Saturday Morning - Marinette's POV

The smell of fresh bread drifted out into the street long before the sun fully crested the rooftops of Paris. Nestled on a quiet corner of the 16th arrondissement was Boris Lumé Boulangerie, a modest two-story building with rose-painted shutters, ivy creeping up the walls, and a striped awning that fluttered in the early morning breeze. Inside, sunlight spilled in through the tall front windows, brushing golden warmth over every surface. The glass display cases gleamed, filled with rows of flaky croissants, cream-filled éclairs, fruit-studded tarts, and pillowy brioche. A delicate dusting of powdered sugar sparkled in the light, like fresh snow on edible art.

Behind the counter, Marinette moved with practiced ease, her hands covered in flour as she arranged the morning's offerings. A faint smudge streaked her cheek, unnoticed, as she bent to retrieve a tray of chocolate croissants from the oven. The scent of butter and vanilla filled the air, and despite the early hour, Marinette's eyes were bright with focus. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, strands escaping here and there, but she didn't mind. Baking was where she felt most like herself—quiet, steady, and useful. Here, the world made sense.

She turned from the oven to the prep table, where a mound of dough awaited its final knead. Pressing her palms into the soft, pliable surface, Marinette leaned into the rhythm: fold, push, turn. There was comfort in repetition. In baking, the outcome was predictable—if you followed the recipe, added the right amount of sugar, let the dough rest, it would rise. Unlike real life. Unlike feelings.

Tom hummed as he passed behind her, carrying a tray of baguettes to the front window. "Looking good, sweetheart. I think this might be your fluffiest brioche batch yet!"

Sabine appeared at Marinette's elbow with a warm smile and a cloth to wipe her daughter's cheek. "Don't forget the cinnamon rolls. That couple from Rue de Passy always comes early for them on Saturdays."

Marinette laughed softly, brushing the flour off her nose. "They'll be ready in five minutes. I just need to shape the last few."

"Always so efficient," Sabine said proudly, placing a kiss on her daughter's temple before heading to the register.

As the hour turned and the first customers trickled in, the Dupain-Cheng family slipped into their weekend rhythm: Tom greeting regulars with his booming laugh, Sabine expertly ringing up orders, and Marinette dancing between the ovens and the counter, a blur of motion and purpose.

A little boy pressed his face against the glass, pointing excitedly at a tray of sugar-dusted chouquettes. Marinette knelt beside him and smiled. "Those are still warm. Want one with a bit of chocolate inside?"

His eyes widened. "Can I, Mama?"

The woman behind him laughed and nodded, and Marinette handed over the pastry with a wink. The boy's delighted squeal made her chest tighten unexpectedly. Joy—that was what she wanted to give people. Tiny moments of joy, tucked into paper bags and tied with twine.

The bell above the door jingled constantly now, a stream of patrons filling the bakery with laughter and polite chatter. Marinette handed out espresso shots and apricot tarts, almond croissants and baguettes still warm from the oven. Her smile never faltered, but inwardly she felt the tug of something quieter—melancholy, maybe. A sense of disconnection, like she was watching the morning unfold from behind a pane of glass.

It wasn't that she wasn't happy. She loved this bakery. Loved her parents. Loved the feeling of creating something that made people smile. But there was an ache, too. One she couldn't knead away.

She wiped her hands on her apron and looked out at the display again. A raspberry tart sat at the center of the case, its glazed surface glinting like a ruby. A girl around six or seven stared up at it with wide eyes, her hands clasped in front of her as if in reverence.

Marinette crouched down again. "Would you like a closer look?"

The girl nodded, hesitant, and Marinette opened the case, holding out the tart for inspection. "I picked the raspberries myself. Only the juiciest ones."

"It's so pretty," the girl whispered. "Like a crown."

Marinette smiled. "Then maybe it's meant for a princess."

The girl's mother laughed, thanked Marinette, and purchased the tart. As they left, the little girl turned and waved. Marinette returned the wave, her heart full and aching all at once.

Behind the counter again, Marinette took a breath and let her smile drop for just a moment. She pressed a hand to her chest, fingers curling into her apron. What was it that made her feel like this? Like she was giving everything and yet... missing something.

Her thoughts wandered, unbidden, to the rooftop gardens and quiet courtyards of the Agreste estate. She hadn't seen him in weeks, but he lingered in her memory like the scent of burnt sugar—bittersweet and impossible to forget.

Felix.

