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For almost an hour he'd been watching her from the rooftops.
Her knuckles were clenched white around the railing of her terrace, cheeks wet, eyes swollen red. She hadn't moved even an inch in that hour, she'd just stood there, tears streaming silently down her face.
It felt almost wrong to watch her like this. She deserved privacy.
But he couldn't leave her vulnerable like this.
It was his fault, after all.
They'd shared lunch in the early afternoon, bought ice cream from the local pop-up stall, and ended up walking barefoot through the park's gardens.
It had been a beautiful day. The air was warm and the birds were singing, and he couldn't imagine being here with anyone else. Uniquely kind, she held such a special place in his life and in his heart, and he could never imagine his life being so rich as it was without her in it.
He'd do many things for Marinette Dupain-Cheng; the girl who deserved the world.
But it seems there was one thing he couldn't give her.
In the center of the garden was a small fish pond, steeped sides formed from old bluestone bricks. Koi of every color swirled through the clear water, surface completely still.
At the edge, they'd dipped their toes in, and it was the most fun he'd had in a long time.
Something she'd said had made him laugh; a full-bellied, throw your head back kind of laugh, and when he'd opened his eyes, she'd had this look on her face. Something that he couldn't quite place. It was soft yet intense, and so unlike anything that he'd ever seen before.
"I love you," she'd said in a sudden jumble of words that seemed to slip out of her mouth unbidden. Cheeks blossoming crimson and bluebell eyes blowing wide, she'd looked quickly down at her bare feet.
His eloquence had escaped him completely, and all he'd managed was a feeble, "what?".
"I love you," she'd repeated immediately, more forcefully, taking a deep breath and looking up to meet his eyes once more. "I have since the first day; since you handed me your umbrella."
He wasn't unaccustomed to being accosted by fans on the street who insisted they loved him. He'd had his fair share of fans who went a little too far. That was nothing new to him, just part of the job.
But this?
He'd never received a confession like this before.
A confession that felt real, felt solid, and came from a place of genuine love and affection. A confession from someone he knew, and loved.
And he had no idea what to do with it.
He'd just stood there, mouth opening and closing but nothing coming out, completely blindsided by the girl standing in front of him.
She deserves everything she wants.
But he can't give her this.
"I'm sorry," he eventually manages. "There's someone else."
Her face had dropped, and she'd looked back down at her feet.
He could feel her hurt, could see it burning on her cheeks, but he didn't know how to help her. All he wanted to do was gather her up in his arms and hold her, to make all the pain go away, but he knew that that wouldn't help right now. That he wouldn't help right now.
A part of him wanted to accept. To tell her that he felt the same way.
He'd be lying if he said he'd never thought about it before. She was so kind, and such a bright spark in his life; she'd taught him a new way to be, and a new way to love. So of course he'd thought about it, and thought about it enough to know that it would never be fair on her.
He'd never be able to forget Ladybug completely.
But as he'd stood there, facing the beautiful reddened cheeks of his closest friend, whose eyes held an honesty, a vulnerability about them, he'd realized something that he'd not considered before.
Would he ever be able to forget Marinette completely?
She'd turned to go quickly after that, wishing him well, and he'd caught her arm.
"Your friendship means everything to me," he'd said, his words a dim echo of something he'd said to someone else long ago. "Can we still be friends?"
"Of course," she'd said. "Nothing has to change."
But he'd felt the change already; the heaviness between them where it hadn't been before. He doesn't think he'll ever forget the dull look in her eyes, or the sadness on her face.
She'd given him a stiff wave, and left him standing there in the park by the fish pond, his mind numb and his fingertips on fire; the echo of where he'd touched her arm burning his skin.
He hadn't meant to hurt her like that. He'd never wanted her to ever hurt like that. She deserved everything that he couldn't give her.
The least he could do was watch over her.
He'd crept along the rooftops as she'd walked home, weaving over terraces and behind chimney stacks, and settled in on the neighboring building when she'd climbed straight up onto her balcony.
She'd dropped her shoes by the hatch and leaned heavily on the guardrail.
At first, he'd thought he'd talk to her, to give her his shoulder. As Chat Noir he could be her confidant. But it didn't feel right to go down. To interrupt her.
Her tears flowed freely, and every time a sob broke from her chest, he felt his heart break a little more.
He shouldn't be seeing this. He shouldn't be hearing this. He felt so dirty, knowing that he'd caused this, that he'd reduced the kindest person he knew to such sorrow.
But still he kept vigil. Waiting for a butterfly to appear. He couldn't leave her vulnerable like this. He knew what might happen if he did, and he couldn't let anything else happen to her. She deserved so much better than that.
Time ticks by slowly and her tears don't seem to slow, but neither does a butterfly appear.
He doesn't deserve a person like her, he knows. She's so much stronger than he's given her credit for. He turns to leave.
But then -
She seems to take a deep breath, wiping at her eyes and straightening her collar. Her lips move like she's talking to someone, but there's not a person or a phone in sight, and he's not close enough to make out her words.
He tenses; waiting. Waiting for a butterfly. Waiting for Hawkmoth to take control.
But instead she climbs onto the rail, hoisting herself up and standing precariously on the ledge. His mind goes white with fear.
Bunched muscles, a spike of adrenaline; he's surging across the rooftops towards her.
He wouldn't have made it in time; still a rooftop away.
But she doesn't jump.
The warm pink glow of a transformation engulfs her, and in her place stands Ladybug, all black spots and red ribbons.
Something inside of him cracks, all of his coherent thoughts and long-held beliefs crumbling in around him.
She drags an arm across her eyes before casting her yo-yo and swinging across the lane, hopping from roof to roof, and disappearing over the houses.
He's frozen, he can't move. His heart beats erratically within him, and he can almost taste bile in the back of his throat.
The things he'd thought were true, the things he thought he knew, were all wrong. Everything seems to crumble around him.
This other boy that ladybug spoke of.
Was him.
And he'd rejected her.
For her.
His mind just seems to keep coming back to that, and he finds himself sitting down heavily on her balcony, head between his knees, breathing as deeply as he can.
The sun begins to sink low in the sky, the light dimming around him. How long has he been sitting here? He doesn't know. He can't think anymore.
"Chat Noir?"
He jumps, her voice startling him to his feet.
"What are you doing here?" She says, peering at him warily. Her eyes are still red, but she looks calmer now. And those eyes. Oh, God, those beautiful bluebell eyes. How did he not know it was her? How could he have not known?
He has so much he wants to say.
He has so much he needs to say.
"I have something I need to tell you," he says, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.
"Chat Noir? Are you all right?"
"Please don't hate me."
"Why would I-?" she starts, but his words cut hers off.
"Claws in."
She yelps in alarm and scrunches her eyes closed, slapping a hand over her face.
"Chat Noir!" She protests, bringing her other hand up to cover her eyes. "You can't just do that!"
"My lady," he says, and his voice tremors. "Please look at me."
"Chat, I can't-" but she stops, her voice cutting off as he places his hands over hers, thumbs brushing over her skin.
"I need you to look at me," he says, and his voice breaks, a hitch in his breath grating down his throat.
Something seems to change in her demenour then, and slowly, stiffly, she lowers her hands. He doesn't let go of them as they come to rest between them.
"Please," he whispers.
And when she opens her eyes, the world changes.