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He has been giving her flowers all day , and even though he is barely out of her sight for a second, she doesn't know where in the world he is managing to get them from without her catching him.
They met on the rooftop of the Chapel Blanc that morning, and it was a single rose of pale pink, the shade of clouds at sunrise, offered with a cheeky grin that made her roll her eyes with a smile. His beaming smile when she accepts the dainty bloom and tucks it behind her ear is enough to dazzle the sun, and she quickly turns away to hide the peculiar warmth in her cheeks, picking whichever direction the weathervane points to leap and start their usual ranging patrol.
Sometime during the first scuffle with Le Navré , her rose had gotten dislodged, and was no more than a smudge of cotton-candy crumple against the Tower's paint. It had been during their brief respite, while Le Navré was out of their reach and they were panting in the shade, recouping their strength, that Chat Noir produced a second bloom, and a third, from Gods-knows-where and tucked them gently into the ties holding her pigtails. He flicked a stray fallen petal from his fingers, and she caught the colour- lavender, soft and rich, and she smiles fleetingly.
She does not see the deeply-pink dog rose tucked into the other pigtail.
After the battle, then, and she is tending to Chat's arm, the leather of his suit torn in a ragged line, blood seeping into the black, and she is dabbing a worn cloth against the flow and ignoring the hiss he gives between his teeth, ignoring the piteous mournful gaze of too-green eyes. She would be more moved by that sorrowful regard if the corner of his lips wasn't quirked, trying to hold back a pleased grin at the gentle attention he was receiving.
If she'd been paying a little less attention to his arm, she would have noticed the three or four white roses his other hand had been dextrously, slyly, threading through her hair.
A quick break, to rest and regroup, their respective kwami stuffing themselves full to recharge themselves enough to don the suits again and head out into the rich golden glow of Paris by night, and there he is, Chat Noir, standing atop Notre Dame's rooftop with a grin that suggested the cat caught the canary, and a bouquet of roses as richly red as her suit and as velvet as his purr when he greeted her with "A wonderful night for romance, don't you think, my lady?"
She cannot help but smile, and the moment there is enough space in her arms he dumps the entire bushel of roses upon her, their perfume scenting the air and their petals whisper-soft against her cheeks. Her arms full, he tucks a single crimson bloom behind her ear, to replace its fallen morning counterpart, and when he steps back his cheeky smile is gone and is replaced by something softer and shyer and much, much more nervous.
Chat Noir, nervous ?
Ladybug chuckles, and juggles the mass of blossoms into one arm, so she can reach out and boop the cat's nose with an affectionate smile.
"And how am I supposed to patrol holding all these?" She demands, but there's no bite to her words, and Chat's answering sheepish smile is like a candleflame in the dark, quietly hopeful.
"I was rather hoping that we could not patrol tonight..." He answered, softly, and for once her flirtatious feline does not make eye contact with her, his gaze sliding somewhere over the Seine. "Le Navré is defeated, there won't be any more akuma today... so I was hoping that perhaps my Lady would allow me to escort her to a little rooftop I know overlooking the river. I hear there's going to be fireworks tonight, and I thought..."
"..that you'd ask for a date, since it's Valentine's Day?" She supplies, helpfully, and is dismayed when he takes her playful bluntness as disapproval. His shoulders slump, and her heart slumps with them.
Gently, she reaches out, touches his shoulder, watches those ridiculous ears perk forward as his entire focus switches immediately from his feet to her.
"That sounds delightful, Chat."
His face lights up like she flicked a switch, and he stares at her like she's the sun rising at midnight, wonderful and unexpected and magnificent . His arm is offered before she could even begin to reconsider, not that she ever could, or would , not now he is staring at her like she poured miracles from her hands.
It's Valentine's Day, after all , she thinks, and places her hand on his arm, and the tremble of shy, nervous joy that sets his tail swaying is worth the redoubled over-the-top flirting she will undoubtedly be getting tomorrow.
It isn't until later, much later, when the moon is setting behind the water and she has long since snuggled herself into her bed, fingertips pressed to the unfamiliar warmth of a shyly chaste kiss she fancies she can still feel against her cheek, that she thinks about the flowers, now nestled in a vase borrowed from downstairs, and wonders if he'd chosen colours at random, or if there'd been a design in his decisions- one here, two there, a scattering, a bushel, a single rose behind her ear.
A quick grab for her phone, and a few curious searches, and she was hiding the vivid blush on her cheeks against her pillow, eyes wide and bright.
The next afternoon, when they met on the rooftops of the café by the Tower, there is an uneasy edge to his bright grin that once again suggests nervousness , and it only grows when Ladybug steps purposefully towards him and reaches out.
He stays obediently still, and when she draws back, he reaches up to see what she has done, and plucks it from behind his ear with a curiosity that quickly becomes a blush that stains his cheeks the same delicate hue as the first rose he'd given.
A fleur-de-lis, a leaf from her bouquet, and a single jonquil, tied with a black-spotted red ribbon.
He gapes at her, and rather than reply, she merely smiles, crooks a finger, and takes off towards the next rooftop. She leaves her faithful feline to follow.
So long as she's there to lead the way, he always will.