUY MORE THREAD.

She unfolded it.

Pink is definitely your colour. And so is trouble. Meet me after class? ;) – Simon

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Then another note landed, almost instantly after. Different handwriting. Sharper. More arrogant.

No. Absolutely not. – A

She twisted around in her seat and glared.

Adrien had the audacity to be writing like he wasn’t literally intercepting her post like some snobby Parisian pigeon. He didn’t even look up, just passed her the next worksheet with the same smug precision he used when correcting her lab results.

She scribbled back furiously.

Why are you like this?

Because I care about GPA averages and your tragic taste in men. 

You are not my guardian angel, Agreste.

You’re welcome.

Class dragged on. Simon kept casting her wounded looks like a boy denied a second biscuit. Adrien looked annoyingly unbothered, like a guy who’d blocked someone else’s flirting for the academic good of the class.

By the time the bell rang, Marinette was seeing red (and not the cute lipstick kind).

She stalked after him, catching him just outside the stairwell. “You want to tell me what that was?”

Adrien turned, half-lidded gaze like he hadn’t just committed emotional sabotage in broad daylight. “Hm? You’re going to have to be more specific. I’ve done a lot of things wrong today.”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. You intercepted Simon’s note!”

“Technically, I rescued you.”

“From what?! A compliment?!”

He shrugged. “From bad decisions. You’re welcome again.”

Marinette narrowed her eyes, pointing a very menacing finger at his chest. “You’ve done this before. Every time someone flirts with me or even breathes in my direction, somehow you magically derail it.”

“I wouldn’t call it derailing. More like... quality control.”

“You’re not customs, Adrien!”

“I might as well be. Someone has to stop the contraband flirting getting through.”

Marinette’s mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again because what even was this?

“Why do you care?” she demanded, breath hot with indignation. “Seriously. Are you that bored?”

He scoffed. “Please. I’m not invested.”

“Oh, right. Of course you’re not. You just casually go out of your way to ruin my love life out of pure hobbyist interest.”

“I just have standards,” he said simply. “And I can’t have my academic rival distracted by the first guy who discovers how to write You’re hot on notebook paper.”

“You are so—!” she stopped herself, dragging both hands down her face like it might pull sanity back into her skull. “You are infuriating.”

“And yet,” he said, walking backwards now, hands tucked in his pockets, “you always take my academic advice.”

“I do not!”

“Who else are you going to ask about work? Simon? He thinks calculus is a hoax, his head’s as empty as his personality.”

She huffed. Loudly. “I hate you.”

He smiled. Bright. Unbothered. “That’s fine. Just don’t date Simon.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

Marinette stared after him, fuming, Adrien’s stupid handwriting still clenched in her fist. It wasn’t fair. She couldn’t even throw something at him, he was already out of range.

But she could plan. And next time, she’d be the one intercepting his attention.

And maybe his sweater again.

But only if she was cold.

Obviously.

—

That lunchtime, the sun was shining on her overly exposed legs. Birds were chirping. Marinette Dupain-Cheng was making a terrible decision, and she was doing it in heels.

Simon had found her and Alya sat together for lunch, Adrien across the courtyard like a bodyguard, sending loud coughs if she dared untied the knot of his sweater from her waist. Simon sauntered over, if he was still hurt that Marinette hadn’t replied to his note he didn’t show it. Simply casting her a look that he most likely thought was charming, but in fact made him look like an unfortunate squirrel. 

He cosied in next to her they did this everyday, ignoring Alya’s reproachful look and Adrien’s hard stare from across the courtyard.

“I’m just saying,” Simon grinned, leaning against the lunch table like he hadn’t once poured glue in her math notebook in Year 7, “you’ve got this whole mysterious, fashionably dangerous vibe going on today. It’s... captivating.”

Marinette twirled her fork, all faux innocence and fluttering lashes. “Dangerous, huh?”

“Yeah.” He leaned in closer, eyes dropping to the hem of her very short skirt. “Like, I should probably call the fire department. Or at least file a report for being distracted in class.”

Across the courtyard, Adrien choked on his smoothie.

“Hmm,” Marinette said, tracing her straw with slow, theatrical flair. “Well, good thing I’ve got time this weekend. Maybe you can figure out just how dangerous I am.”

