AN: I've been waiting to write this for a good six months. This is a spin on the cliché for ghost stories, so I hope you enjoy this! I had to resist using some of the worst ghost jokes, sadly. Next chapter will include the mature rating, don't worry! I sometimes post teasers of upcoming stories/chapters on my tumblr (xiueryn). There's also Nathaniel/Chloé if you squint.

Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Chat Noir © Thomas Astruc

She felt numb.

Sorting through each drawer, flicking through every book that had been collected over the years, and folding up the clothing that wouldn't be worn again, the wetness of her eyes only increased. Quiet sobs escaped as she closed up new box filled with belongings, taking breaks to go through the toilet roll that she'd wisely brought with her.

Her father was gone, there was no denying it any more. When she'd seen his body frozen in bed, blond-coloured hair swept into a disarray from slumber, it was easy to convince herself that it wasn't happening. He looked vulnerable because he was asleep, that's what she told herself as she padded across the room to gently nudge his shoulder. Yet there was no reaction to her movements, no steady rising of his chest to convince her otherwise. Marinette fell onto the duvet with pained breaths, frantically searching for a pulse as she whispered words of denial.

The funeral was held the following week. Her father's associates attended, extending their sincerest apologies while she tried to hold herself together—hands nervously tugging on the black dress that he'd once uttered looked beautiful on her—which turned out to be a pitiful attempt when she stuttered and stumbled through her speech.

It was strange trying to live without him. For as long as she could remember her life had revolved him; the crinkling of his eyes when he truly smiled, not the polite one that he offered to others for work, the breathless noise of his laughter when she animatedly told him about her day. Her father had been—he was everything to her. It had been the two of them curled up in the living room in the evenings growing up, then making sure to have dinner once a week when she left for further education, and the fact that she was left alone in the quiet house that echoed when she walked barefoot across the wooden floorboards had her heart aching with every step.

"What am I supposed to do now?" she mumbled to herself, frantically wiping at her wet cheeks.

If he was there, he would've ran comforting fingers through her hair, murmuring words that would've tugged the smallest of smiles on her lips. He—he would've talked her through her troubles, but the problem was the fact that he wasn't there.

Everything had been left to her. All of their family members had passed away, and with no wife in the picture, that meant that a twenty-three-year-old Marinette inherited it all; the quaint two-story house that was filled with belongings over the years, an extraordinary amount of money that had her dazed from looking at the figures, and, goodness, her breath caught as a choked sob escaped.

He left the company to her. Not to one of his faithful employees that had stuck with him through the years, no. Her father had been delighted, so proud that he was misty-eyed when she'd graduated, when she followed in his footsteps for fashion design. They'd spent countless years creating clothing for her stuffed animals, anything she pleased since he appeared touched that she wanted to be just like him.

Marinette blew her nose before she flipped through another book, checking to see if anything would fall out. When she dropped a novel and discovered a picture of her hidden inside, her emotions had been torn between grief and happiness that he'd kept it tucked away at all.

There was never doubt that he loved her. Their healthy relationship through the years proved that, and it had made countless friends of hers jealous whenever it was brought up. They fought, of course, but she was never the type to mutter bad things about her father without a reason. When jabs were sent her way about her appearance, she simply smiled because she knew that she was wanted.

It wasn't hard to figure out she was adopted. Her father had blond hair, blue eyes that were a different shade to hers, and wide shoulders with a lean body. He fawned over for his job—and one of her primary school teachers had tried to ask him on a date through her—so it was natural for a young Marinette to question why she didn't have a mother.

He didn't date, not since his wife had passed away before he'd adopted Marinette. They had been planning to create a family together before tragedy struck, and the crack in his voice whenever he spoke about her had Marinette wrapping her arms around him in comfort. She was beautiful, just as he was; golden-coloured hair, green eyes and a small figure that was similar to the images she saw her father drawing throughout the years.

"She would've loved you," he assured her, placing a soft kiss to the top of her head. "It's impossible not to, little one."

When she was younger, peering into the mirror to note the black hair, the eyelids that were a different shape to his (to which he replied that the lack of crease was due to her biological parents), and the cerulean-coloured eyes that were brighter than his. They looked nothing alike, and that was what rude children liked to point out, as if that would cause troubled feelings to brew within her.

"So what?" she'd replied, crossing her arms stubbornly. "My papa loves me, and he wouldn't have me any other way."

When she came home with bruises one day, her father marched into the school with an angered expression. After the raised voices had calmed down—she had been sat in the hall, happily flipping through a book—he'd gotten onto his knees in front of her, ignoring the expensive trousers he had on, and asked whether she'd be more comfortable schooled at home.

She'd blinked. "Will I get to spend more time with you?"

And thus, she was tutored at home until his designer brand had gained popularity. The designs were catered to adults and child, steadily expanding the ages ranges as she grew up.

"They're made with you in mind," he pointed out as she was making appreciative noises while flicking through his designs. "You'll tell me if you don't like them, won't you?"

Marinette had gasped dramatically before she exclaimed, "Papa, I love them!"

It was good, great and—

Over.

She didn't answer her cell phone that evening, instead drowning her sorrows in loud piano music that her father had been so fond of, resisting the despicable urge to fetch a bottle of wine from the garage. They'd been stored away there for celebrations, and bawling until her eyes stung when she blinked was certainly not worthy of it.

Marinette left the house in an oversized sweater and tight dark-washed jeans when food was running low. There had been countless calls, business and personal alike, and she'd selfishly shoved the responsibility of her father's work onto his assistant, who'd replied with comforting words and assured her she'd take care of everything until she was ready to take her father's place.

It only made her cry more.

She pushed the shopping trolley through the store, resting more weight on it than necessary as she navigated through the aisles. Designer sunglasses that had been made specifically for her—a gift for her twenty-first birthday—were perched on her nose to hide the furiously red skin and swollen eyelids, and she looked thoroughly out of place due to the gloomy clouds in the sky.

Her thoughts drifted as she waited in the queue, cursing the business of the city even of a weekday, and it was after a few minutes had passed by that she glanced up in confusion. There was a gap between the customer in front of her and the rest of the queue, large enough to fit four people in between.

"You're in the queue, right?" Marinette asked.

There wasn't a response. The one in front of her—male, she realised as he turned his head to look to the side—was busy humming under his breath, effectively not paying attention to the world around him. His hands were in the pockets of his jeans, the long sleeves of his white shirt pushed up messily by his elbows.

"Hey," she tried again, voice louder as she leaned onto the trolley. Weeks of isolation hadn't made her social skills any better. "Hello? I'm behind you, you know."

The male ran a hand through his blond hair, messing up the style it had been in.

Marinette sighed to herself before she pushed to the side, walking around as she looked to her side and grumbled as passed him, "Pay attention next time, please."

He just stared at her as she walked by. It was unnerving, for a lack of a better word. She furrowed her eyebrows from confusion, surprised when there wasn't a single muttered complaint that she'd pushed past him in the queue.

When she returned a week later, dressed considerably better without the sunglasses that time, she used a basket. She was steadily getting better with the help of her friends—that she'd finally answered the calls of—and it was showing in her appearance. The ingredients she picked out were for meals further than a few steps, ones that she would've happily made every night in the past. Marinette secured her dark hair into a ponytail, tucking the awkward bits that weren't long enough and couldn't pass as bangs behind her ears, before she approached the queue.

As always, it was busy. Marinette slowed walked forward, messaging her friends on her cell phone to pass the time.

The lack of movement in front of her was what made her looked up with furrowed eyebrows. When she caught sight of the golden-coloured hair that brushed against the top of his ears, and the daydreaming pose where he ignored those around him, she sighed at her luck.

"Hello?" she tried, changing her grip on the basket. "You should really pay attention to the queue."

Just like before, he showed no sign of hearing her. A horrified thought that she was being inconsiderate and rude because he was deaf occurred, so she stepped beside him in an effort to catch his attention (reaching out to touch him seemed too rude).

She peered up at him, trying to appear friendly as their shoulders almost brushed. "I—hi," she blurted, awkwardly making hand gestures in an attempt to usher him along in the line.

Instead of apologising and quickly moving up in the queue as she anticipated, the male continued gazing past, whimsically rocking onto his heels as she was promptly ignored. It was the idle movement of a child that was waiting for their parent—yet he was there, standing awkwardly in the middle of the queue that was being disturbed once more.

Colour blossomed along her cheeks, not hidden by the sunglasses that time. "Excuse me?" she tried again, hesitantly waving a hand in front of his face.

"Miss?" a voice from behind called for her attention, and she turned around to see a flustered-looking male. "I understand that you might be troubled, but could you please move?"

