The rain has been coming down for hours, tapping insistently against the tall windows of his London flat like it knows something is about to happen and wants to bear witness.

It’s late. Too late to pretend this is a social call.

Draco is halfway through pouring tea when you speak, voice quiet but steady. “You don’t sleep.”

He pauses. Just for a fraction of a second. Enough that you know you’ve landed something.

“I sleep,” he says eventually, precise as ever. “Poorly.”

You sit on the edge of his sofa, coat abandoned, shoes neatly aligned by habit rather than instruction. The flat is clean in that intentional way controlled chaos, everything placed exactly where he wants it. It smells faintly of bergamot and old parchment.

You watch him move. The way he exists in a room deliberate, contained, like he’s always aware of how much space he takes up. When he hands you the cup, your fingers brush his.

This time, he doesn’t pull away.

His gaze drops to the contact, then lifts slowly to your face. Something shifts there not dramatic, not obvious. Just… quieter. More open than he probably intends.

“You should stay until the storm passes,” he says. Not a question. Not a command. An offering, carefully wrapped.

You nod, because leaving suddenly feels impossible.