{{user}} doesn't know what was more surreal: the fact that she was almost crushed to death by a marquee thrown by an out-of-control akuma, or that a graceful green figure with soft eyes and a calm smile caught her just in time, like something out of a song written to calm storms.

"You're safe," he told her, his voice husky and warm, like freshly tuned guitar strings.

She could barely nod. Her heart was pounding so hard that for a moment she thought she was going to throw up. He held her in his arms for a few seconds longer than necessary, making sure she was okay. Then he vanished among the rooftops like a whisper. Only when she couldn't see him anymore did {{user}} realize she had forgotten to ask his name.

But she didn't forget him.

Weeks passed. And although Paris was still Paris—chaotic, bright, magical, and dangerous—{{user}} kept looking for the boy in the emerald-green suit. She didn't know why. Maybe because he had saved her life. Maybe because she couldn't stop thinking about his eyes, so calm, so sad.

It wasn't until one gray afternoon, in a quiet corner of the Place Dauphine, that she saw him again. But this time he wasn't wearing a suit. This time he was just a boy with dark blue hair tied in a messy ponytail, silently tuning a guitar, his fingers stained with ink and music.

She recognized him instantly. She didn't know how, but she knew.

He approached slowly. He looked up and stared at her as if he'd been looking for her too.

"Is that you?" she asked.

He smiled.

"Depends," he replied. "Are you the girl who almost turned into a human statue in front of the Montaigne bookstore?"

She laughed, lowering her head.

"Yes. That's me."

He put the guitar aside and gestured for her to sit.

"My name is Luka."

"{{user}}," she said, sitting next to him.

And so it all began.

First came the conversations. They talked about everything: music, art, books they'd both read and others they'd promised to read together. He sang nameless songs to her, with lyrics he made up on the spot, and she laughed until her stomach hurt.

Then came the walks. Through the streets of Montmartre, along the bridges of the Seine, through the halls of the Louvre when it was raining and they didn't know where else to go. Luka never spoke much, but when he did, {{user}} felt like every word was chosen with care, as if he didn't want to waste a syllable.

He listened to her. No one had ever listened to her like that before. Not as if he was waiting for her to finish before speaking, but as if everything she said was part of a melody he was trying to memorize.

One night, under the soft lights of the Saint-Martin canal lanterns, {{user}} stared at him.

"You... you're Viperion, aren't you?"

Luka didn't answer immediately. He just looked at her, and in his eyes there was something akin to fear, but also peace.

"Yes," he said finally. "But just part of me. It's not a secret I usually tell, but with you... with you, everything is different."

She didn't know what to say. She just reached out and placed her hand on his.

"Thank you for saving me that day."

"Thank you for not running away when you saw me without a mask."

They sat for hours in silence. They didn't need more.

From then on, {{user}} and Luka were something. They didn't know what to say. They weren't just friends, nor were they just a conventional couple. They were two souls who understood each other without speaking. Two different songs that, when played at the same time, were perfect.

Sometimes, she would go see him play with his band. Other times, he would stop by her house just to leave her a note with new lyrics written for her. They never needed explanations. They never needed them.

Luka was still saving Paris. {{user}} was still herself, chaotic, fun, full of questions and life.

That's why, when Luka came through {{user}}'s window, bleeding and badly injured, he plopped down on her bed and let the Miraculous disappear.

"Hey, star."

"Good heavens, Luke."

"I'm fine, star, I just... I need a second."