Simon’s eyes lit up like he’d just won the lottery and was already mentally spending the money.

“Wait, seriously? You’re saying yes?”

She leaned in. “Unless you’d like me to change my mind.”

“No! I mean, no, absolutely yes—uh, not changing minds. You. Me. Friday after class?”

“Friday.” She winked. “You bring the distraction, I’ll bring the fire.”

He walked away practically levitating.

And then, Alya descended.

“Oh my god, Marinette, what.”

“What?” Marinette popped a grape in her mouth, completely unbothered.

Alya grabbed her shoulders. “You just agreed to go out with Simon. Simon Lavigne. The same Simon who used to tell you that you looked like a ‘girl version of Velma’ in your reading glasses?”

“He’s changed.”

Alya gaped. “Into what? A sentient haircut with bad pickup lines?”

Marinette shrugged. “He was nice.”

“He was oily. He called you four-eyes until Ms. Bustier made him write a two-page apology!”

“That was years ago.”

“Girl, are you okay? Did Adrien’s notes give you a concussion?”

Marinette smiled, leaning back on her elbows like a smug cat. “Maybe I’m just broadening my horizons.”

“Oh no,” Alya groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “This is because of Adrien, isn’t it? He intercepts one flirty note and suddenly you’re acting like you’re starring in a revenge plot?”

“It’s not revenge,” Marinette said primly. “It’s emotional diversification.”

Alya stared at her like she had grown a second head.

“You’re nuts.”

“And you’re judging me for living my truth.”

“The truth is that Adrien just watched you flirt with Simon so hard he forgot how to drink fluids.”

“Good.”

“Marinette.”

“I said what I said.”

From across the courtyard, Adrien was making an impressive show of pretending to laugh at something Nino said,  even though Nino hadn’t spoken in a full minute.

However, Adrien wasn’t acting as happy as he was with Nino as he caught up with her not two seconds after the lunch bell rang. 

“Did my ears deceive me or did you really just agree to see Simon at the end of the week?” 

His tone was clipped, and Marinette suppressed the smirk that always graced her features when she was fortunate enough to make his gears grind. 

“I’ll give it to you Agreste, your big head must do wonders for your hearing.” 

They walked down the walk together, Adrien slowing down his strides, despite Marinette’s short legs marching at record pace. The hallway blurred between them as they walked to last period. Adrien was looking down at her as they walked, he pinched the bridge of his nose, looking annoyingly good for someone on the verge of anger. 

“Marinette, he’s bad news.” 

She scoffed, “You know, you should save all this advice for a magazine column.”

She felt the grip of his hand wrapping around her wrist before she realised what happened. He stopped her mid-walk, and they stood together in the empty hallway. 

“Mari, I’m serious.” Her heart failed her as it began to beat faster, looking at the way his eyes narrowed, “Turn him down.” 

Marinette couldn’t tear her gaze away from his, he was absentmindedly rubbing his thumb along the sleeve of her sweater. 

She jerked her arm away. 

“I’ll do what I please, Agreste. Don’t worry about your academic rival, I’ll put you at number two for our next test.” He let her walk away, her hips sashing from side to side as she called over her shoulder. “And don’t call me that!”

It wasn’t like she was planning to fall in love with Simon. She just wanted a couple of dates, wanted to bask in a few well timed compliments and feel her eyelashes flutter as they shared a milkshake. A casual good time. A tiny, well-earned distraction from the study and the council and the hot-cold hurricane that breathed down her neck every class like he was her bodyguard. 

That Friday Marinette stood alone in the girls’ bathroom after the final bell. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly over her head and she leaned into the smudged mirror. Most of the students had already spilled out onto the front steps, leaving the halls desolate and empty, the gossip of weekend plans fading into the sunshine. 

Marinette took a deep breath and reapplied her lip gloss for the third time. 

It wasn’t nerves. Not exactly. 

Her fingers traced the collar of her blouse, a soft yellow and paired perfectly with the skirt she had stayed up hemming earlier that week. She smoothed the fabric again, even though it was laying perfectly flat. 

Alya had tried to talk sense into her again today like she was headed to the gallows.

