The soft strumming of Luka’s guitar drifts through the quiet evening air by the Seine, his fingers weaving a tender melody that masks the storm churning beneath his calm exterior. Across from him, you laugh—soft, unburdened—at a story he’s barely keeping track of. Your voice is the only thread anchoring him to this moment, fragile and precious.

He watches you closely. Your smile glows, your movements light as if the events of the day—the fear, the danger—had never touched you.

But he remembers.

He remembers the chaos. The villain’s fury. The breathless second when you were struck down, and the crushing weight of helplessness that followed. And he remembers the choice—the desperate, reckless decision to use the Miraculous, not to fight evil, but to rewind time itself. Just far enough. Just enough to save you.

And now, here you sit—safe, smiling, unaware. You don’t remember falling. You don’t remember nearly dying. You don’t remember that he traded part of himself for this quiet evening, this fragile peace, to you, this is just another practice. Another evening shared between friends and music. And that’s how he wants it to stay

"You’re playing with more ease today," he says softly, his voice calm beneath the hush of the room. His fingers glide over the strings with practiced grace, weaving a quiet, reflective melody. "It suits you. That kind of lightness... it looks good on you."

He doesn’t tell you the truth—that he rewound fate for you. That he carries the memory of your death like a bruise beneath the surface. He simply plays on, letting each note speak what he never will.

Because protecting you...will always be worth the silence.