An embarrassed noise that was a mixture of an apology and her saying okay, Marinette shuffled past the blond male, hands tightening on the basket once more. There were grumbles behind as the queue started to move, and she wondered whether it was a regular occurrence at that specific store. She hadn't shopped there for long, as grocery shopping was usually spent laughing and visiting other surroundings shops in another area to enjoy the company she kept.

She couldn't exactly ask one of her friends to come grocery shopping with her, could she? With a quick glance over her shoulder by the exit, Marinette confirmed that the blond-haired male was still there, hands swaying from a silent rhythm by his side, eyes focused on other things than the people surrounding him. The other customers were ignoring his presence, and she wondered whether she'd been considered rude for attempting to strike up conversation with him. He looked, well—he appeared to be lost. His clothes were the same as before—dark trousers and a white long-sleeved shirt that weren't pushed up that time—and if it wasn't for how clean he appeared to be, she would've worried about him more.

In the end, she didn't have to ask for someone to come with her. Her best friend, Alya, a girl with curly red hair that had a quick tongue and a great sense of humour, agreed to spend the evening with her when Marinette had refused to go out for the fifth time. Drinking alcohol in a public setting was something she was trying to avoid; so far strangers had approached her with questions about her father's brand during the day, and she was sure if she was intoxicated it wouldn't be long until she burst into snotty tears if they asked her anything at all.

Alya took pity on her and said they'd watch the worst films they could get their hands on, promising not to touch the bottles of wine that were stored away. Instead, they walked separately through the aisles, the red-head searching for the required snacks, while Marinette had been appointed the task of deciding which alcoholic drinks to buy.

She was balancing three bottles in her arms, trying not to drop them as she cursed the pang of pain from her ankle. The shoes were pretty, but walking around in them for most of the day had caused them to rub awfully, and she was sure her socks would have stains of blood on them later that evening. Marinette had been trying to discreetly limp down the aisle when she realised she'd almost knocked into an immobile figure, only just regaining her balance—almost falling backwards from the surprise—as she looked up in a bewildered surprise.

If the blond hair and fair-coloured skin didn't give away his identity, then the same outfit that he always wore did. His sleeves were rolled up once more, though. There were creases, as though he'd been wearing it for more than a few hours, but no dirt stains that proved he wasn't clean. Rather than gazing off in different directions and ignoring everything around him, Marinette's eyes widened when she realised that he was standing in front of her, hands tucked into his pockets as he looked at her curiously.

"I—hello," she blurted, cheeks heating up from her fumbling. The bottles were clutched to her chest, cold against the skin that wasn't covered by her sundress. "Can I help you?"

He only stared. With emerald-coloured eyes that didn't give any hints to his feelings, and she felt increasingly more as though she was being put on the spot as the moments passed by. There she was, holding too many bottles with a stranger gazing at her with a detached expression, as though she wasn't there in the first place.

Clearing her throat, Marinette ducked her head from mortification as she scrambled past him, foot limping as she went.

Later that evening, when she was tucked up on the couch with Alya beside her, they were using the fanciest glasses in the house that were usually reserved for special guests. For good measure, the red-head had produced miniature umbrellas with a wide smile, then they indulged themselves until they were thoroughly intoxicated. Marinette vented her problems, and her friend did in turn, too, spouting her worries without a care about how they sounded.

It was therapeutic, in a way. Their hangover in the morning was deemed worth it.

Alya had been her room-mate at university, so she knew a lot about her life. When Marinette had moved out to a nearby apartment, close to her home so she could spend her time with her father, it was Alya that was there to convince her to spend time with others her own age. Now that she'd moved back home after quitting her part-time job, she was thankful that there was enough money left behind to help her with the bills. It was a lonely house, yes, but she couldn't see herself selling it in the future.

"You'll call me if you need anything, right?" Alya said, looking at her with a concerned expression. "Even if it's someone to complain at, I'm here for you."

Marinette smile was tight as she tried not to let her eyes grow damp. "I'll be fine, okay? We're meeting up for dinner in two weeks, I promise not to harm myself before then."

Rolling her eyes, the red-haired female pulled her into a tight hug. "You better not. I need my best friend alive and well if we're going to cause havoc at my own wedding."

She'd been saying that for years, though. Alya's fiancé had proposed to her in their second year of university, and their engagement had turned into a running joke since they both wanted to save up before they married. Despite living together since finishing their courses, they indulged each other with smiles and knowing looks whenever someone questioned when their wedding was planned for.

"At this rate, I'm going to marry someone first," she pointed out, fond smile tugging at her lips. "Now get your ass to work before I kick you in the shins."

Dramatically, Alya placed a hand on her heart and gasped. "You wound me."

"I'll do worse if you get yourself fired," she quipped.

-x-

With Alya as a constant positive presence in her life, Marinette was recovering emotionally. The duties of her father's company was still assigned to his former personal assistant, and she was flourishing and able to keep everything running smoothly for the meanwhile. Marinette had sorted through all of her father's possessions by the sixth week, tucking away the precious sketchbooks and albums into the loft, keeping a few large sweaters to wear around to house, while the rest was donated.

After quitting her job, she hadn't been inspired to pick up a pencil or a needle. Marinette flicked through her father's favourite books instead, cosied up in an armchair by the fireplace that she was too scared of lighting. In the past, she'd tried to start it to surprise him while he was busy, and had instead caused smoke to fill the living room while she coughed and spluttered before calling for help. It was always with fondness that he'd remind her not to touch it, instead purchasing her candles within large glass jars so the chance of her creating a disaster was smaller.

She hadn't lit a candle for six weeks.

There was a familiar face when she went to purchase groceries. Marinette blinked in surprise, almost losing her grip on the item she was holding in the refrigerated section, when she caught sight of of his hands swaying as he rocked on his heels with a peaceful expression.

"...Hello," she greeted, cheeks burning from embarrassment due to her fumbling hands.

He was staring at her again—she was thankful that his expression had some feelings shown that time, at least. Their previous encounter had been unnerving enough, and she still felt increasingly awkward about how she'd handled the daydreaming male's presence in the past. He was always there, therefore regular customers that appeared more often than her knew how to handle him and his whimsical ways. Surely, it would've caused a commotion if there was someone interrupting queues and walking around the store for countless times unless he was known. She contemplated whether he was related to an employee, and that was why he was seen hanging around a lot.

There was silence between them. Customers walked by, collecting their desired products, weaving around her without paying attention.

It was hard to swallow. Nerves were getting the best of her, anxiety creeping up that she'd horribly offended him in the past and his retaliation was to stare as though he could set her on fire with his green eyes.

"...It's rude to stare, did anyone ever tell you that?" she found herself saying. Gasping in embarrassment, Marinette fumbled with her basket, averting her eyes from his blank face with the intention to leave.

The words she heard made her pause. "Your underwear's showing."

Gullible was a good word to describe her. Her hands flew to her jeans, making sure they were high enough to be deemed appropriate before she looked at him in confusion. They weren't showing—her shirt was long enough to cover her waistband and was non-transparent.

"I said your underwear's showing," he repeated, voice calm as he tilted his head to the side in what she would've considered an endearing action if she knew him at all.

Her hand remained on her backside, though. "No, it's not," she replied, knitting her eyebrows together.

When he smiled, dimples appeared on his fair-skinned cheeks. "What's not?" the male questioned, staring intently at her.

"My underwear isn't showing," Marinette replied, confusion clear. "Are you... okay?"

There were looks as customers walked past. They looked at her with flashes of pity, some scared and one mother even held their child close and avoided eye contact. If it wasn't clear before that the male before her was a fixture in the store that was to be ignored, then the judging glances definitely made it apparent. She ran a hand through her dark hair, utterly baffled by their conversation. If he meant her the straps of her brassiere, he was wrong there, too. She wasn't going to pat her shoulders to see whether he was right—a strap wasn't something to be embarrassed over.

Glancing up, she saw that his smile reached his eyes. "I lied," he said.

She blinked. "I kind of figured that out for myself, thanks."

The grin grew, showing a flash of white teeth.

"As nice as this talk was, I really have to get going," Marinette babbled, flustered as she tucked her intended purchases into the basket and rushed down the aisle (running away from her problems never seemed so appropriate to say as it did then).

When it came time to visit the store for groceries, she walked for twenty minutes to visit a different one. There wasn't a flash of blond hair, nor the same outfit that he constantly wore, and she was fine. Worrying over offending someone was pushed out of her mind, and she enjoyed the time that she spent outside with her friends, and when it reached two months, Marinette picked up a needle to mend a whole in one of her father's sweaters. She wasn't pushing herself to create anything new, but she did pass on copies of the last creations he'd been working on to his assistant.

