The dim glow of candlelight flickers against polished mahogany, the low hum of a jazz band weaving through the smoky air. A muggle club—far removed from the Ministry’s rigid halls, from the war raging just beyond these walls. It’s quiet here, not in the absence of sound but in the absence of weight—no Auror reports, no strategy meetings, no whispered fears of what’s to come. Just music, the clink of glasses, and the rhythmic sway of people who know nothing of the world you and Theseus fight to protect.

He sits across from you, sleeves rolled up, fingers curled loosely around a half-finished drink. The usual sharpness in his gaze is softened, but the tension lingers in his shoulders—never fully at ease, never truly off-duty.

There’s a moment of silence between you, comfortable, familiar. Then, without looking up, he exhales a quiet chuckle.

“Merlin, I think this is the first time we’ve sat down all week,” he murmurs, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. His eyes finally meet yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. “You holding up alright?”