Dearly Despised, (I love you)

Commitment

"When did that happen?!"

Their kiss.

"I was saving you! Not kissing you!"

In fact she really was kissing him. Easily in the top-ten moments of her life. She remembered the glide of his black lips and manic fervour like no tomorrow – as if a piece of him was there, strenuously reaching for air; as if his obliging, passionate mouth was Chat desperate to sheath off the forced hate.

Chat's current slack mouth and pea-sized irises, however, indicated he really had no recollection.

Panic pierced her. She couldn't get a clue of what he thought of the idea of them, together. She'd been so clear throughout their partnership that they were friends and teammates – they didn't know their private lives, and they should never know the others' identity. They couldn't be anything.

But her thrumming heart waited for a flirtatious remark, a comment to Nadia, a look towards her – anything as she longed for them to be anything.

She couldn't know his opinions.

'Say something'.

They couldn't agree with Nadji.

'Say you remember.'

This– She didn't want to know what he was thinking.

'Look at me, Kitty.'

Except she really, really had to.

But they denied. She was indignant, spluttering the truth—or perhaps fiction—about what they really were and the context of the pictures. "We're not celebrities! We're superheros!" Why couldn't they be asked regular questions? The interview was invasive, and she never agreed to it – never mind the swelling hurt from how bastardly false it all was. She was in love with him for crying out loud! Of course there was something for her but nothing for them. And Chat couldn't say anything but to tell her to calm down; they were on TV. The tantrum led them nowhere but a fired news reporter and fresh akuma on their hands.

That's when they tricked Prime Queen that they were an "item" for approximately thirty seconds, where a close call kiss was purposefully cut off by the signal, and Alya got to live (long story).

Whoop-de-do. Another day.

Another reminder that Chat and her couldn't happen.

Then between the heartbreak of that she was stuck with either Alya and Nino chained at the hip or Adrien, who, she was pretty sure had no idea how fake-dating worked, because couples didn't usually write notes saying 'buttface' to the other in class without fear of the teacher being told – because she didn't want to clue Miss Bustier in on their lie or go to another therapy session. It really was a clever move on his behalf.

On a Wednesday, she received a different letter than usual.

'Chat Noir sucks.'

She bit the inside of her cheek, scribbling over the first words and replacing them with 'Ladybug' before slipping it back. It seemed he decided to push her that day into replying, which she never had, but he'd hit her soft spot.

He casually stretched as the edited letter wafted from his open hand and landed back on her desk. The pointed way her eyes narrowed to the surely sheepish blond mop of a head didn't last when she opened it. Beneath the scribbled sentence he'd written a new line.

'Come to Chloé's party with me.'

Yeah, uh, she'd rather not.

See – no one knew about them and their idiotic agreement to save their own skin from getting detentions. And that wasn't about to start to get around. They'd smile in unison at Miss Bustier, feign sheepish looks as they arrived late to class (at the same time darn it – the lie was more beneficial than Marinette would admit), or—probably the furthest they've gone—exchanged merry 'good morning's without a pinched face even when their teacher had stopped watching.

When Adrien noticed the note hadn't made its way back, he tore another piece of Nino's workbook page next to an amateur's scribble of a DJ-set. His friend noticed that time and perked his head with indignation, but a calm wave of the hand from Adrien silenced him, stubbornly.

'Chloé would hate that, wouldn't she?'

Marinette wetted her lips and tasted strawberry lip balm.

Her father—the mayor, never forget—wasn't too impressed by Chloé's lack of friends and the counteractive amount of attitude. Marinette had reason to suspect Gabriel Agreste had confronted Mayor Bourgeois after noticing the way she spoke to his beloved, perfect, faultless, esteemed son at the hat-design competition. No one in the city could say no to Gabriel. Not even the mayor.

Guess that explained where Adrien got his idea of self-importance.

"What are you two talking about?" Alya hissed, jolting Marinette into dropping her pencil.

"Nothing!"

Her nose scrunched dubiously. "Yeah, exchanging love notes with the face of the perfume poster you'd throw darts at is nothing. Are they death threats or did I miss a chapter?"

Blue eyes shot to the teacher marking last class's papers at her desk before switching back to Alya. Hiding the note, she hesitated before asking, "Are you going to Chloé's party?"

Adrien shifted in his seat.

"Nino and I were thinking about it," Alya bounced her tablet stylus, "since it's nice she's trying to be... inclusive, I guess, and apologising for getting that fireman to come in. Plus, you can never say no to free food."

"That's a good point."

Adrien's point was better, though. She couldn't even imagine the expression on Chloé's makeup-caked features if her most loathed classmates appeared at her own party arm-in-arm. Was this Adrien's way of telling everyone the news or just to piss Chloé off? Did she care either way? People would find out eventually, right? Especially with the way Miss Bustier had a relentless eye clued to them.

Gah! If only she could talk to Chat about this.

But at that very thought she remembered the chance they had, and that maybe secrecy was the must for a reason.

Never forget her exchange in the library with Adrien the other day, either. Act like she was in, he'd sniped in that snooty voice, with his snooty above-it-all attitude – but worse she'd said she would, having no clue those words would be holding her at gunpoint as she thought of how her arm would fit in his through Le Grand Paris's door.

Marinette swallowed her sigh and spun a pen through her fingers, flattening the crinkled note with the other.

If she was doing this, she was doing it right.