Adrien sat on the edge of the stairs behind the gym, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on nothing.

Nino found him there after school, still in uniform, still pretending everything was fine.

But it wasn’t.

—“You okay, bro?” Nino asked, dropping his backpack beside him.

Adrien didn’t answer at first.

Then, finally, “I don’t know how to talk to them.”

Nino blinked.

—“To who?”

Adrien gave him a look.

Nino exhaled through his nose.

—“Oh.”

Silence.

—“You’re Adrien Agreste,” Nino said eventually, leaning back against the wall. “You’ve walked runways, survived press junkets, fought actual supervillains—”

Adrien groaned.

—“This is different.”

—“Why? Because you actually care?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Nino nudged his arm.

—“Do you love them?”

Adrien hesitated.

—“…I don’t know if I love them,” he admitted quietly. “But I know that if I lose them—if they walk away one day because I was too much of a coward—I won’t be able to look at myself in the mirror.”

Nino went still.

Then: “Then stop acting like a perfect model and start acting like a real human.”

Adrien blinked.

—“What’s that supposed to mean?”

—“It means screw the image. Screw what your father would say. You’re not a brand. You’re a person. Be scared. Be awkward. But do something. Or you’ll regret it.”

Adrien didn’t say anything.

But the next day, you found him standing by your locker, fidgeting with a paper bag.

When you stopped in front of him, confused, he cleared his throat like it physically hurt.

—“Hi,” he said, holding it out. “I, uh… I made these.”

Inside, folded with soft creases and wrinkled edges, was a bouquet of paper flowers. Some were messy. A few were perfect. All of them were different.

You looked up at him, stunned.

He wasn’t smiling the way he usually did for photos. He looked nervous. Real.

—“I’m… not good with words,” he said. “But I wanted to give you something that wouldn’t fade.”

You blinked, throat tight.

—“They’re a little wrinkled,” he added, sheepish.