A/N: I made my contract and here is the first day! I would not be posting this if I didn't say I would. There's something about this pacing I don't like but, I can't figure it out. I guess we'll learn along the way.

I always write to improve, so comments and critiques are welcome! Please rip this to bits! Thank you!

When she takes me in her arms

And speaks softly to me,

I see life in rosy hues.

Marinette hums with the fathomless voice bleeding over the Paris apartments, her head swaying to the tunes. The male singing is accompanied, as usual, with a short plucking of chords that reverb like chimes in an yawning chamber.

The sounds wash over her body like floating on a steady sea, the fresh spray of salt water and rhythmic motion of the waves lulling her to comfort. Its a different experience than any time she's listened to music. Even the experience of Jagged Stone's concert when she was a teen couldn't compare. Though his slows ballads are likened compared to waterboarding through a turbulent wave.

Marinette holds her warm cup of cocoa to her lips and blows a small wisp of steam into the winter weather.

"'Hold me close and hold me fast, this magic spell you cast…'"

When he begins singing the English rendition, her slightly warm hand presses to her mouth to prevent the torrential flutter in her stomach manifesting into a giggle.

He sounds playful and confident today. She can easily imagine his mouth smiling around his words with each lilt and vibrato. He is so clear to her when he sings, his days laid out in song in ways a conversation would take hours to convey.

She's mouthing the lyrics before her mind catches up with her, then singing along before her nerves can stop her . She switches up the pronouns so she sings of a male and he sings of a female, but their vocals blend like silken threads to a tapestry. Its one thing to keep her distance from knowing his face, but touching his voice with her own creates a sensation of fuzzy euphoria from head to toe.

The final notes stretch across the streets once more and Marinette can hear the sprinkled clapping from fellow neighbors and strangers down below. She nestles deeper into her chair and hugs the soft shawl to her face, though still feeling warm from the music.

The voice above says a few flourished 'thanks you's to the unconventional audience and Marinette takes it as her cue to rise from her seat.

"Are you going to speak to me this time?" A distinctly pointed shout comes from above.

She clamps her lips to a tiny pucker, the hard thump in her chest halting her movement. Its hard, honestly, not to shout back. It's harder every time, but its the rush of blood to her heart and the light headed fluttering in her head that makes her realize her fears again.

She touches the handle of her glass door.

"I will hop down there, if you don't respond." The voice teases.

She almost swings around to make sure he does not. The difference between balconies in the complex isn't impossible to scale, and she has considered it before, but one wrong move would cause considerable injury.

Though she can't help imagining him easily landing before her on the balcony, confident and easy as his singing, with probably dark hair and gleaming grey eyes shining at her. She has no idea what he looks like, of course, but a young Darcy-like character is never a bad base model for dreamy mystery men.

She has to grip the door handle tighter to shake the fantasy. What is she kidding, even if he was as amazing as she dreams him to be, she would ruin it somehow. It's just her track record.

She closes the door.

When she wakes up a bit groggy the next morning, Alya, her best friend, calls her for a morning drink before heading to work.

Alya is the ultimate foodie. She finds new restaurants and cafes daily and drags Marinette along for the experience. Though that experience is summed up to ruining the perception of home cooked meals and draining most of her account on local chefs. Which as an artist herself, doesn't feel too bad, but is bad on her lifestyle.

They're sitting at a worn wood table, which is surprisingly sturdy when Marinette leans her elbows on the surface, in a nicely sized cafe.

"How was your business trip?" Alya asks over her Caramel Dolce Cappuccino. It had a beautiful foam flower on top until it was smeared to Alya's upper lip.

"Relaxing," Marinette sighs. She takes a sip of her mocha and hums before Alya is gesturing to have a taste. "Who knew going overseas to look at fabric would be so invigorating?"

"You're probably just sick of us and finally realizing it, admit it." She smiles, before grimacing at the mocha and back at Marinette. She shrugs innocently, as if she couldn't forsee Alya hating her extra sweet drink.

"Maybe the first two days," Marinette jokes. "But a week is a long time. It was so easy just talking to people and pointing at things, I barely knew how to get out of bed this morning."

Marinette instantly regrets mentioning a bed when Alya's eyebrows raise behind her drink. The cogs are turning and there's no going back. "And how is your bed? Will you be upgrading to a king anytime soon?"

"No, Alya." Marinette groans. She hunches in her chair and busies her mouth to finishing her wonderfully sweet mocha.

She raises her shoulders and smirks, "I'm just saying, the last time we talked you kept singing the same three love ballads before bursting into tears over a plate of croissants because— what, you smelled fresh pastries on the streets when he sang?"

Marinette doesn't respond, the smooth white mug a sturdy anchor in her palms. She focuses on the hot liquid passing her lips and running a stream down her tongue. Its still cold outside and the walk to her job is a good twenty five minutes so it doesn't hurt to bask in the warmth while it lasts.

"Marinette," Alya laughs and touches her hand, "You're head over heels for this guy. Why are you hesitating?"

Alya was there for her last three relationships, but Marinette could never really explain why they ended so quickly. So when she fell for a new guy in a way that was unconventional, it was obvious why the others failed and she wanted to cling to this emotion while she can.

"It's been over a month and a half and I don't even know his name. I have this perfect vision in my head and if I meet him, I'm sure my heart would be broken in an instant."

Alya places her cup on the table and stares with pitying eyes, which she is doing more to mock her than actual sincerity. Its the new gleam in her eye and the casual lean in her seat that actual puts Marinette on edge, "What do you call him, though?"

"What do you mean?" Marinette replies.

"Even though you don't know his 'name', our male siren must have a moniker? How else do you scream for him at ni—"

"Alya!" Marinette almost screeches as she reaches across the table and squishes her face to stop talking. Its when she looks around that the action of touching Alya's face is more attention getting than their conversation. She thumps back into her chair with a warm face and a disbelieving jaw.

"We're grown women and, as your best friend, beyond any form of crudeness."

Marinette wisely stays silent and pretends to savor the last sips of her drink before mumbling, "Chat Noir."

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."

"Chat. Noir," She enunciates. "I didn't come up with it. He did."

"You're serious? He told you to call him that?"

"He came out of his apartment and announced himself, like a mini concert hall. 'Welcome to the stage, Chat Noir!'," She smiles. "I'm not sure he knows I heard him. It was a while ago." Marinette shrugs.

The worst of it is what she didn't say. That she had an actual moniker for the original moniker. She recalls last night falling asleep to a seeping wet warmth on her fingers and gasping pants of 'kitty'. She practically crushes the straw between her fingers as she moves the last drops of whipping cream in circles.

Luckily, Alya decides to relent after the admission. Though since she is a journalist, Marinette should have been suspicious of her silence. A name is a powerful one, even if it is fake. She could track down a man after finding pocket lint on the ground.

They forsake talking about love before its time to go to work and by then Marinette is itching to cut up some muslin.