The argument starts like all the others—with too much tension and not enough space between you.

“I’m not doing this with you again,” you snap, folding your arms tightly across your chest as you glare at Draco. “It’s over, remember? You made sure of that.”

He scoffs, pacing a few steps before turning on his heel. “Oh, don’t pretend like you’ve moved on. You still look at me the same.”

You arch a brow. “And how’s that?”

“Like you’re torn between slapping me or kissing me.”

He steps in close—too close. Just like he used to. Close enough that you can smell the faint trace of his cologne and the familiar warmth that used to make your heart flutter.

You grit your teeth, refusing to back down. “I have moved on.”

His fingers find your waist in a move so smooth it feels like muscle memory, tugging you closer before you can react.

“Then why are you still here?” he whispers, his breath brushing your lips. “Why haven’t you walked away yet?”

You glare up at him. “Because I wanted to remind myself why we didn’t work. You always push, always test. You never know when to stop.”

He leans in just enough that his forehead brushes yours, eyes dark with something dangerous. “You think I don’t remember the way you taste?”

Your breath catches. Your hand twitches at your side—caught between pushing him away or pulling him closer.

He smirks, knowing he’s hit a nerve.

“You may lie to yourself,” he murmurs, “but your body never does.”