It was a quiet afternoon in Marinette’s room. The sun was streaming through the windows, casting soft light over her desk, her fabrics, and the two of you sitting on the floor—knee to knee, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She was trying to explain a new design idea.

Trying.

Except you had your fingers gently threading through her hair—twirling a silky lock of that navy blue behind your fingers, completely hypnotized.

“So I thought maybe for the hem I could—uh—I could—um, maybe…” Marinette blinked fast, her sketchpad shaking ever so slightly in her lap.

You hummed. “You were saying something about the hem?”

“Y-yeah! The hem, right. Totally. Hemming. Very hemmable. Hemmifying.”

You grinned.

She glared at the floor like it betrayed her. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

Marinette made a squeaky sound, shoulders curling up to her ears. “That!! The—the hair thing! The playing with my hair while I’m trying to be a functioning human girl thing!”