Bonjour, mes amis. Another Miraculous tale for you all! But alas, I have strayed from my usual Adrienette and jumped ship to Lukanette. Can't help it; it's cute. Also, some of the stuff from Seasons 2 and 3 has me concerned about the love square...so allow me this indulgence. This is based off of the Lukanette September prompts on Tumblr, but I was a little late to the party so I'm not able to edit things a lot before I upload, so apologies for any typos and whatnot. Hope you enjoy!

This isn't a collection of one-shots as many prompt-months are, but actually a single, cohesive (ish) story that has been shaped by the prompts. As such, some of the links are...tenuous at best. Sorry about that...

Day One: First Meeting

Luka heard her before he saw her. Light footsteps adding a soft, staccato beat to the melody of his heartsong playing quietly in his mind. Her started yelp added to the composition, her jumbled words, her awkward giggle.

It felt like he knew her name before she stuttered it out. "Ma-ma-marinette!" Felt like they had met before. He recognised her of course from Juleka's school photos; her face and her sunny smile. But more than that, he recognised her essence, her heartsong. He'd heard it in the stories from Juleka about school, about how "Marinette ran for Class President. I hope she wins; better than Chloe again," or the time "Marinette destroyed Max at Ultra Mega Strike today."

He could still clearly remember the day she practically skipped into his room to proudly show the photos taken on picture day, the photos of her, her face, no birds or hands or freak weather phenomenons obscuring her this time, and it was thanks to Marinette's persistence. And within a few months more photos, showing off a large floppy hat. "Marinette made it," she'd said. "She asked us to model them." But he could tell it meant more to her than that, that every photo of her was a reminder that the curse was broken, and so was its hold it had over her self-esteem.

If it was Marinette that had helped break that hold, and build that esteem anew, he was indebted to her.

But now, as he chuckled at her stammers, she felt familiar in other ways, like an old friend. Not just the frozen face from a photograph, but a face perhaps he'd glimpsed in the street, outside Juleka's school, through a window.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I tend to make more sense with this."

He liked the way her face changed from embarrassment to wonder, so he patted the space on the bed, inviting her to sit. She sat unsurely; there was something about her body language, the gleam in her eyes, reminiscent of a broken soul, a mirror split with spidered cracks.

"That's strange," he said, because the girl from Juleka's stories sounded too strong to be broken. "It seems you have something like this in your heart."

He played. The melancholy tune followed the mirror's cracks, split into chords, dissonance weaved with a minor key. He knew from experience that to mend the cracks, you have to confront them, feel each fissure until you know it as well as the tree of veins on the back of your hands.

She looked at him when he finished. "How do you do that?" she asked.

"Music is often simpler than words," he replied. Simpler still was the smile on her lips, echoed on his own, and the softness in her eyes, and the way her body eased out of heartbreak and into comfort like a familiar embrace. She slipped across the room to his guitar pick collection: the only neat display in the houseboat, the calm eye of the storm of their chaos.

"You like Jagged Stone's music?" she enquired, choosing a pick off the display and scrutinising it. His heart gave a little stutter, and again when he came to stand next to her and she fumbled shyly.

"He's my favourite singer," he said. "You can have it if you like. I've got plenty."

It was a lie. The pack of five had dwindled to only two, having lost the other three at school or in the Seine. The last two were more precious; and now the final one was even more so.

"Oh, thanks."

"I think I better go and 'join the groove' you said."

"Did I really say that?" she moaned.

He had to bite down another chuckle for fear of embarrassing her further. "You're a funny girl, Marinette," he said, and as he left the room he couldn't help but smile again.

A year had passed, and Luka had seen first-hand the strong, selfless, determined girl Juleka had described. He'd also seen her heart shatter, and the swing of the hammer that cracked the mirror of her soul.

The name of the hammer was Adrien, swung by his own ignorance and obliviousness. He was a nice enough guy, conventionally handsome. Sunshine hair and green eyes; any girl would want him. Marinette wanted him. And when he noticed her longing glances at the ice-rink, it only made sense to push her towards him. After all, he could no more force her to love him than stop the sun casting its light upon the moon.

Things looked up after the incident with Bob Roth and Silencer. Despite the shame at falling to his anger; the disgust and violation at being used by Hawkmoth to hurt people, he had found the courage to reveal the words in his heart.

"You're the most extraordinary girl, Marinette. As clear as a music note, as sincere as a melody. You're the music that's been playing in my head since the day we met."

And after that, nothing. Summer had passed, and the lazy days spent melting on the top deck beneath the scorching sun were coming to a close. With school starting up again, most of Kitty Section's members were forced to meet less frequently to keep up with the demand of homework and study as they entered their final year of collège.

Luka didn't have many people he considered close friends. He had always preferred his own company, or perhaps he'd been forced to. Never invited people around because he was an introvert. Or an introvert because he never wanted to invite people around.