It was nice, actually. Her days were filled with catching up on old hobbies, picking up the bandalore that her father had specifically made for her from childhood, and sketching anything that wasn't to do with fashion.

Television shows that featured animals played silently in the living room in the evenings that she was free, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulder and smudges of pencil covering her hands as she drew the different animals that caught her eye. She'd considered purchasing a pet before realising she couldn't push her emotional problems onto someone—or something—else, so she'd denied the kind offer from Alya promising to visit the pet-store with her.

At three months, Marinette was walking alongside Alya and her fiancé, a tanned male with short black curls and a wide smile. He had always been kind to her, and had never belittled her when she showed up at their door crying on the odd occasion. Nino was witty, had a loud laugh that drew attention to them when they were in restaurants, and when he was with Alya, the corner of his eyes crinkled from smiling.

"Come on, Mari," Alya choked out through her laughter. "It won't be all bad, I promise! He seems like a nice guy."

She wryly replied, "That's what you said about a lot of men before, too."

"He's been asking to meet you for a while," Nino interjected. He hastily held his hands up in a sign of surrender as they rounded a corner, trying hard not to let his amusement show too much. "We'll be right there, okay?"

It was a bad habit; Alya fancied herself as a matchmaker, so she'd constantly tried to set Marinette up on dates in the past. On a whim, she'd agreed to go out for the evening, not realising until they were walking the streets together that the couple weren't intending to sit with her at all. The restaurant was a nice one—where waiters actually went to the table to ask for their orders—and all she got for a parting gesture was the name of her date.

He wasn't very impressive. Well, appearance wise he had muscles that were visible underneath the dark-coloured shirt, that had one too many buttons undone, and broad shoulders that would've attracted a lot of attention on the street. The problem, however, was that his belt didn't match the rest of his outfit, and his black hair was styled off of his face to appear sophisticated, yet all she could think was how her father would've laughed at his attempt to appear mature.

Kim prattled on, jumping between topics quickly, and as their starter came—and she was hating the fact that it seemed he wanted to have the whole three courses—and she tried to make the right noises, since when she opened her mouth to reply, he was already starting a new topic. It was cute, in a way. He wasn't trying to be rude; there was genuine excitement in his expression, wide smile that showed his teeth when he became even more enthusiastic, and she had the feeling that they could've been friends if they tried.

After finishing the first course, Marinette excused herself to the bathroom, shooting a glare in Alya's direction when she caught her eye across the room. They were too far to chat (and that would've been rude), and she highly doubted her friend would skip to the bathroom with her to gossip with her when it was clear she wasn't emotionally unstable.

She may have washed her hands twice.

Walking back past the bar in the right direction, it was the white shirt that made him start out from the dark colours. Marinette furrowed her eyebrows, wondering whether it would really be the male from the store—she'd avoided shopping there since, their encounters too awkward to endure unless she desperately needed to visit. Thus far, she was doing okay.

And yet, he was standing just beside the bar, hands tucked into his pockets, daydreaming once more.

She tried to walk past without catching his attention.

A laugh came from him, one that was slightly breathy. "That eager to return to your date?"

It was directed at her, she realised. Marinette placed a hand on her elbow, a absent-minded action she did when she was nervous, and stared at him.

"Oh, don't let me hold you back from running into the sunset with lover boy," the blond-haired male continued, hand appearing from his pocket to wave in the general direction she'd been sat. "I'm sure you'd make wonderful babies together, no?"

What? Baffled, Marinette could only stare at him in a mixture of incredulity and confusion, wondering what his point could possibly be. Their limited interactions had never been so open—teasing—and his sudden appearance definitely threw her off. She'd been avoiding him for a reason; there was something about him that caused her to be constantly uncertain and unsure of herself.

She smoothed out the material of her dress. "I don't think children are in the picture for us, sadly," the dark-haired female replied, voice slightly shaky. "And if they were, why would it concern you?"

"Do you not like your date, then?" he questioned, lips curling up into a smile. It was such an innocent expression, a contradiction to his words. "You looked like you enjoyed him dominating the conversation completely."

Taken aback, Marinette retorted, "I'm sorry, were you listening?"

"Everyone in that section of the restaurant heard, actually," the blond male replied matter-of-factly. "You weren't quite stroking his ego enough, I think."

His eyes flickered behind her with a knowing smile, and she decided not to indulge him further. They weren't friends, and she'd already been gone for too long to deal with such nonsense. So, with a deep breath, she promptly ignored him and walked past, trying to ignore the embarrassed flush of her cheeks as his laughter echoed until she'd turned the corner. The sheer nerve that he'd finally struck up had her shaking her head in confusion, wondering whether she'd brought such comments on herself in the past—well, at least she knew he didn't have a wearing problem, as he'd replied easily without looking at her lips.

The table was empty. Their main course had arrived during her disappearance, and they were both left there, untouched. The cutlery was askew, her bag still on the chair where she'd left it, and there was no sign of the blazer that Kim had left hanging over the back of his.

He'd left. There wasn't any point in denying it after she'd sat down for five minutes, not touching her food, as she tried to recall whether he'd walked past to the bathroom while she'd been preoccupied.

Well, that was just rude. Marinette grumbled to herself, stomach too tight and appetite lost as she was left to pay for the whole meal, no date there to split half of the bill with. After a quick message to Alya, informing her that Kim had disappeared and therefore she had no faith left in the dates set up for her, she slipped on her cardigan and left the establishment.

To make her luck worse, there was a blond mop of hair outside that was slowly becoming more familiar. A noise of frustration left her lips as he caught sight of her, face visibly brightening as he raised a hand to wave.

"I did warn you," he started.

She stared.

The indents of his cheeks showed. "That you didn't stroke his ego enough, I mean," the male supplied happily, falling into step beside her, hands tucked into his pockets comfortably. It was a move that a friend would do, not someone that she'd barely conversed with; yet there he was, smiling at her as though they'd shared a close joke, a lack of personal space as his shadow enveloped her from the lights.

"I think you're confused," Marinette began, clearing her throat after. "We've barely spoken, okay?"

He didn't falter. "Let's remedy that, then."

"No, thank you." She took a purposeful step to the side, distancing them from each other. "I may have been on a date, but that doesn't mean I'm going to leave with the next available man because I got ditched."

The air was chilly, dark streets illuminated by the lamps and various vehicles that passed, so she crossed her arms underneath her bosom to preserve warmth. There was a constant presence beside her as she navigated the streets, expression contorting into a blank state as she realised that he was, indeed, following alongside her as though it wasn't a problem at all; suddenly, the male was treating her as he would a friend, a small smile on his lips as they strolled.

It wasn't right. They weren't close enough to brush shoulders, thankfully, so they took up almost the whole pavement as they walked.

How was she supposed to get someone to stop following her without coming across awfully rude?

So, rather than politely telling him to piss off, Marinette blurted out loudly, "Are you stalking me?"

The reaction she expected was for him to rudely correct her or perhaps look at her in indignation; rather, he let out another breathy laugh, higher-pitched than his voice, that sounded so utterly genuine that it baffled her. He—he was strange, there was a plethora of ways to describe how peculiar he was, but none would explain why he'd decided to grace her with his presence out of nowhere.

"Did I annoy you at the store or something?" she continued, words coming out fast as she rambled, hands moving to emphasise her words without her realising. "This is a weird form of revenge, right? Look, I'll apologise, so please—"

Stop baffling her, she wanted to say.

The grin reached his viridian eyes, dimples showing on his cheek as he looked at her as they walked. "I never thought I'd hear that me walking someone home is considered an act of revenge."

"...Pardon?"

"I'm," the blond-haired male started, pointing his index finger dramatically to his own chest before flicking it towards her, "walking you home."

Incredulously, she replied, "No, you're not."

And before he was given the chance to talk further, Marinette decided to sprint down the street, not looking over her shoulder to see his reaction and she fled—it was the best choice in the end, she didn't want him to know where she lived after his strange behaviour, after all. Her breaths were coming quick and fast as she rounded the corner to her home, sweat causing the material of her dress to stick to her skin. She walked through the front gate that squeaked, clumsily searching through her bag for the cell phone that had been ringing for the past few minutes.

-x-

Alya had laughed hysterically when she learned about the blond. Despite her friend's pleas to visit the store to see whether he'd be there, Marinette stubbornly refused, sticking to her routine of travelling further for her groceries to avoid the awkward moments. She proclaimed she was determined to reject any potential dates for the upcoming future due to Kim expressing his concerns for Marinette's well-being (which irritated further as he'd known barely anything about her).

