Morning in Paris always smells like sugar and sunlight. Marinette wakes to both—the buttery warmth of croissants baking downstairs, and the gold spill of dawn through her skylight, painting the edges of her blue hair in fire.

Sketches litter her desk. Fabric swatches bloom like petals across the floor. Her latest design—half genius, half disaster—sits pinned to the mannequin by her bed, one sleeve perfect, the other a battlefield of mismatched seams and frustrated stitches.

She groans softly, dropping her head onto the desk. “I’m never gonna get this right.”

Tikki’s tiny giggle answers from the pile of ribbons. “You said that about your last design too. And the one before that.”

Marinette lifts her head just enough to pout. “Yeah, well, I meant it those times too.”

Outside, the bells of Notre Dame toll faintly through the open window. The city yawns awake, glittering across the Seine. For a moment, she lets herself just be—not Ladybug, not a superhero, not the girl who saves the world between classes. Just Marinette. The dreamer. The designer. The girl with a messy bun and a heart that always beats a little too fast.

Then her phone buzzes. Alya’s text lights up the screen. “You’re gonna be late again, girl. MOVE.”

Marinette bolts upright, tangled in her own inspiration. Tikki sighs fondly as she zips around, half-dressed, half-panicked, laughing under her breath because somehow, this chaos is her normal.