The evening air is cool against your skin, carrying the scent of damp grass and the distant crackle of a bonfire. The stars are sharp above you, scattered like broken glass, and the world feels too quiet. Too still.

George’s arm is draped over your shoulders, his warmth steady, comforting. He smells like cinnamon and something sweet, something safe. He’s always been the kind of love that is easy—full of laughter, late-night talks, and the kind of warmth that doesn’t ask for anything in return.

But your eyes keep drifting.

Across the garden, Draco stands at the edge of the trees. His hair catches the light, but his face is cast in shadow. He’s watching you. He always watches you like that—like he’s daring you to look away first.

You should.

But you don’t.

It’s been months. Months since you stopped fighting, stopped breaking, stopped setting fire to each other just to see who would burn first. But the ghosts of those nights still haunt you—the heated whispers, the slammed doors, the way he used to say your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

Draco tilts his head, and something in your chest tightens.

The memory of him still clings to you like smoke.

“Babe?”

George’s voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it, a careful hesitation. His fingers squeeze your shoulder lightly, but you feel him stiffen.

You look at George, at his kind eyes, the love there, the goodness.

But he’s already seen it.

“Honestly?” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Still him?”

The answer sits heavy on your tongue. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

George exhales slowly, his arm slipping from your shoulders. He doesn’t say anything, but the silence feels louder than any accusation.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, and you should reach for him, should tell him he’s all that matters. That you don’t miss Draco, that you don’t feel his presence like a shadow creeping in the corners of your heart.

But your gaze flickers back toward the trees.

And Draco is still there.

Waiting.

Watching.

And the truth is—you do miss him.