Eventually, he was dubbed Aisle Boy due to underwear talk at the store (which had the red-head roaring with laughter when Marinette had groaned in her hands from recounting the encounter), and thus the mention of him was interjected into their conversations, promptly Alya to happily explain to their friends when they didn't understand who they were referring to.

She often heard, "Oh, Marinette! He sounds just as awkward as you!"

Her favoured response was to look at them blankly until the subject changed.

Her father's company—which consisted of the brand Gabriel—was doing well in his employee's capable hands. Each month, she received the statistics of how they were doing, with his assistant visiting Marinette at home, explaining it all to her personally before asking whether she was okay, and if she wanted to become involved with the work just yet. As always, Marinette swallowed thickly, shaking her head in denial as it seemed far too soon. There were worries that when she touched it, the brand that had taken two decades to become irrevocably popular would turn into failure, and there were still impromptu questions in public that asked her plans for the future that caused the anxiousness of associating herself with it.

For three months, she hadn't created anything to do with fashion; she'd fixed a few articles of clothing, happily drew a variety of animals with a small smile on her face, and that was it. She was happy was that at that time, as there was no crushing sense of expectations that the outside world seemed to have for her when it was revealed that she'd inherited Gabriel.

It was three weeks after her date with Kim that she met him again.

Marinette was minding her own business, lazily sketching one of the dogs in the local park, legs tucked underneath her as she selfishly took up most of the bench. A hat was on her head with the intent of obstructing her identity to avoid the imposing questions, so when a shadow appeared in front of her—hiding the canine she'd been focused on—the grip on her pencil faltered, creating an ugly mark on the paper.

"I never took you for a dog person," was his first comment—no greeting before he casually sat down beside where her feet were propped up, perched on the edge of the cold bench. "Is this how you spend your days, then?"

Collecting her belongings as quickly as she could without fumbling, the dark-haired female responded blandly, "Oh, is that the time? I need to leave."

"You don't have a watch on," Aisle Boy pointed out, and she could hear the smile in his voice. She didn't need to look to the side to see that he'd be dressed in his favourite outfit—and the only one she'd ever seen—with the same hairstyle that he ran his fingers through.

"I checked my phone," she lied, fiddling with the device in her hands. The sketchbook was neatly closed, drawing equipment clumsily stashed into her pockets where the cell phone was tucked after she'd stumbled over her words. "Leave me alone, please. Bye."

He took in a exaggerated breath, and she saw him clutch at his covered chest dramatically. "You wound me, Marinette."

Standing up, she looked at him sharply, confusion clear in her voice as she stated, "I never told you my name." There wasn't the instinctive feeling of wariness, just befuddlement from his sporadic presence.

"Don't you remember? Half the restaurant could hear Kim talk about himself and occasionally comment on your hair," the male readily explained, laughing towards the end. "I wondered if I'd see you again. It seems taking a stroll through the park worked out in my favour."

And if that wasn't disconcerting, she didn't know what was. Clutching the sketchbook tighter, pressed against her chest, her knuckles were turning white as she walked off in a different direction with a determined expression. She wasn't in the mood to deal with his whimsical moods, so she tugged the hat further down, slipping on her sunglasses quickly.

It was after two streets that she realised she wasn't alone. He had been quiet, no humming or loud footsteps to announce his presence from two steps behind (they would've been drowned out by the noise of the streets anyway). Marinette had stopped to safely cross the road, which resulted in him standing beside her as she waited for the light to turn green.

She didn't want to snap in front of people, really. It was only when she turned and accidentally caught the mop of blond hair, causing her blue eyes to flicker to see his lopsided smile that looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"Are you following me again?" she demanded hotly, trying to keep her voice quiet amongst the crowd that had formed on the pavement.

Hands in his pockets, Aisle Boy rocked on the heels of his feet, only raising his eyebrows as a reply.

He was annoying. From his whimsical attention span—that had suddenly decided to focus on her when they saw each other—to the odd actions he did when he was idle, everything she saw irked her. It—he was a frustrating bundle of contradictions that was suddenly gracing her with his presence, and she didn't understand it at all. He didn't have trouble hearing, she knew that now, yet he had blatantly ignored her in the past (where he should have stayed in the past).

"What do you want from me?" Marinette asked, higher-pitched than usual from the sudden desperation of wanting to understand. "I—I don't know you."

The blond-haired male continued to smile at her, and the expression seemed so different now; not innocent, as they were standing behind the swarm of people waiting to cross, his facial features were twisted into a mocking look that had her stomach churning uncomfortably, wondering—

"Why?" she breathed.

Two things happened at once, both equally as confusing as each other.

A woman turned to look at her, expression changing into one that was usually associated with concern as she approached, an uncertain hand hovering as though they were unsure whether to reach out and touch her. It wasn't that that had her choking, though; as the self-appointed concerned citizen walked towards her, they should've collided with the blond male—except they didn't.

His image didn't distort, no. It was fully there, no ripples or anything that would've appeared in dreams, and it was as though the woman had walked through him with no problems other than the visible shudder that ran through her.

Aisle Boy didn't move. He looked the same—body in tact, tufts of golden-coloured hair sticking up from his own doing, and hands tucked casually into his pockets—but the corners of his mouth curled into a smirk directed at her.

"Honey, are you okay?" the woman asked softly, trying to capture her attention.

With breaths coming past, Marinette's eyes flickered between the two, trying to comprehend fully what had happened before she blurted out her unnecessary thoughts. It wasn't something normal that she'd usually see, but then again, the blond hadn't exactly been the average person in the time that she'd known him. As if he knew her thoughts, Aisle Boy dramatically did a sarcastic bow, while chuckling to himself.

A strangled noise escaped.

The woman noticed her changing emotions, fast breaths and knitted her eyebrows together. "Do you want me to call someone for you?"

They were drawing attention to themselves. Marinette felt her face burn from the curious stares, suddenly the hat and sunglasses not providing adequate protection from their gazes. There was muttering, words that weren't loud enough to make out, before their attention was caught by the sudden noise, indicating that it was safe to cross.

Only she and Aisle Boy remained, and she watched with wide eyes as countless individuals walked through him, or stuck their arm through his body as they walked past. It looked peaceful to him; he wasn't shuddering, making noises of pain or giving any indication that he was damaged by their contact, yet without fail any that touched him either contorted their expression for a moment or shivered profusely. None looked at him directly, nor did they move around him, and that caused her to take a shaky step backwards, hands clutching the sketchbook tightly.

It was no wonder he had ignored her at the store, then. He was accustomed to everyone around him not seeing him, passing through his body which caused shudders, and that was the only way that he could assure himself that he was there.

But—

"I can see you," she breathed, voice barely audible amongst the bustle of the busy street.

He rocked on the spot, a bright smile directed at her that reached his emerald-coloured eyes. "Correct."

Instead of freaking out further—though she wouldn't deny that rapidly beating of her heart or clammy hands that were uncomfortable—Marinette instead babbled, "So you are stalking me!"

As his laughter came out, the noise genuine with the corner of his eyes contorting, Marinette realised the implications of what she'd seen. If others could walk through him without realising something was wrong—or someone was there—how had he been able to sit down beside her on the bench? It didn't make sense, and she couldn't hide the confusion from showing on her face.

"If you want to finally talk, perhaps the middle of the street isn't the best place." There was amusement in his tone. "Haven't you wondered about all the looks you get?"

If he was only visible to her, that meant that he couldn't be heard either—and goodness, that meant she'd been talking to air, stuttering and blushing with no one there for others to see. There had to have been mutters about her sanity, and the strangers that had approached her with concern written across their faces were all because of him. Marinette swallowed thickly, trying to take in a deep breath to calm down her rapid breathing as she processed his words.

Weakly, she replied, "Okay."

He didn't push her for conversation as they walked. Since it seemed like he wasn't going to cause trouble—no one could see him, which wouldn't spur gossip among her nosey neighbours—Marinette didn't run away from him that night. She led the way to her home, right up to the gate that creaked and pulled her key out from her pocket, accidentally dropping her sketchbook and a pencil in the process.

"Crap," she muttered, busy unlocking the door. "Can you get those for me?"

After the door was open, she turned around to see him standing behind her, staring down at the mess with an unfathomable expression.

"No," he replied softly, "I can't."

Right. "Oh," Marinette whispered, sinking to her knees to collect her belongings. Her cheeks burned from the assumptions and the implications of his word, wondering internally about his limits, unsure how to broach the subject.

It made sense that he'd followed her around if she was one of the only ones to see him, she realised. At least he hadn't gone overboard, turning up everywhere, popping up in her vision each day for her to panic and try and escape from. As slow as he'd taken it, he hadn't exactly been subtle about wanting to know her, not after the horrendous date—

"Wait." The dark-haired female looked over her shoulder with furrowed eyes. "Was that why my date ran away? He heard me talking to you?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "Well, he heard you talking to yourself about babies. As did a few other patrons."