“He bullied you, Mari,” Alya had hissed at lunch, her salad untouched. “He called you ‘Four Eyes’ for two years. And now you’re giving him a chance because he figured out what eyeliner is?”

Marinette had shrugged, “People change.” 

She knew Alya and (dammit) Agreste were probably both right. But put a briefcase in her hand and sue her if she just wanted to have fun on a Friday, instead of suffering through another board game night with her parents. 

Besides, it had been satisfying watching Adrien’s face go taut every time Simon left another note on her desk. Not that Adrien cared, of course. He’d made that very clear. 

She dabbed under her eyes, making sure her concealer hadn’t creased. Fixed the inner corners of her eyeliner. Then she leaned back, giving her full reflection one final once-over.

Bold but not try-hard.

Cute but not desperate.

Confident.

She stuffed her gloss into her bag and walked out.

Marinette made her way down the quieter west wing, where the last few sports teams were still gathering their things. Her boots clicked softly on the polished tile, her heart beating a calm rhythm in her chest.

She paused just outside the boys’ locker room, leaning casually against the cool wall, tucking her hair behind one ear. She checked her phone. Three minutes past. Simon would be out any second.

He had told her to meet him there so they could walk to the café together. Casual. Cool. Like this wasn’t the same guy who used to make fun of her pigtails.

She leaned against the tiled wall just around the corner from the locker room door, checking her phone for the third time and trying not to overthink it.

But then she heard voices outside the locker room. 

The unmistakable laugh of Simon. Then others, deeper, cockier. Talking louder than they thought anyone could hear.

And then—

“She was begging for it with that skirt. I mean, have you seen her? Total makeover moment. Can’t believe she used to be that ugly little thing.”

Marinette froze.

“Dude, you’re seriously dating her?”

“Dating?” Simon scoffed. “Nah. Just taking her out. Get a coffee, let her think she’s special. I give it two dates, max. She’s practically advertising.”

The guys howled.

“Another notch, huh?”

“Easy,” Simon confirmed, with a grin in his voice Marinette had once stupidly thought was charming. “She’s so desperate to be wanted, I barely had to try.”

The world tilted.

Her breath caught. Every muscle in her body went cold and tight all at once, like someone had poured ice water down her spine. Her skin prickled under her clothes, the edges of her vision buzzing.

She didn’t wait to hear the rest.

Her phone slid into her bag with a shaky hand as she turned and ran.

She didn’t care that her heels clicked too loudly. Or that her bag slammed against her hip. Or that her vision was already blurring from the hot sting in her eyes.

She turned the corner and collided straight into someone. Tall, solid, familiar.

Adrien.

He caught her shoulders automatically, startled. “Whoa—Marinette?”

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

“Hey—wait, what’s wrong? Mari—”

But she was already moving, shoving past him with a choked breath. Her mascara had streaked, and thin, shiny trails were cutting down her cheeks like cracks in a porcelain doll. Her lips were trembling. 

Adrien turned after her, stunned.

Behind him, the echoes of laughter drifted faintly from the locker room. And Adrien’s hands curled into fists.

—

It was a weekend spent tucked into bed with Alya snuggled next to her, an unspoken I told you so drifting into the air. They played board games with her parents, her Maman’s concerned looks shifted into piles of pastries left by her trapdoor. 

She left herself be coddled by everyone, Alya stroking her hair as they consumed too many danishes and a rom-com they hadn’t seen but didn’t need to echoing around the pink walls of her room. 

“I didn’t even like him, but I thought he’d changed enough to— to see.”

Marinette choked up again. 

“He was so mean. Saying I was just another notch on his belt! He begged me to go out with him.”

Alya cooed to her friend, the television droned. 

—

Monday rolled around and Marinette felt like her embers had been thrown in the ocean.

It was like the previous week was a fever dream. The kind that lingered at the edges of your memory in half-shadows and secondhand embarrassment.

Her skirt? Forgotten. At the bottom of her laundry hamper or maybe buried under existential dread. Same difference.

Instead, she tugged on the slouchiest, most shapeless pair of jeans she owned and a sweater so big it looked like it was swallowing her whole. It had sleeves that dragged past her fingertips. She didn’t have the heart to care, let alone try.