He had friends, of course. A handful of students at his music lycée he was friendly with and with whom he would go out to cafés and underground concerts. And, of course, the members of Kitty Section. Despite being two years below him, they had become like a family, and now that they were barely around he found himself feeling lonely.

In the back of his mind, where a gentle tune in a major key played on loop, he knew it was because Marinette was barely around either. After the Bob Roth incident, and their subsequent appearance on TV, which earned a spike in their social media outlet, they had nothing planned. No gigs, just the odd rehearsal. And with nothing to design for them, no support needed from the wings, she had no reason to be there.

The tune hit a sour note. He certainly wasn't reason enough for her to visit. She'd never responded to his confession. And though he wanted to keep up the pretence of not minding—she was free to respond or not respond after all, to love him or not love him—it still hurt, and his bruised heart assumed the worst.

Lycée had finished for the day, and Luka headed straight to his favourite music shop. It was small and shabby, and tucked out of the way between a vintage café and a crafts shop. But it played indie tunes, and the walls were plastered with peeling record labels, and the man who seemed to run it single-handed—Louis—was chill and dispensed good advice about which strings to buy and how to breathe new life into an old amp.

Luka needed some new picks, so after glancing longingly at the limited display of guitars, he turned his attention to the perspex boxes and plastic bags of brightly coloured plectrums. Eventually, he settled a handful of black ones with the white silhouette of a tree branch and petals blowing in a frozen wind.

He bought them because they were a new pattern, and because he wanted to experiment with a different thickness. He bought them because they were pretty, and because the pattern reminded him of an autumn breeze stripping the trees. He bought them because he liked them. No other reason.

So when Luka walked outside, waving to Louis over his shoulder, he was surprised to see nearly the same pattern crawling across someone's shirt.

But not that surprised. Because wasn't that how the theory of attraction worked? You think about something and want something so much that the universe brings it to you? And here she was, looking just as surprised to see him, holding her open purse next to her face as if looking for something inside. But when she saw him, she dropped it like a hot coal and pasted a too-wide grin across her face.

"Oh, uh, hi!" Marinette garbled, flustered as usual.

Maybe it was because they hadn't seen each other for some time. Maybe it was because he hadn't seen her outside of Kitty Section rehearsals. Maybe it was because after his rejection—if it wasn't acceptance, what was it?—he had built a wall in his mind to lock thoughts of her out. If that was the case—his hand found its way into his pocket, grazing fingertips across the picks' edges—it hadn't worked well. Whatever the reason, it felt like meeting for the first time.

"Hello," he returned. "What are you doing down here?" As soon as he asked he realised it was a silly question, for right next to them was a craft shop, and in the window he now saw a sign announcing a sale on end-of-line fabric stock. But, to his surprise, she adopted a horrified look and looked away.

"Ohh, nothing much," she said. "Just, you know, walking. Around. Walking around to, uhh, my house. Yeah."

"Do you want to walk together?" he offered. He hadn't been to her house, but he knew it wasn't nearby.

"I—uh, it's okay! I don't want to be a bother!" she replied, twiddling her thumbs. "You're probably busy anyway, so…"

He smiled. "You're never a bother," he said earnestly as they began heading up through the alley towards the main street. "And I'm finished here anyway. I just came in to get some new picks." He fished one out of his pocket and presented it to her. "I'm always running out. Hazard of living on a boat."

"It's the same with my needles," she said, plucking the pick out of his hand and studying it. "But I can't blame the Seine whenever they go missing… This is so pretty! I didn't think it was your style though."

"Styles change." He shrugged. "Or maybe they just grow."

She turned the pick over in her hand then looked down. "Hey," she exclaimed suddenly and held the pick against her chest. "We match!"

The tune in Luka's head changed. Brightened. It was pink, like cherry blossoms, and red like a sunset. He hoped the new colours hadn't found their way to his cheeks. "You should keep it," he said. "I bought plenty. Maybe you can use it in one of your designs."

At first he thought she was going to refuse, but then she returned his smile and slid it into her pocket. "Thank you," she said. "I'll definitely make something with it. And when I do you'll be the first to see it!"

"I look forward to it. Whatever you come up with, I know it'll be as extraordinary as you are."

She flushed then, and Luka worried he'd said too much. Like he had before. Would it be another few months before she spoke to him again? But she was smiling, and when they reached her house she hugged him quickly and thanked him again before hurrying inside.

An autumnal chill had settled in the air, and began prickling the bare skin of his forearms as he walked home. But the grin felt hot on his face, and the rich tune of sunshine and cherry blossoms warmed his mind. Idly, pressed his left fingertips into the heel of his palm as though pressing them into a fret-board, and hummed under his breath.

But the wind picked up, and as he passed beneath a billboard of Adrien Agreste's face, the breeze knocked the cherry blossoms away.

The tune of a bare branch was cold.