Torn between laughter and being incredulous, Marinette settled with saying, "You did it on purpose, didn't you?"

"I've got to amuse myself somehow," Aisle Boy replied wistfully, strolling past her with curious eyes as he inspected the décor. It was a compliment how his gaze lingered on the personal touches, from the folded blanket, different ornaments that had had meaning when they were bought, and the framed photographs along the mantle. "You have a nice home."

She jumped at the sound of his voice. "I—thank you."

Everything about the situation was absurd. Marinette discarded the hat and sunglasses, emptying her pockets onto the table as she watched him walk around the room, humming to himself as he went. The odd behaviour made sense if he'd been isolated for long, which meant he was all too happy with the sudden company.

A thought struck her. "You are going to leave again, right?"

He settled down on the sofa, looking entirely pleased with himself as he glanced up. "Sure, if you need a break. I promise not to intrude on any of your, you know, personal time."

Flustered, she snapped, "I didn't mean that."

"You're the first person to see or hear me," Aisle Boy started, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt. "Unless we really don't get along, I promise not to follow you around all the time."

Well, it's not like she could call a priest to come and ward her home off from evil spirits. There wasn't much she could do about it, actually—he'd already settled himself into her home with the intent of staying.

She ran a hand through her hair. "Well, I—fuck, if we're going to be stuck together now, we should at least try and be friends, I guess. That'll be better than ignoring each other."

"I can do that." He smiled, the curve not quite reaching his eyes as he glanced up at her. "You're taking this a lot better than I thought you would."

"You'll probably hear me scream later after the shock has disappeared," she muttered. "So do—do you eat?" There was silence between them as she squirmed uncomfortably, feeling put on the spot from his gaze, before she realised her mistake. "Right, oh, gosh. Can you even eat?"

There was a lot of inconsistencies. The sight of him sat upon her couch was one that didn't add up in her mind—if someone could walk through him, how was he not falling down through the material? Then again, if that was the case, the floor wouldn't have acted as a barrier for him—her thoughts were getting out of control with no scientific facts to back up her jumbled assumptions.

His voice caught her attention. It was soft, and the smile across his lips was self-deprecating. "No, I—I don't need any of that, okay? I'm here for company so I know I'm not insane, honestly."

She swallowed thickly. "Am I the first to see you?" The words that she wanted to ask—to question how long he'd sauntered around without anyone knowing—never made it out. It seemed too soon to pry into that, especially when she wasn't sure on what his reactions could be.

"Yes." He rested his chin on the palm of his hand, elbow propped on his thigh. "I didn't realise for quite some time, so I'm not sure how long I've seen you without knowing it."

There was a rough estimate as she'd only frequented that store after her father's passing. She didn't tell him that detail, instead saying that she'd decided to visit it three months ago. The first mystery was solved from his answer to why he was at the store—while the living, since he was clearly classing himself as not that, could walk through him with no problems, he wasn't able to control his body in such ways. He couldn't walk through walls, contort his being to pass through doors or anything of the sort; the blond had to walk through open doorways like anyone else, so he had to try and run through when someone unsuspecting was minding their own business.

The store was one of his favourite places to go due to the constant trickle of visitors, so he could have easy access, with a plethora of strangers to amuse himself with watching.

It sounded devastatingly lonely. They didn't know each other well enough to express such feelings, so when he'd finished explaining himself, Marinette kept her hands to herself, eyes flickering uncertainly from hearing the soft tone of his voice.

It wasn't right to pity him. He was a strange phenomenon that only she knew of, and it wouldn't be right to cause him to feel worse about his existence. So, after clearing her throat, she tentatively said, "I'm glad you found me, then."

"I—yeah," he stuttered, lips curling into a smile. "Thank you, really."

-x-

They weren't instantly friends. Marinette woke up with bleary eyes the next morning, clad in pyjamas with messy hair as she came downstairs with the intent of a hot drink, so when she caught sight of him relaxed on her couch, the television playing quietly (she'd left it on as he couldn't touch the remote), she screamed.

He made it his personal mission to scare her at least once every few days, and it terrified her each time. As he couldn't make sound—his feet didn't even produce footsteps as he walked, which was equally terrifying and confusing—he resorted to hiding or crouching to catch her when she was unaware. It was a compromise so he wouldn't follow her outside, or to disappear when company came over so she wouldn't appear to be talking to herself.

When they actually spoke to each other, it seemed that personal topics were uncomfortable. Marinette licked her lips nervously when he quietly admitted that he didn't know his name before he changed the subject loudly, prattling on about something he saw in the street that day. It was clear that he wanted to distance himself from the past—or, rather; the unknown—so she indulged him, and found that within time that she didn't mind his company.

He had a bad sense of humour, which she'd already known from him getting her to say awkward things around unsuspecting strangers, and made himself laugh often at his own jokes, but it was nice. The company in the evenings meant she wasn't left to her own thoughts, when she returned home from checking on her father's company he was there, greeting her like an excited pet that was happy to see her.

She wondered whether she'd really acquired a pet. As nice as the neighbourhood she lived in was, she couldn't leave a door or a window open for him to escape out of during the day, so sometimes he opted to walk around the streets, returning in the evening to shout loudly outside the front door to try and catch her attention.

The nickname wasn't one he was fond of. The blond-haired male scrunched up his facial features in distaste as he proclaimed, "I'm clearly a man, Marinette. Why would you belittle me by referring to me as a boy for so long?"

Rolling her eyes, Marinette stirred her food, busy in the kitchen as he was slouched on the couch. A good thing of having an apparition as a room-mate meant that he couldn't mess up her possessions, no matter the amount of pressure he tried to put on them. He could sit on things, sure, but there was no actual indication that he was there at all other than her eyes.

"I demand a better name," he continued, and she was sure he was making more dramatic expressions while her attention was elsewhere. "Let's read a book of baby names together."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she replied, trying not to laugh at his tone. "Children aren't in the picture for us."

If he could touch things, she was sure something would've been thrown at her. She saw him raise his hands in exasperation from the corner of her eyes instead. "For me, Marinette!"

"We could just abbreviate Aisle Boy?" she suggested.

The response she got was a snort.

He didn't like to talk about himself, though. They had been living together for just over a month at that point, and it was the first time he'd brought up the subject of names since he'd admitted his lack of one—Marinette had made sure to look at him while talking so he knew that he was who it was intended for. It wasn't him opening up to her, no; the blond-haired male was adamant to ignore the serious nature of his situation, convinced that it wasn't important. He couldn't have been content to watch others for a lifetime, especially when all he could do was fiddle with his own body to feel the sensation of touch.

And thus, a new tradition was born. When Marinette tried to wake up in the mornings, with the animated blond male beside her (who couldn't sleep), their day began with excited comments from him.

Such as, "I'm going by Gerard today."

He'd select a name to try out each morning before deciding it didn't suit him by the following day, and she decide to make use of the tiny whiteboard on the wall by writing down the selected name while she was still sleepy.

She found out he was fond of cats when her neighbour's one had managed to get into her living room.

It was five months when he asked, "What is your surname?"

"Eh?" Marinette blinked, swallowing her mouthful of food as she leaned against the kitchen countertop. After trying to eat dinner at a table and having him demand that she pulled out a chair for him, too, she'd settled to casually eating wherever she went to avoid the hassle. It didn't seem like he minded, though; Aisle Boy—it was easier to refer to him as that in her head, rather than the various new names—wasn't likely to demand a plate in front of him to feel included.

"Last name, Marinette," the blond clarified, making a disapproving noise with his tongue. "I just realised I don't know what it is."

Well, she didn't know what his was. "It's Agreste. My name's Marinette Agreste."

"Okay." Stretching his arms above his head, sighing from how it felt, he approached her silently. "And you don't have a job, right?"

Perhaps staring at him wasn't the best response. They had known each other for quite some time at that point, yet he hadn't been interested in her personal life. The male was pleased just to have someone to converse with about silly topics, anyone capable of laughing at his jokes (other than him), to keep his sanity stable. So, him suddenly asking her questions had her furrowing her eyebrows in confusion.

His smile was as soft-looking as his hair. "It just hit me that I don't really know anything about you."

That was another thing about him—he didn't get dirty. The environment didn't change him; if he was outside in the rain, he would be dry, and there wasn't droplets of sweat on his skin when the sunlight was blaring. No, it seemed the only thing that changed was the amount of wrinkles in his clothing and the style of his hair—that didn't even grow. He was stuck with the appearance he had, change completely out of his control, for the foreseeable future. While Marinette could have her weight fluctuate and cut her hair, he was trapped, and knowing that while he smiled at her gratefully in the evenings made her heart feel heavy.

