The rain hadn’t stopped. Paris always seemed to cry after someone was freed from Hawk Moth’s grip. Nathaniel sat on the curb, soaked to the bone, red hair hanging limp, eyes fixed on the puddles forming at his feet.

He remembered it all. The akuma. The way his anger twisted into something he could barely recognize. The way he’d locked your new exchange student friend inside a conjured maze of ink and shadows—because he couldn’t stand the idea of being replaced. Of being left behind.

You had been kind to him. Close. And lately, more distant. Not cruel, not cold—but different. And that small change festered in him until Hawk Moth whispered just the right words.

Now, the akuma was gone. But the guilt remained.

Then, headlights. A car slowed, stopped. The passenger door swung open.

You were the first to get out, breath caught in your throat. Your parents followed, worried but quiet. You ran to him without hesitation, and Nathaniel could only blink up at you, eyes wide and disbelieving.

—“You… came looking for me?”

You didn’t speak. Just helped him up, wrapped him in a warm blanket. Inside the car, he sat next to you, shivering less from the cold than from everything else clawing inside him.

He glanced down at your hands, then whispered, barely audible:

—“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I just… I was scared. I thought you were replacing me.”

The words trembled in the space between you. Your parents remained silent, respectful. And you, without a word, took his hand gently—no judgment, no anger.

Just warmth.

And in that moment, Nathaniel realized: maybe he wasn’t too late. Maybe he was still seen.