You weren’t supposed to be here.

Not in his part of Manchester — not on a rain-slicked rooftop with nothing but the hum of city lights and the sting of November air slicing across your skin. But there you were, coat damp, boots loud against the concrete, staring at the man who’d been impossible to reach... and even harder to forget.

Draco was leaning against the ledge like he’d been waiting for you. Like he knew you’d come — though you hadn’t answered his last three messages, and the fourth you’d deleted without reading. His eyes, silver in the city glow, didn’t hold accusation. Just that unreadable quiet he wore so well.

You used to think it was coldness. Now, you knew better.

It was armor.

“Not exactly the Ritz up here,” he said, voice low, a little tired. “Unless you’re here to jump. In which case, that’s my ledge.”

You laughed — just a breath of it — and shook your head. But you didn’t answer right away. Because the truth wasn’t simple, and he didn’t do well with lies. Not anymore.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you admitted finally. “Thought the air might help. Guess I didn’t realize I’d be sharing it.”

He didn’t move toward you. Of course he didn’t. Draco never pushed. But something flickered across his face — a twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way he flexed his fingers before slipping them back into his coat pockets.

“You always had terrible timing,” he murmured. “I was just about to start feeling sorry for myself.”

You joined him at the edge anyway, shoulder brushing the fabric of his sleeve. He didn’t pull away. You both stared out at the city in silence, watching the wind drag mist between the buildings like ghost smoke.

He exhaled.