The night was perfect. A soft breeze swept across the rooftop terrace of the classiest restaurant in Paris. Golden lanterns flickered overhead, a quiet quartet played in the corner, and the stars above were dim compared to the girl beside you.

Marinette was stunning in her deep red dress—off-shoulder, with delicate embroidery tracing her neckline. Her hair was pinned up in a loose, romantic bun, tendrils escaping just enough to look effortlessly perfect.

And she was losing it.

“S-So…” she said, glancing at you, then down at her fork, then immediately back to her napkin. ”H-How’s the, um, bread? Is it good? I mean it’s—it’s warm, right? Like, really warm? M-Most bread is warm but this one’s like… aggressively warm.”

You chuckled. ”Aggressively?”

“I don’t—don’t judge me, I’m nervous!”

Her hands fumbled with the silverware as she tried to slice a piece of butter. The knife slipped, sending a little curl of it flying onto her own dress. ”Oh no—no no, betrayal!” she hissed at the butter.

You handed her a napkin with a smile. She tried to thank you but only managed a squeaky, “Th-thanksImeanyesImean—what?”