"You know intimate things that my ex-boyfriends don't," Marinette pointed out, not embarrassed any more. "Like how unresponsive I am in the mornings, my awkward cooking habits and even what I do in my free time."

He hummed in agreement. "But I don't even know your age."

"Does it matter?" she asked, tilting her head quizzically while looking at him over her shoulder. "You're not going to leave just because I'm twenty-three, right?"

"That's a very unattractive age, so I think I will," the blond-haired male tried to say without laughing, causing his voice to shake as he pressed his lips into a tight line. "If you'd be so kind to open the door, I'll disappear from your life."

Cleaning up her dinner, a laugh escaped. "Yes, sure. What will I do without my resident ghost?"

"Live in peace, Miss Agreste," he replied.

It was an honest mistake. Marinette turned towards him with the intention of playfully hitting him on the shoulder, but instead her hand passed through his body—not feeling the white shirt, nor the warm skin that was there before her eyes—and touched the air, a demanding chill running through her body and causing her hairs to stand on end as she shivered.

His eyes were wide when she looked up. Marinette retracted her hand quickly, clutching it to her chest with a horrified expression—not at his body, but rather that she'd forgotten and caused him to fall silent, the uncomfortable feeling in her stomach building due to it being solely her fault.

Aisle Boy excused himself, disappearing up the stairs silently. The doors were shut, but she gave him the space he needed.

When he returned hours later to see her curled up on the couch, blanket on her lap and a quiet film playing, he settled down beside her without a word.

Marinette moved the fabric so it was just beside his thigh.

He was full of smiles the next day, her forgetfulness thrown aside, but the grins didn't meet his eyes. Rather than asking what was wrong—since it was so awkwardly obvious and it made her feel awful each time she thought about it—Marinette indulged his childish antics, placing her cell phone to her ear as they walked the streets together so they could talk. It wasn't something they did often; when Marinette did go outside, it was deemed as her alone time (or time with her friends without him hovering nearby, muttering under his breath at every sentence).

"What am I supposed to call you today?" she asked, laughter clear in her voice as they turned a corner. "I can barely keep up."

Her eyes were on them despite the device, so she could see him dramatically tap his chin in thought. "I quite like the sound of Théo."

"Okay, Théo," the dark-haired female agreed easily. "Are you coming to see Alya with me?"

They'd planned to go shopping together. The blond-haired male had expressed his want to explore the outside world once more, though it was agreed he wouldn't travel with them in any way other than walking. The thought of him getting separated from her via train had her worried since they had no way other than to shout to hear each other—then, she'd appear to be shouting at thin air while trying to remember the name he'd picked for himself that day.

The possibilities had her anxious. Once she confessed of her fear of them splitting up accidentally, he promised not to stray too far and make sure to return.

He shook his head, golden-coloured tresses obscuring his eyebrows. The words that came next were mumbled, "I won't intrude on your precious alone time with your best friend."

She tried not to laugh. "You're a close second, I promise you."

And it wasn't a lie. The past few months had been a constant stream of fun, terrible jokes and awkward interactions as they got to know each other. Even if she didn't know what food he had liked, or even the genre of music he preferred, their comments to each other had turned teasing and silly. She was happy, so much so to the point that her friends questioned what had brightened up her mood when they met outside (sans the ghost), and she'd taken to responding that she'd made a new friend.

"I've seen your sleeping face yet I can't be your best friend?"

A laugh escaped at that. "That doesn't automatically promote you. Alya was my room-mate at university; she's seen it far more than you."

He exhaled loudly, hair on his forehead moving from the blown air. "Now I'm just offended."

"Oh, A—Théo." Marinette caught herself at the last moment, having almost blurted his hated nickname. It came out when she was sleepy at times, which only earned her half-hearted glares and crossed arms, childish actions that had started to appear endearing as she got to know him. "Why don't you go out for a run?"

He looked at her suspiciously. "Why would I do that? I'm cursed with the muscles I had before I died; no amount of running will change that."

"You should get some, you know," she started, voice dropping into a whisper as a smile blossomed across her lips, "exorcise."

For a moment, he gaped at her. Then he burst into honest laughter that caused her cheeks to hurt from her proud smile—because he wasn't the only one allowed to make bad jokes—and she joined in, too, pleased once more with the happy atmosphere that surrounded their conversations. Though he was only visible to her, and had therefore chosen to latch onto her for that reason, she hoped that they would've been friends if he was normal. He didn't look too young; there wasn't pre-pubescent fat on his cheeks, his body was tall and lean—standing straight beside her, she came up to his chin—and his voice was definitely post-puberty.

The official story when she chatted with Alya was that she had made a friend online (Aisle Boy was long forgotten, thankfully), so her red-haired friend was entirely too happy to hear about the new development. Marinette chose to say they stuck to pseudonyms and sent each other bad jokes during the week, the relationship purely platonic before any conclusions were jumped to.

Their day ended with her meeting Aisle Boy at the local park. He was propped against a wall, arms crossed on his chest as he watched people walking past. Alya had already rushed off to meet her fiancé with a grin, so it was with a cell phone clutched in her hands that Marinette had a fast steps as she approached him.

"Hey, you!" she called, device pressed against her ear (it was on silent, so she wouldn't embarrass herself if a call really did go through). "I was wondering where you'd wandered off to."

It took a moment for him to realise the words were meant for him. When he turned his head and spotted her, his expression visibly brightened, a smile on his lips as he enthusiastically beckoned her over with a hand. "Over here," he urged. "You arrived just in time. I think the climax will happen soon."

Watching strangers for countless hours meant that he had to become invested in their interactions to gain some enjoyment. Bemused, Marinette complied and stood beside him, peering into the park to try and see where he was pointing to. As it turned out, it was a couple that had his attention that time: a red-haired male scrawling on his sketchbook from the ground, while a blonde woman was sat on the bench with a bored expression.

She knitted her eyebrows together. "...Okay?"

Usually, he walked behind his chosen ones, listening into their conversations from a close distance rather than standing far away, looking on from a fence that was meant to keep them apart. It meant that he had intentionally placed himself out there, on the pavement that she had to walk past on her way back (whenever that was).

"She thinks he's drawing her, but he's not," he revealed with a laugh. "Last time I looked, it was actually the scenery. She's complained about staying in the same position for too long twice already."

It wasn't right to pity him. The highlights of his life thus far were the conversations he listened to, or the television that she left on in the evening despite the lack of variety from the one channel. He was severely restricted in what he could do, so seeing him smiling from something so trivial was to be cherished, not squashed.

"Exciting," she murmured, trying to appear as though she really wasn't standing there staring at a couple to pass the time. "Have you been here all day?"

His shrug was the answer.

When the blonde-haired female finally found out that it wasn't her picture being drawn, that was the moment Marinette realised that she knew them—both of them. They'd attended school together she was younger, fallen out of contact as the years passed. She relayed this information to the male beside her, who wasn't so amused any more since the anticipated complaints had been soothed with a kiss.

"Oh," was the response he gave.

They walked back together, device hot against her ear from the prolonged use. As she stole looks at him, noticing the set of his eyebrows and the unhappy curve of his lips, she wondered how she could comfort him. Although he seemed to be an optimistic person, it was understandable for his moods to be negative, too. It was just that she had limited ways to comfort him outside of touch, and she couldn't even offer a warm drink as a nice gesture. Instead she fiddled with the strap of her bag, fingers fiddling as she kept her mouth shut.

It was him that broke the silence. "Sometimes I forget that you have a life outside of me."

Her voice didn't shake as she asked, "Are you trying to say I'm your life?"

"Don't be silly." A smile tugged on his lips, but it was half-hearted. "How can I claim to have a life when I'm already dead?"

Usually when he casually mentioned his death, Marinette steered uncertainly away from the subject, not wanting to attempt to tackle that topic without more knowledge to him. Yet that was the problem; the blond-haired male was quick to deflect away from him, mood turning sour if she tried to pry anything prior to them meeting. Asking whether he liked the television shows from the night before was just fine, but trying to see whether he remembered his favourite film caused his face to contort into a pained expression.

She licked her lips before quietly enquiring, "How do you know you're dead?"

His footsteps didn't falter. "What I have right now can't be classed as living—if I'm technically alive right now, I'm cursed and I used to want nothing more than an escape from this."

That—Marinette sucked in a sharp breath, cell phone falling from her hands as she turned to face him with wide eyes. "Y-you—"

Running a hand through his golden-coloured tresses, in a move that was partly nervous and self-conscious as she'd noticed over their time together, he quietly continued with averted eyes, "I'm not so sure now."