She didn’t have the heart to do anything but show up.

The halls felt colder than usual. Or maybe it was just her, unmoored and a little numb as the world flowed around her like she wasn’t even there. Funny. Just last week, eyes followed her like she was magnetic, now she dressed like a ghost and it worked a little too well.

She half-watched students pass her by. Conversations carried on without her. No lingering glances. No whispered commentary. Not even Simon.

Not until lunch.

She was leaving science when he caught up to her outside the stairwell, bruised and hesitant, shifting on the balls of his feet like someone had lit a fire under his sneakers. His left eye was a mess,  swollen, violet, and in Marinette’s opinion, very much deserved.

“Marinette,” he croaked.

She blinked at him.

“I—uh,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I just… wanted to say I’m sorry. About Friday. What I said. It was gross and messed up, and I don’t know what I was thinking.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Long enough to make him squirm.

Finally, she shrugged.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she said, tone flat. “You weren’t thinking.”

He winced, shifting his weight again.

“I’m serious. I shouldn’t have said any of that. You didn’t deserve it. I was being a complete jerk. I—”

“Yeah,” she cut in, not unkindly. “You were.”

And then she walked away.

Later that afternoon the library was quiet in that comfortable, dusty kind of way, like time moved a little slower between its shelves. The sun had already dipped low, slanting warm amber light across the wooden tables and soft carpets.

Marinette sat alone near the back window, chin propped in her hand, history textbook open but mostly ignored. Her other hand lazily spun her pen in distracted circles, eyelids heavy. Her sweater was still swallowing her whole, and sometime between fourth period and now, she’d swapped her contact lenses for her old glasses. The ones she used to wear every day before she tried to be someone else.

The lenses were smudged, but she didn’t care.

She didn’t hear him sit down beside her until he cleared his throat.

Adrien.

Of course.

“Studying,” he said, nodding at her untouched notes, “or deep meditation?”

She glanced at him over her glasses, unimpressed. “Both.”

He raised his brows, but his voice stayed light. “That’s some elite multitasking.”

She didn’t answer. Just returned her eyes to the page like the dates of post-revolution treaties were going to stop haunting her if she stared hard enough.

They sat in silence for a moment.

She knew he was looking at her. She could feel it.

Finally, he said, “You’re wearing them again.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Your glasses.”

She reached up like she might take them off. “They’re just easier. I don’t feel like stabbing my eyes today.”

“Don’t,” he said, too quickly. Then, clearing his throat: “I mean… they suit you.”

Her hand paused on the frame.

A beat.

Then she looked at him, brow raised. “Don’t lie to make me feel better.”

“I’m not,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I never hated your glasses. Not even in middle school.”

She snorted. “That’s a low bar.”

“I’m serious.”

She finally gave him a long look. Really looked at him. And that’s when she noticed his hand resting on the table. His right hand.

The knuckles were scraped. Pink and angry.

Her stomach twisted.

“What happened to your hand?” she asked, already guessing the answer.

Adrien tilted his head, feigning innocent confusion.

“I tripped,” he said, and when she didn’t respond, he added, “Over… my sense of moral outrage.”

“Adrien.”

He sighed, dragging the hand off the table and into his lap like it was embarrassing.

“You looked wrecked on Friday,” he muttered. “I tried to ask if you were okay, but you just… ran. And I didn’t know what to do with all that energy except maybe accidentally remind Simon that there are consequences.”

Marinette looked down.

“You didn’t have to.”

“Maybe not,” he said, “but I wanted to.”

She exhaled slowly. “I was so stupid,” she admitted. “For thinking that guys actually noticed me for anything real. I got rid of my braces and my glasses and I thought maybe people would see me differently. And they did. Just not the way I hoped.”

There was a pause.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” Adrien asked.

She met his gaze, caught off guard by the softness in his tone.

“I see someone who doesn’t need any of that to matter. You didn’t get interesting when you changed, Marinette. You’ve always been—” he hesitated, “kind of impossible to ignore.”

She blinked at him. “That a compliment?”

“That depends. Did you just call me a liar ten seconds ago?”

She cracked a tiny smile. “I’m thinking about taking it back.”

