Chapter Text
The door chimed with a low ding as the first rush of morning customers trickled in and the soft buzz from coffee machines between shifts settled in. Behind the counter at Cafe Noir, Marinette wiped down the espresso machine while Alya rearranged the pastry display for the third time that morning.
The air smelled like coffee beans and sugar, and somewhere in the background, a soft acoustic playlist hummed through old speakers. It was the kind of cafe that didn’t try too hard—exposed brick, plants that were real half the time, and regulars who always forgot their punch cards.
“I swear, if one more guy asks for his cappuccino ‘extra hot,’ I’m gonna start charging for emotional labor,” Alya muttered, adjusting a croissant so it looked more photogenic.
Marinette smiled faintly. “It’s not that deep.”
“Oh, it is. You didn’t hear him say his cappuccino reminds him of his ‘passion for philosophy.’”
“That was kind of poetic.”
“No, it was kind of pathetic,” Alya said, glancing over. “You’re being different again. Everything okay in your head today?”
“Define ‘okay.’”
“Okay as in: are you still emotionally recovering from your situationship with matcha guy?”
“He wasn’t a situationship, we texted twice.”
“And yet you thought about him for two weeks.”
“Shut up.”
Alya grinned. Marinette tried not to grin back.
"You're single, you’re spiraling, and you’ve had a crush on every customer under the age of thirty this week,” Alya added, tying her apron tighter around her waist.
“I have not—okay, except for also the guy with the nose ring. And maybe the girl who ordered the iced lavender matcha.”
“Girl had vibes,” Alya nodded approvingly.
Marinette rolled her eyes, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she leaned against the espresso machine. Marinette liked her job, I mean, the pay was decent, the music was calming, and the gossip? Always piping hot.
Outside, the sky was just starting to cloud over—winter was just around the corner. It was the kind of day where something unexpected could happen, and you wouldn't question it too much.
The door chimed.
Two guys stepped in. One of them, a little taller, walked like someone who didn’t want to be noticed—which only made him more noticeable.
Marinette’s eyes immediately locked on the hoodie, the hat, the sunglasses, and the surgical mask. She blinked. That absolutely screamed “Please don’t recognize me” (aka, you're famous).
Alya turned to her, already whispering, “That is the worst disguise I’ve ever seen.”
“Is he… famous?” Marinette whispered back.
Behind him trailed another guy in a flannel shirt and headphones around his neck—normal, unbothered, cool. The first guy, though? Way too jumpy. Like someone would jump out from the counter and take his picture.
Alya tilted her head, assessing. “Wait—oh my God. No freaking way."
“What?”
She leaned in. "That’s Adrien Agreste.”
Marinette froze.
“Like the model? You’re kidding.”
“Not kidding,” Alya whispered. “He is The model. The face of half the posters on the metro. He’s doing a campaign for his dad and trying to look like he’s not literally hiding from the French Vogue interns. Oh my God, he looks like he won a fight against a designer.”
Marinette’s heart did something weird—like a sudden double beat. She knew the name, of course. Everyone did. Adrien had been in the public eye since they were teenagers. She’d seen his face in airports, on perfume ads, and once in a friend’s very detailed Pinterest board titled "My Future Husband."
But she’d never seen him like this. Messy, awkward, weirdly tall, slightly twitchy—and for some reason, completely magnetic.
“Do we say something?” Marinette whispered.
“Nope,” Alya said, already rounding the counter. “We pretend we’re cool. Unless he orders like... I dunno, iced coffee with cream, 20 pumps of raspberry, and 20 pumps of white mocha and extra whipped cream. Then I judge.”
Marinette peeked again. The guy was standing a little awkwardly by the register, clearly unsure if it was okay to approach. His friend, on the other hand, elbowed him gently toward the counter.
They split up. Hoodie Guy moved toward Marinette’s register. His friend took Alya’s.
Marinette stepped up, willing herself to act normal. She straightened her apron and offered the kind of smile she gave to anyone who walked in.
But when he got closer, she felt it.
Recognition hit like a buzz. It was familiar, distant, warm.
Even under the layers of cheap anonymity, there was no hiding that face completely.
He glanced up from under his cap, eyes barely visible behind the dark glasses. Still, she caught enough of them to see the hesitation.
“Hi,” he said quietly, voice low and polite. He pushed his hood back slightly. His blond hair curled at the edges, too golden to hide under any hat.
“Hey,” she barely managed, then mentally screamed at herself. “What can I get for you?”
He looked at the menu above her head. “Uh… just a black coffee. To-go, please.”
Simple. Safe. Predictable.
She tapped it in.
“And your name?” she asked, tone routine.
He hesitated. Looked toward the window behind her. Then back at her.
“…Chat Noir,” he said.
She blinked.
“Really?”
He didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”
Marinette raised an eyebrow. “Black cat?”
Alya snorted from the other register.
