It started with a knock on your door.

Adrien stood there, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes tired, smile weak.

—“My father and I had a fight,” he said simply. “Can I stay here for a while?”

You didn’t ask questions. You just nodded and let him in.

The first night, you gave him your bed.

He refused.

So you both ended up making a fort in the living room—pillows, blankets, snacks scattered everywhere. You offered him the couch, and he fell asleep within minutes, still wearing his hoodie.

You slept on the floor, close enough to hear his breathing even out.

The next morning, he helped you make pancakes. Burned the first batch. Laughed when you dropped the spatula.

You laughed too.

And something about the way his shoulders relaxed made you realize how tightly he always held himself at school.

Like he was afraid of cracking.

But here?

He was loose. Bright. Real.

Just Adrien.

By Saturday night, you were both back in the blanket fort, sharing popcorn and watching bad movies.

He turned to you at one point, halfway through a terrible romcom, and said, “You don’t treat me like glass.”

You looked over.

—“Should I?”

—“No,” he said, soft. “That’s why I like being here.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

He smiled, leaned his head back, eyes tracing the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling.

—“I feel normal here,” he murmured. “Not like the model, or the perfect son, or…”

He trailed off.

But his silence spoke louder than words.

Later that night, when the lights were out and the room was still, he spoke again—quieter this time, like it was something fragile.

—“You’re the first person who lets me be just Adrien.”

You turned your head toward him in the dark.

—“Not the brand. Not the mask. Just… me.”

A pause.

Then, almost like he was afraid to ruin the peace between you:

—“Is it okay if I don’t leave yet?”