He grinned, and suddenly, just for a moment, the library didn’t feel so heavy.

—

The Student Council Gaming Tournament was a bigger hit than anyone had expected.

The cafeteria-turned-arcade buzzed with energy. Neon signs borrowed from the drama club glowed from the walls, multicoloured bean bags and extension cords were everywhere, and the smell of popcorn (courtesy of the culinary committee) hung thick in the air. Dozens of students were clustered around Switch consoles, battle stations, and a DIY scoreboard made from cardboard and glitter. Somehow, it worked.

It was chaos. Glorious, screaming, soda-fuelled chaos.

And Marinette was glowing.

For the first time in what felt like forever, her eyes were bright with something more than overthinking. She had her sleeves rolled up, clipboard in hand, and was ducking between gaming groups with the enthusiasm of someone who actually remembered what fun was.

“This is insane,” Alya said, watching a group of Year 10s dramatically fall over themselves in a round of Smash Bros.

“In the best way,” Marinette said, breathless as she beamed. “I mean, do you see this? People are actually enjoying themselves.”

“I see it,” Alya said, then leaned in and stage-whispered, “Especially someone over there who’s actually smiling like he didn’t crawl out of a corporate-sponsored networking event.”

Marinette followed her gaze.

Adrien was standing by the tournament bracket, laughing with Nino and Luka while mock-flexing after winning his match. His eyes sparkled under the overhead lights, and his smile was so real it made Marinette's stomach do a lazy somersault. She looked away immediately.

No. No somersaults allowed. You’re still recovering from emotional whiplash.

But then the crowd started chanting.

"Adrien! Mari! Adrien! Mari!"

“...What’s going on?” Marinette asked cautiously.

“You,” Alya said, already grinning like a devil, “are being challenged.”

She turned, too slow, just in time to see Adrien smirking at her across the crowd.

“I hear you’re undefeated at Ultimate Mecha Strike III,” he said, arms crossed, voice smug.

“And I hear you cry when you lose,” she shot back, raising a brow.

“That’s slander.”

“That’s Alya with receipts.”

The students cheered.

“C’mon, Dupain-Cheng,” Adrien said, waggling a controller. “What do you say? For the tournament. For school pride. For… bragging rights that last all year.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“You’re going down.”

They took the center setup, already wired into the projector screen. The cafeteria roared with anticipation. Students crowded around the chairs, phones out, bets being whispered in every direction.

Alya patted Marinette’s shoulder. “Make him suffer.”

“I plan to.”

She sat beside Adrien, trying not to notice how his thigh brushed hers, how his rolled-up sleeves showed his knuckles with the faintest edge of a bruise, how he glanced over at her with that crooked smirk.

Adrien turned to her with a mischievous smile that was pure challenge. “C’mon, Dupain-Cheng. You too scared to get wrecked?”

“Oh please,” she scoffed, making her way toward the console with a confident strut that was mostly bravado. “You’re all talk. Just wait till I pull out the Black Cat.”

That made him pause. “You’re playing as him?”

She smirked. “What? Afraid of a little bad luck?”

He shook his head, amused, before scrolling through the Ultimate Mecha Strike III character wheel. “Guess I’ll go Ladybug, then.”

Her controller slipped in her hand. “You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious,” he said, already locking in the selection. “Figured I’d fight fire with… miraculous counterbalance.”

He leaned forward with focus, his lip tugged into a crooked grin when he pulled off a perfect combo.

“Oh, you wish you were as good as me,” Marinette quipped as her Black Cat dodged a flurry of kicks.

“Is that why you’re down to half your health bar?” Adrien grinned, barely looking away from the screen.

“I’m just lulling you into a false sense of security,” she shot back, mashing a series of buttons. “You know, the classic rope-a-dope.”

“Pretty sure rope-a-dope doesn’t involve flailing like a drowning squirrel.”

She gasped. “Take that back, Agreste.”

“In a minute,” he said, calmly evading her ultimate move and countering with a blow that sent her character flying.

Her mouth fell open. “You are such a cheat!”

He leaned a little closer, eyes sparkling. “Or maybe you’re just distracted.”

“From what?” she asked, momentarily glancing at him. Big mistake.

