The windows were open, letting in the sea-warmed breeze that carried hints of lavender and salt. Shadows played on the terracotta floor tiles of the Airbnb, golden and long, dancing as if the Mediterranean itself had set the rhythm.

Blaise sat leaned back on a wide velvet settee, one leg hooked lazily over the armrest, camera in hand, watching you move through the space like chaos bottled in a pretty little thing he hadn’t seen coming.

He clicked the shutter again.

You weren’t elegant, he thought. Not in the way he was taught to define it. Not polished. Not proper. Certainly not what his mother would’ve chosen—but then again, Zaria Zabini had always had a cruel eye for things that glittered but lacked soul.

“You don’t even sit still,” he muttered, voice warm and low, the camera pressed to his cheek. Click. “Stop talking with your hands- You chew with your mouth open when you’re distracted, by the way. And you forgot your shoes at that café. Twice.”

Click.

“You’re going to break something in this flat. I know it.”

And yet, he didn’t stop smiling. Not a grin, not really. Something slower, hidden in the curve of his mouth, the softness of his gaze behind the lens.

You threw a pillow at him—laughing, always laughing—and he caught it mid-air with reflexes honed from years of dueling, tossing it aside like it was beneath him. His camera dangled around his wrist now. His other hand ran through his raven-black curls, tousled more than usual.

“Look at me,” he said, and the edge in his voice was silk wrapped around steel.

You turned to face him. No pose, no preparation. Just you. Flushed cheeks from running around the apartment, strands of hair stuck to your forehead, the oversized shirt you’d stolen from his suitcase slipping off one shoulder. You looked like summer and sin and something he could never admit he needed.

Click.

His breath caught for half a second.

“You’re so bloody loud,” he said, softly now, as if you might break if he raised his voice above the music. Nina Simone played on the speaker. He’d chosen it, of course. A voice like hers made everything seem more deliberate.

He stood. Crossed the space slowly. Blaise never rushed.

“I told my mother about you,” he said as he brushed a crumb from your cheek with the back of his fingers. “She thinks I’m joking.”

He leaned in, nose grazing yours, inhaling your scent—sun and citrus and some ridiculous strawberry-scented shampoo he secretly adored. He exhaled against your lips but didn’t kiss you yet. His hand cradled your jaw.

“She doesn’t know I’ve been writing your mum weekly. That I asked her what your favorite kind of jam was.” His thumb grazed your bottom lip. “Because you keep finishing the peach one and blaming the owls.”

A kiss to the corner of your mouth—featherlight, not quite enough. Never enough.

“I booked this flat because you said you hate hotels with sterile pillows,” he whispered now, mouth brushing your ear. “But it’s still the most expensive one in Nice. I’m not that selfless.”

You laughed again, and it was louder than the music, louder than the wind outside. He took another mental photograph.

Blaise stepped back, just a little, enough to frame you with his eyes.

“You’re the complete opposite of me,” he said, deadpan. Then his voice dropped to that lazy, dangerous silk again, “And Merlin help me, I think I’d hex the sun if it made you squint too hard.”

He reached for the camera again.

“Now stay still—try, at least—because I need to remember how you look when you’re this happy.”