he soft crinkle of a snack bag was all that filled the kitchen at midnight—until a warm weight wrapped itself around you from behind.

“Hmm… I’m booored,” Marinette sighed into your back, voice soft and sleepy.

You glanced down to see her in your oversized black sweater—looking about ten sizes too big on her and ten times too adorable. Her navy blue hair was scooped into a messy bun, cheeks a little pink from sleep… or something else.

Then you turned and saw it: the face. That face.

Bottom lip bitten, eyebrows raised just enough to scream “pet me,” and eyes so big and pleading they short-circuited your brain. She was clinging tightly, impossibly close—and there was a tiny, suspicious blush dusting her collarbone.

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously as you could’ve swore you saw something brush under her black sweater, something lacy and pink, was she wearing lingerie under it.