“Exactly,” he whispered.

She tried to elbow him but missed, because she was still frantically trying to keep Black Cat alive. “You are going down.”

“Already did,” he teased. “Round two is all yours, Princess.”

And it was.

With a vengeance.

Marinette narrowed her eyes and, fuelled by sheer spite and the hum of adrenaline, combo-chained her way through his entire health bar like a girl possessed. The room erupted as the "Victory" screen flashed across the display, Black Cat twirling smugly on screen while Ladybug lay defeated.

She dropped the controller with a dramatic flair. “Told you. All talk.”

Adrien looked stunned for a moment, then let out a laugh that made her insides twist. “Okay, okay. You win. But I’m calling for a rematch.”

“Anytime, pretty boy.”

They were both breathless, cheeks flushed from the heat of competition. The crowd crowned Marinette the winner, chanting her name, but she barely heard it over the pounding of her own heart.

And when she glanced over, Adrien wasn’t looking at the screen anymore. He was looking at her.

—

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Marinette shuffled into the classroom, her books hugged tightly to her chest like a shield. Her glasses were slightly crooked, the frames thick and a little too big for her face. Her braces clicked every time she spoke, making her lisp even more noticeable and something she hated more than anything. Her skinny arms felt exposed in the oversized sweater she wore, a hand-me-down from her older cousin, hoping to hide herself in its folds.

She was still shaking from the taunts in the hallway. Whispers and cruel nicknames trailing behind her like shadows. Her cheeks burned, not just from embarrassment but from the endless fatigue of feeling invisible and small.

And then she saw him.

Adrien Agreste, the new boy who looked like he stepped straight out of a magazine. Perfectly styled hair, crisp uniform, that easy, confident smile that made heads turn. He stood by her desk, a piece of sticky pink gum in his hand.

Marinette’s heart sank. The last place she wanted attention was on her.

Her breath caught as she saw him lift the gum, his fingers poised to press it onto her desk. “Hey—”

She didn’t wait.

“Don’t you dare.”

Adrien blinked, confused. “Wait, I was trying to get it off. It was stuck there.”

Marinette’s eyes narrowed, the lisp sharpening her words as she spat out, “Rich boy thinks he can do whatever he wants. Like putting gum on a girl’s desk.”

His smile faltered.

She wasn’t thinking. She was tired. Tired of being made fun of for her braces that made her speech slow and silly. Tired of her glasses that distorted how she saw the world and how the world saw her. Tired of the skinny frame that made her feel fragile and invisible. And here was this perfect boy, acting like he could make her life worse with just a flick of his wrist.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she snapped, voice cracking a little. “Just leave me alone.”

Adrien’s eyes softened, but Marinette had already turned away, the hot sting of tears threatening behind her lashes. Somewhere deep down, she felt a pang, maybe even regret, but it was buried under a mountain of pride and hurt.

That was the moment she decided she hated Adrien Agreste.

—

The change after the competition was almost unnerving. She hated the way her heart stuttered when Adrien laughed at one of her sarcastic jabs. She hated that she noticed his cologne in the hallway before she saw him. She really hated how his smile lingered in her head longer than her calculus notes. 

The worst part? He seemed to be nice to her now. He didn’t say a word, but his body language screamed. He hovered. He frowned when she waved at Luka from across the quad. When Marinette let herself tripped into her locker he snickered, but she didn’t miss the way he caught her waist instantly, pulling her away from her teetering feet.

When Simon tried to flick her another note (give it up), Adrien casually flicked a rubber band at his head. 

“Oh my god,” Alya whispered one afternoon, watching Adrien adjust the projector for Marinette, again. “Is he fluffing your PowerPoint? Girl, he’s whipped.”

Marinette shoved her elbow into Alya’s side. “Shut up. He’s just being decent.”

She didn’t want to look for signs. But signs were everywhere. Adrien saved her a seat in lectures. He complimented her messy sketches. He ‘accidentally’ left her favourite pens on her desk. He even helped her finish a group project when her partner ghosted her, and all he asked for in return was a croissant.

It was unbearable. Because the more Adrien leaned in, the more Marinette felt herself unravel.

Until she saw her.

