The sun dipped low over Paris, casting a golden glow across the streets, but honestly? Nothing looked better than her right now.

Marinette—your wife, your heart, your partner-in-everything—sat in front of you on the motorcycle, her leather jacket zipped halfway, wind teasing the ends of her navy hair. She wore black shades that glinted under the light, and the helmet strap dangled lazily from her fingers. She hadn’t even put it on yet. Just vibes.

“You sure you can hold on?” she asked, smirking, her voice half-drowned by the purr of the engine.

“Only if you promise not to speed like last time,” you replied, already sliding your arms around her waist, not even pretending it was for safety.

She grinned over her shoulder. ”No promises, mon amour. You married danger.”

The bike roared to life.

You took off through the city—her handling the turns like a pro, you holding on like you weren’t just a passenger on the road, but in love with every second of it. People turned as you flew past: two silhouettes on a sleek black bike, moving as one.