Then, to her surprise, he laughed under his breath.
“Is that a problem?”
She smiled. “Not unless you start knocking things off counters.”
That earned her another quiet laugh. His laugh—a soft, real laugh that made something warm uncurl in Marinette’s stomach. Then he walked toward his friend, who was already done ordering, and found a corner booth near the back, where they could watch the door and stay out of the sunlit windows.
When the order was being prepared, Marinette carefully placed the cup on the bar top.
She debated whether to write Chat Noir on the side, then decided: yes. In all caps. With a tiny paw print under it. Just for her own satisfaction.
As she watched them settle in, Alya appeared behind her.
“So?” she asked.
“He was… polite.”
Alya raised a brow. “Polite?”
Marinette cleared her throat. “Okay, fine. He was kind of charming.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. And you called him a cat. That’s a crush now.”
“Stop—”
“I’m just saying,” Alya said, grinning as she leaned on the counter, “he looked way too happy when you joked back. And he’s still glancing over here every thirty seconds.”
“He is not—”
Alya lifted a hand. “Okay, okay. I’m done, maybe it’s not even him. But like, maybe take your break in five minutes and take him his cup.”
“I will absolutely not do that.”
“Liar.”
-
Meanwhile, Adrien was trying to breathe. He slouched into the seat and tugged off his mask.
“That didn’t go horribly, right?” he asked as he placed the surgical mask at their table.
“You ordered coffee under the name Chat Noir,” Nino said flatly. “You idiot.”
“I panicked!”
“You could’ve said ‘Alex’ or ‘Lucas’ or literally anything else. You panic-named yourself after a crime-fighting house pet.”
Adrien groaned, dropping his face into his hands.
“Better than saying ‘Hi I’m Adrien Agreste, freshly escaped from fashion week, please don’t tweet my location’.”
Nino just laughed, leaning back. “You know what? I’m not gonna stop you. You’re lucky that barista was cute. She let you get away with it.”
“I can’t believe I said that.”
“You panicked in front of a cute girl.”
“She was cute,” Adrien admitted, muffled by his palms. “Like… actually cute. Like… I could not tell if I was sweating from the walk here or from looking at her.”
Nino laughed into his drink. “She seemed into it.”
“She laughed at me.”
“She laughed. Period.”
Adrien peeked out from behind his hands, cheeks red. “Do you think I sounded like a creep?”
“You sounded like someone who doesn’t talk to normal people often.”
“That’s worse.”
“But also,” Nino added, “like someone who doesn’t want to be normal. Which, honestly? Probably a win in her book.”
Adrien buried his face again.
Nino grinned. “You’re fine. You were fine. I'm just being funny. Let me have this.”
Adrien groaned again. “I can never come back here.”
“Oh, you’re absolutely coming back here.”
-
Back at the counter, Marinette watched them from the corner of her eye as she restocked lids and pretended not to care.
But she did.
She hadn’t expected the shift to get interesting. She hadn’t expected to talk to someone who spent most of his life on billboards and television. And she really hadn’t expected him to look like someone just barely holding it together in a disguise that fooled no one.
He didn’t carry himself like someone who wanted attention. He carried himself like someone tired of it.
And that, somehow, made her want to know more.
Alya nudged her. “So… what do you think?”
“I think he’s nervous.”
“That’s kind of sweet.”
Marinette didn’t answer right away.
Then: “Yeah. It kind of is.”
“Okay, but it's obvious that you’re totally watching him,” Alya said behind her.
“Shut up.”
“Are you into him?”
“No.”
“You’re into him.”
“I'm curious!”
“Oh my God. You’re doing the ‘what if he’s not a shallow celebrity but a deeply misunderstood boy with a hidden heart of gold’ fantasy.”
Marinette groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I just want to know what kind of person would willingly call himself Chat Noir.”
“He looks like he’d write poetry at 2 a.m. and then deny it.”
“That’s not helping.”
“Is it helping you fall in love a little faster?”
“…maybe.”
-
When Marinette finally brought Adrien’s cup over, he looked up and smiled like they’d already shared a secret.
“Thanks,” he said, fingers brushing hers as he took the cup.
She pretended not to shiver.
“No problem… Chat.”
He smiled wider.
She started to walk away, but then turned back. “Just so you know, the hat doesn’t help.”
“What hat?” he said innocently.
“The one trying to disguise those beautiful locks of blonde hair,” she said sarcastically.
Adrien snorted, delighted. “You’re good.”
“I try.”
She walked away before she could explode entirely. Alya greeted her behind the counter with a slow clap.
“Oh, shut up.”
The guys left twenty minutes later, both with their to-go cups in hand. Adrien gave a small wave as they passed the counter. Marinette waved back, just barely.
When the door closed behind them, Alya leaned in again. “So, how are we feeling about him?”
Marinette didn’t answer.
But her face said everything.