Adrien was walking out of his psychology class, head tipped back in laughter. The girl next to him touched his arm lightly, smiling up at him with eyes too warm for Marinette’s comfort.

Marinette’s stomach dropped.

“Oh hell no,” Alya muttered beside her.

Marinette didn’t hesitate. She strode up to them, every step fueled by months of confusion and misfiring feelings. Her voice was calm, but cold.

“Adrien. Can we talk?”

The girl blinked. “Oh, we were just—”

“It’s important,” Marinette cut in, not even sparing her a glance.

Adrien straightened, the grin sliding off his face as he registered her tone. “Sure.”

As the girl drifted away awkwardly, Marinette stood her ground, fists clenched at her sides.

“Who was she?” Marinette asked.

Adrien blinked. “She’s just someone from class. We were assigned a debate and—”

“Right. A debate,” Marinette scoffed. “With arm touching?”

He frowned. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t!” she snapped too quickly, then glared at the sidewalk. “You’re just—you always hover, and then laugh like that with some girl and—ugh!”

Adrien folded his arms. “Why do you care?”

“Because we were finally getting somewhere! And you’re too busy being a smug rich boy to notice,” she shot back, instantly regretting it.

Adrien went still. “You still call me that?”

Marinette’s mouth opened, then shut.

“Why?” he asked again, quieter this time. “You called me that the first week of school. You don’t even know me.”

“I—because—” she faltered. “You were putting gum under my desk!”

“I was taking it off!” Adrien exploded. “Someone stuck it there, and you looked grossed out, so I tried to help—and then you glared at me like I’d kicked your cat and muttered ‘rich boy’ like I’d insulted your whole bloodline.”

Silence stretched between them.

Adrien looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “I had a crush on you. Back then. You had these crooked little pigtails and a lisp, and you were so passionate about everything. You made charts for group projects and cried when you forgot your pencil once. I thought it was sweet.”

Marinette blinked. “You what?”

“I liked you. A lot. But you hated me.” His voice cracked, just a bit. “So I gave up. But then we ended up in the same class again. And again. And I kept hoping maybe you’d see me. Not the grades or the polos. Me.”

She didn’t speak.

“And now,” he continued, softer, “All these guys notice you. And that’s great. But they don’t know you like I do. They don’t know you always triple-check your test paper before leaving. Or that you hum when you're stressed. Or that you use pink highlighter when you know something and green when you don’t. Or that you name your USBs after famous painters.”

Marinette’s heart thudded.

“It’s not fair,” Adrien said. “That I’ve been here the whole time. And you’re giving everyone a chance except me.”

She stepped closer, almost without realising. “You never said anything.”

“I was waiting for you to stop calling me a rich boy,” he muttered.

And finally, Marinette laughed. “Well. Consider it retired.”

Adrien’s lips quirked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she breathed.

And just like that, the war between them softened into something else entirely.

—

The library was quiet, save for the soft scratch of pencils and the occasional rustle of turning pages. Marinette sat at the corner table, eyes bleary, glasses perched low on her nose as she scrolled through her notes.

Adrien slid into the seat beside her, grinning. “You know, you’re supposed to study with me, not glare at your notes like they offended you personally.”

Marinette shot him a sidelong glance. “Maybe if you stopped distracting me with your perfect smile, I’d actually focus.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice to a teasing whisper. “Oh, so now I’m distracting? When you’re the one stealing glances every five seconds?”

Her cheeks flushed, but she kept her tone sharp. “Please. I’m just trying to memorise, unlike someone who probably spends more time fixing his hair than studying.”

Adrien laughed softly, his hand brushing hers as he reached for a pen. “Careful, or I’ll start thinking you actually like me.”

She snorted. “In your dreams.”

Their eyes met, the playful spark melting into something warmer. Adrien’s fingers tightened gently around hers.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low. “Maybe we should take a break from all this work.”

Before she could protest, he leaned in, capturing her lips in a soft, lingering kiss. The world narrowed to just the two of them. Quiet, close, and undeniably theirs.

When they finally parted, Marinette smirked. “Okay, maybe a break sounds good.”

Adrien grinned, squeezing her hand. “Told you I’m a good distraction.”