She closed her eyes briefly, her mind taking her back to that night they faced Strikeback, the night where she lost everything. Felix, who she had mistaken for Adrien, who was so willing to deceive her to steal all the Miraculous. His eyes were a dimmer emerald than his cousin's, his smile now mocking her cruelly. How could she have been so stupid?

Marinette shook her head and turned back to her work. There was no time for those thoughts today. The bakery needed her. Her parents needed her. And if her heart felt heavy, if the shadows stretched longer behind her smile... well, she would carry that alone.

She was good at pretending. Good at hiding the things that didn't rise no matter how long you left them in the sun.

It was soon time for her break as she headed to the back. 

The back room of the bakery was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant clatter of pans in the kitchen. Marinette leaned against a shelf lined with jars of jam and bags of flour, her apron dusted with stray specks of powdered sugar. She let out a soft breath, feeling the stillness settle over her like a blanket.

She hadn't meant to disappear, not exactly. But after hours of smiling, chatting, serving, and baking, she needed a moment—just one—to herself. Her hands rested on her knees as she sank onto an overturned crate, the warmth of the bakery replaced by a cooler draft from the back door.

The morning rush had passed, but the ache in her chest remained. That familiar, hollow kind of ache. She rubbed at her arms as if the motion could soothe something deeper, something more stubborn than tired muscles or flour-chafed skin. She replayed the moment with the raspberry tart girl in her mind, how it had lit something in her... and how quickly it had dimmed again.

"What about your trip? Are you going to stand up to your father?"

"Yes. You've given me the courage I need, Ladybug. I feel like from now on, nothing can stop me."

She exhaled sharply, willing the memory away. That hadn't even been Adrien. She had been so sure—so hopeful—that he had come back, that he'd looked at her that way. But it had been Felix. Cold, cunning Felix. Who'd smiled just like Adrien, worn his voice like a second skin, and taken everything.

A bright flash of red zipped into the room, followed by a cheerful trill. "There you are!"

Marinette blinked as Tikki emerged from behind a crate of cocoa powder. "I've been looking all over for you! You're not hiding from your own bakery, are you?"

A reluctant smile tugged at Marinette's lips. "Just catching my breath."

Tikki floated closer, her tiny eyes scanning Marinette's face. "Well, you deserve it. The place smells amazing, by the way. I think that brioche could solve world peace."

Marinette laughed softly. "Don't let Papa hear you say that. He'll put it on the chalkboard out front."

Tikki giggled and landed gently on Marinette's shoulder, her tone softening. "You've been doing great today. Really. I can tell you're trying to stay strong."

Marinette's smile faded, her gaze dropping to her lap. "Trying, yeah."

There was a pause.

"I keep thinking about... everything," Marinette admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "If I hadn't... if I hadn't mistaken him for Adrien, none of it would've happened. The Miraculous, the yoyo, Monarch getting everything. That was me, Tikki. I gave it all away."

Tikki's wings drooped slightly. "That wasn't your fault. Felix tricked you. He used Adrien's face, his voice—he knew exactly what he was doing."

"But I let it happen," Marinette said bitterly. "Because I was in love. Because I wanted to believe so badly that Adrien was finally—finally—coming back to me."

Tikki floated in front of her now, her tone firmer. "That's not weakness, Marinette. Loving someone doesn't make you less. It means you have hope. That you believe people can be better. That's not what made you lose the Miraculous. Felix did."

Marinette looked up, eyes shining. "But maybe I shouldn't believe in people like that. Maybe I'm not meant to be the Guardian. Maybe I'm not meant to love anyone at all."

"Marinette," Tikki said, flying closer. "You are human. You make mistakes. But you also keep going. That's what makes you worthy. That's why you're the Guardian. And someday... you'll love someone who truly deserves you. Who sees you."

A silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant sounds of the bakery returning to life.

Finally, Marinette let out a quiet breath. "I want to believe that."

Tikki smiled gently. "Then that's the first step."

Marinette stood slowly, brushing flour off her apron, a flicker of strength rising beneath her ribs. She wasn't healed. She wasn't whole. But she was still here.

"Thanks, Tikki."

"Of course."

Together, they walked back toward the warmth and bustle of the front room.

Marinette paused just before stepping through the door, squared her shoulders, and drew in a steadying breath. The scent of sugar and yeast filled her lungs. The familiar rhythm of the bakery awaited her.

She stepped into it with a soft but determined smile.

"Bonjour! What can I get for you today?"

A/N: Do you all like the images in here or no? If so, let me know and I'll add media to future chapters! If not, I'll remove it.

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