Her heart hurt.

"We don't know that for sure," she whispered, kneeling down to pick up the pieces of her shattered cell phone on the floor. "You're not exactly capable of researching your condition."

"Condition?" he questioned, bitter amusement clear. "You're allowed to say it, Marinette. I'm a walking nightmare that I'd wish upon no one."

The screen was broken, not illuminating properly when she tried to press buttons on the device. "That's a bit dramatic, don't you think? If it makes you feel better, you're the cleanest pet anyone could ever ask for."

"I'll also be the noisiest if you keep this up," Aisle Boy grumbled.

-x-

Opening up wasn't easy for him, she understood that. It took two weeks for him to begrudgingly admit that he didn't have many memories; he flickered into existence with hazy vision, not fully aware of his surroundings before it became clear that he couldn't physically interact with anything. Leaning against objects or sitting down was all well and good, but having someone pass through his body without acknowledgement had been the worst realisation, according to him. Marinette didn't try to hide her wet eyes when he told her that, though she did use an embarrassing amount of tissues to try and get her emotions under control.

They had a rough timeline. The blond-haired male had become coherent and could think clearly six months ago, give or take, and it was that time that caused her hand to still from where she was writing down their notes.

"What is it?" he questioned, concerned.

"I—" Marinette cleared her throat, surprised at herself for not realising the date sooner. "That's around the time my father passed away."

They'd avoided the subject of her family for a long time. He never questioned the man in the photographs around the house, nor pry further to ask whether there was any remaining parental figures in her life. Other than Alya and Nino, the guests she'd had in her home had been limited to business, and sometimes deliveries, which didn't warrant questions.

His voice caught her attention again; it was soft, like how it was advised to talk to a crying child. "Is that why you live here alone?"

"Yes." She wiped at her face quickly, surprised that none of the tears had leaked. "I—I used to live somewhere else, but this was left to me."

"I'm going to assume that that also has something to do with why you can get away with not having a job?"

Warmth blossomed along her cheeks. "If you must know, I actually do have a job. I just don't think I deserve it."

"Wait, what?" the male questioned, sounding baffled as he sat beside her on the couch (the cushions didn't sink, nor was there any noise). "You're not going to suddenly say you're rich, are you?"

Well, she wouldn't have put it so crassly.

The lack of response was picked up upon. "You are?" Aisle Boy babbled, hands moving to emphasise his words enthusiastically. "No offense, but I wouldn't be able to tell that from the way you are, or how you dress. Is that rude? I'm trying to give you a compliment, really."

"If this is where I think it's going—no, I am not buying a bigger television."

His laugh was sweet. "A better laptop would be fine, too."

"Mine's fine," she defended hotly, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. "It just makes a weird noise after it gets too hot—oh, don't give me that look. It's roughly an hour before it starts screaming."

As it turned out, hiring a private investigator wasn't something she wanted to do. She wasn't even entirely sure whether the man she lived with was alive or dead, so asking a stranger to research with only a sketch of her companion's face for information wasn't the best way to go about it. Instead, she tried to look through newspapers and online to see what local deaths were listed for six months ago, trying to find out his identity that way.

They decided he died near to the day he appeared; his appearance never changed from that, and no new clothes appeared on his body (despite his complaints that wearing the shirt with all the buttons done up was uncomfortable for days on end).

It was with no luck on her research that she sat down at the dining table with him. It was a small one, four chairs with cushions on them stained a matching colour, within a room that had a landscape painting that she'd painted when she was a teenager—her father had been overjoyed with it for a present and readily displayed in their home despite her protests.

She only sat down properly, having pulled out a chair for him to sneak into, when there was something on her mind.

Half of her food was gone by the time he grew impatient. "Just tell me, Marinette. I'm getting anxious."

"Okay." She placed her cutlery down, fiddling with her hands immediately. "This is going to sound weird, but why do you think you're dead?"

He could've laughed at her, brushed it off or made a sarcastic remark; she'd actually fully anticipated one of those responses, so seeing him appear contemplative—thinking of a response that would make sense—had her pulling her hair into a ponytail for something to do while she waited.

"Other than the obvious?" Aisle Boy began, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. "I can't mature or change; I'm stuck the same way I have been for months. Something must've happened to cause this, and the only thing that makes sense to me is death. I haven't always been this way."

With clammy palms, her hands dropped to her thighs. "You're free to laugh at me, really, but I'm just—I think we might be missing the obvious here, okay?"

He raised his eyebrows.

"You—right now, as you are, you breathe. I know you're not capable of eating or even moving things, but don't you think it's strange that you still appear as a functioning human?" Marinette babbled, cheeks growing warm as she spouted her words with averted eyes. "You don't have any memories prior to when you appeared, so what is your consciousness split off, and you're the result?"

"I don't think someone's consciousness is capable of splitting of and creating another human being, Marinette," he replied quiet, not brushing her off as she'd expected.

She blinked. "You're right—that's why you're fucked up."

The laugh that escaped him was loud.

"Oh, not like that!" the dark-haired female quickly defending herself, frantically shaking her head. "I think your—you know, your body is. I quite like you as a person."

When she looked up, the smile met his eyes. It wasn't the expression of someone that was disapproving of her theories, and the warm look had her grinning tentatively right back. "What a nice compliment."

"Shut up." She stuck her tongue out childishly. "Now humour me as I ask you to do something, okay?" At the nod she got in return, Marinette continued to ask, "Can you check if you have a pulse?"

Complying with her request, she watched as he placed a palm over his chest, lips tugging down into a frown before he tested other parts of his body, too. The shirt was pushed aside to touch his neck easily, sleeves roughly pooled by his elbows as he worked methodically, counting numbers underneath his breath that she could only make out from the movement of his lips.

His fingertips were against his neck as he murmured, "This doesn't prove much."

"That's a yes, then," she concluded, swallowing thickly. Where would they go with this? Proving that he had a pulse wasn't going to amount to much; he couldn't eat or drink, nor could he make his presence known to anyone else, so the small detail of information left in her hands made her anxious to get answers. "Do you—I mean, is there anything wrong with your body, other than the whole ghost thing?"

Although his memory meant he couldn't recall details about himself, he knew things about the outside world that baffled her at times. He could recount news articles from a couple of years ago easily, the large headlines that had been all the rage at the time, and had general knowledge of most things that meant he wasn't completely in a strange land.

He patted his body down obediently. "Honestly, I don't really know. There's no scratches or bruises that could've been from an accident, so I'm torn on what to think. If you're right, then there should be some evidence left on me, right?"

Shaking her head, Marinette glumly responded, "It's not showing how you died, so let's just assume that this is your appearance before something happened. Can we agree on that?"

"I guess." His shirt rustled as he shrugged. "I don't think I dressed like this normally, though. The shoes have no marks on them."

Maybe. He had days where he wore the shirt tucked in with most of the buttons done up, then he swapped to a messier style to give himself a sense of identity on others. Peering underneath the table, Marinette confirmed that the shoes—that couldn't trek dirt into her home, thankfully—were pristine, shining mockingly from how the light was placed.

"Okay," she said slowly, pushing her chair back as she ran a hand through her bangs. "You were dressed up for some kind of event, then—I don't know, you woke up disorientated in the streets?"

He didn't need to answer that. She already knew that he wasn't certain where he came into existence, too incoherent to recognise his surroundings or remember the earlier days clearly.

-x-

In a way, she was happy that they'd managed to find each other (or, rather; that he'd taken notice that she was actually addressing him and then acted really weird to gain her attention). Her nights weren't spent alone with her jumbled emotions any more; she had someone there with a bright smile to greet her each morning, even when she was grumpy and incoherent from sleeping badly, with optimism that helped cheer up her days.

Having someone to talk to must've helped him, too. The bad jokes increased over time—which she returned that always produced a dramatic response from him—and it seemed that the best compliment she could give his sense of humour was a flippant insult that had his smile growing larger.

By the seventh month without her father, she lit a candle. The blond-haired male had nosed around their home (he was a permanent lodger there, in her mind), sniffing the large jars that had scented candles within them, lids having disappeared over time, and then pointed out his favourite and wanted to know whether it would smell better when the wick was lit.

So, she did it. Marinette placed the favoured one onto the coffee table, settled down in her large sweater onto the sofa and busied herself with sketching the scenery that was shown on the film they were watching together.

"You're very artistic, aren't you?" Aisle Boy mused from beside her, propping his elbow on the side as he rested his head in his palm, eyes on her rather than the television. "I haven't told you this enough, but you're really good."

"Oh," was her intelligent response.

He was deterred. "Did you plan to do something like this in the future?"

