The city of Paris shimmered under a curtain of stars, its rooftops bathed in silver moonlight. Above the quiet hum of life below, her balcony stood like a perch, just far enough from the world, just close enough to it. The wind carried the scent of blooming jasmine, trailing through the open doors of her room and into the night beyond.

He landed softly, as he always did. No dramatic flair tonight, no teasing quip on his lips. Just the light scuff of his boots on stone and the gentle rustle of his bell as he stood, silhouetted against the sky. Chat Noir.

She was there, as she always was: curled on a lounge chair with a blanket around her shoulders, a book half-forgotten on her lap. She didn’t startle or jump. She never did anymore. His visits had become as natural as the sunset, as sure as the stars.

He didn’t speak right away. Sometimes he didn’t need to. He just leaned against the railing, gazing out over the city like it might offer answers he didn’t know he was seeking. The wind caught in his hair, tugging gently, and from the corner of his eye he watched her. The soft light from her room cast a golden halo over her face, and for a moment, he wished he could capture it, freeze time, keep this moment before the ache in his chest could settle in too deeply.

They were friends. That was the agreement. That was the rhythm they had fallen into. But each night he came back, drawn to her like gravity. Not just because she made him laugh, or because she saw him not just the mask, not just the charm, but him.