The idea of being in charge of Gabriel had her up late at night, sweating nervously with anxious thoughts of all the things that could go wrong. So, she settled with saying, "Originally, yes. I'm not sure what I'll do now."

"Do anything you want," the blond-haired male advised, gaze focused on the lazy scratches of her pencil. "What if you wake up like me someday? It would be a shame for you to not be able to do what you desire."

That only made her feel worse. The lead left an ugly mark on the paper as she paused, glancing at him uncertainly. "I think the worst thing is that you don't remember what you enjoy."

He stiffened, causing her to feel regret for uttering the words at all. Of course he wouldn't want to be reminded of all the things he was missing out on, though it would've been indefinitely crueller if he was aware of his past hobbies. Goodness—what if he'd left someone behind without realising it? Love wasn't a topic they often spoke about—other than when she'd drunkenly spilled the embarrassing secrets of her last relationship with him—yet there was a chance that the man beside her had been involved with someone.

"You're not a child," Marinette blurted, trail of thought not coming out coherently.

Relaxing once more, a smile curled on his lips, indents showing on his cheeks. "Thank you for noticing, I suppose."

"No—I-I mean, you're an adult," she tried to clarify, hastily placing her sketchbook on the coffee table. "What if you had a girlfriend—or boyfriend, there's nothing wrong with that, really—wait, do you even know if you're attracted to anyone?"

The laughter that came from him wasn't forced. There was a soft expression on his face as he looked at her, green eyes gazing at her fondly instead of at her artwork. "As cute as your babbling is, are you trying to ask my orientation?"

Her cheeks burned as she retorted, "You might've forgotten someone!"

"It's okay, Marinette," he assured her, grinning widely in what appeared to be a playful way. "I can assure you I'm not a polter-gay-st."

She blinked. "...I'm trying to have a serious conversation with you."

The smile grew, showing the whites of his teeth, as he held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I've wondered about that before; due to the lack of a ring on my finger, I decided it would be best to just forget about it. If I did have someone, it's already been months, and there's a less than one percent chance that they'd see me, so what's the point?"

"But—"

"No." He shook his head, running his fingers through the golden-coloured tresses on his head. "I'm not going to be miserable by thinking about the past, okay? I just—I have you, and that's more than I could've hoped for back when I was alone."

Her throat felt tight as she swallowed. They were the kind of comments that caught her off guard; how he could casually compliment her and make her feel miserable at the same time, trying to imagine how he'd managed to be on his own.

Marinette whispered, "I wish I could hug you."

From the soft smile, she assumed that he did, too.

The topic of her father's company came up a few weeks later. Aisle Boy—who was going by Hugo for that day, which she refused to say due to how he'd proclaimed it loudly in the morning—had caught sight of one of the letters she'd left on the kitchen countertop.

"...Marinette?" he called, voice loud enough to hear from the upstairs.

Marinette padded downstairs with wet hair, clothes sticking to her from rushing to see what was the matter (they had clear boundaries; he wasn't allowed near the bathroom in case he was tempted to scare her), and furrowed her eyebrows in confusion as she caught sight of him. He'd done weird things before, yes—there was an time where he tried something new by rolling up his expensive-looking trousers to be make-shift shorts, but they'd appeared bulky and uncomfortable—so seeing him shirtless, fiddling with his shirt in the middle of her kitchen wasn't something she saw often.

"What are you doing?" she questioned.

Rather than looking up to greet her, his fingers searched through the material of his shirt before his expression visibly brightened. With a smile, he extended the shirt out towards her, allowing her to see the label.

Gabriel.

Excitedly, he exclaimed, "I knew it sounded familiar!"

That didn't make sense, though. Marinette foolishly tried to grasp onto the shirt to inspect it further, but similar to his body, a chill ran through her as her fingers pushed through it and touched thin air. Retracting her hand quickly with a jump, she watched him in confusion as he dressed again.

"What about the rest of your clothes?" she asked quietly.

He busied himself with the buttons. "All the same, even the new shoes. Do you think we could track them somehow? It might be a bit weird for you to ask, but it's your father's company, isn't it?"

There was a hopeful quality to his voice, and she really didn't want to squash them, but the nagging feeling of things not adding up was whispering in her head. She knew her father's designs; he was always enthusiastic to show her, happily providing pictures of the final product for her to see models wearing his outfits with fierce expressions.

They didn't make plain white shirts. Her father liked to have patterns on the buttons or details of the cuffs that made the shirt stand out—seeing something so normal with the branded didn't make sense. The shoes weren't ones that she could recall either. They were polished, made of a beautiful leather that looked expensive even from afar—but they didn't sell them.

"We—these aren't sold by Gabriel," she murmured, eyes flickering between the articles of clothing. "I-I think they might be fakes?" They were at least decent quality, if they were.

His smile tightened. "Oh."

"There are books upstairs," Marinette blurted quickly, pointing to the ceiling, "with all the designs, complete with dates they were released. We could, well, look? Together?"

Alone, he wouldn't have been able to even enter the room. With a nervously pounding heart, Marinette opened the door to her father's study, where she knew his belongings had been packed away into boxes, not moved or touched since she'd organised them. It had seemed wrong to store everything away out of reach, so she'd opted to ignoring the room altogether. The wanted boxes were found quickly, and she was thankful for the labels on the spines (her gaze didn't linger on her father's handwriting).

It was a lot of work. They were mostly silent as she flicked through the pages, the blond-haired male sat on the floor beside her, gazing at the pictures with a determined expression that hadn't been there previously.

The first night didn't offer much luck.

Neither did the second, third, or fourth.

It was with the fifth that something happened. Aisle Boy—who hadn't picked a name for himself that day, and had instead insisted they search after she'd had breakfast—was growing restless from their lack of progress. His mood had plummeted after they'd tried to search the internet for answers, and had instead ended up with too many results instead of the plain white shirt they were looking for.

She didn't want to smother the hope that he had. Even if they were able to locate when it was made, there were countless retail stores and online ones that sold it, meaning they would reach another dead end that would drive them crazy. Being the designer's daughter didn't give her the benefit of demanding to know everyone that had purchased an article of clothing, yet he was promptly ignoring that fact for the time being.

What was she supposed to say? Apologise for encouraging his hopeless fantasies of finding out his identity from his clothing? Their search for local deaths hadn't turned out well, and neither had her attempting to find out if anyone had been in a life-threatening accident but had managed to pull through with his description.

It was in the afternoon when he said he needed a break. He disappeared from the room, leaving her in the suffocating space filled with memories and hopeless dreams that couldn't be accomplished, so it was with a nostalgic smile that she opened one of the boxes that contained her father's sketchbooks in.

The first pages had caused her to choke up the first time she'd seen them, all those months ago. It was filled with sketches of her growing up; missing teeth, chubby cheeks that had only thinned out when she was almost out of her teenage years, and happy smiles that were directed at him. Sometimes underneath he'd included writing, scrawling a quote that she'd said from that day so he could admire them later.

She flicked through them with a wide smile, surprised that her eyes weren't welling with tears from the happiness.

Her breath caught when she turned a page.

"W-what—" Marinette cut herself off with a strangled noise as she took in the various sketches. Some were messy, clearly unfinished and left as they were, while others were perfected with thick outlines and a dusting of colour to help give the pictures a sense of life.

Hastily searching through the rest of the pages, Marinette noticed two things quickly. As the images of herself grew up slowly, so did the newcomer. There was no mistaking who she was looking at, though; the dimples were shown on his plump cheeks when he smiled, his eyes were coloured in with shades of green that helped to identify him, and the tufts of blond-coloured hair stuck out stubbornly even at that young age.

Her breaths were pained and fast as she searched through the books for other sketchbooks, trying to put them in chronological order and attempt to make sense of what she was seeing—she knew that her father hadn't had a son, or another close family member. His wife had died, that was why he'd adopted her in the first place.

Yet, the drawn pictures showed the ghostly presence that she'd become accustomed to growing up through the years. Numbers were sometimes scrawled at the top, indicating his age, and it showed him in a plethora of clothing with happy expressions to display his feelings.

The fourth sketchbook made her glad that she was sat down. It wasn't the same as the others; the drawings weren't lazily etched with pencil, spread out across the page without order.

It was a storyboard, she realised. There were notes, indicating what he'd planned to have happen and which characters to include, and it was with a shaking hand that she reached for another book, terrified of what she'd find.

The pages were filled with bright colours, ink, beautiful sceneries and a blinding smile that looked eerily similar to the one she'd seen in front of her for months. It—it was a comic with the man she'd been living with as the main character.

The second panel had her heart beating painfully.

"Adrien Agreste," she whispered, reading the name that he'd introduced himself as.