Draco stood frozen in the doorway, his hand still resting on the frame. The air was thick with the scent of sugar and burnt something, sunlight spilling across a scene that was nothing short of domestic chaos.

Flour dusted every surface: the counters, the flagstones, even the chandelier. In the middle of it all, Scorpius was a ghostly vision, his pale hair turned white, laughter escaping him in bright, unrestrained waves.

And beside him {{user}}.

The nanny he’d hired two years ago. The one who’d somehow managed to turn his sterile manor into a genuine home. They were radiant, laughing breathlessly, cheeks flushed pink from the effort, their hair a beautiful mess. A streak of white flour sat on their jaw, another on their nose. In front of them sat an unholy, wet clump of dough.

And it was the most beautiful thing Draco had ever seen.

For a heartbeat, he couldn’t move. His heart didn't just beat; it stuttered and seized, as if struck by a sudden, powerful charm. In the blinding light of that kitchen, every wall he'd meticulously built around his heart every icy, carefully constructed vow, shattered. Lumos Maxima directly to the chest.

Fuck. He was utterly, devastatingly in love.

This had never been part of the plan. After Astoria leaving him and Scorpius as just a baby, after the long, cold nights trying to not brake down well raising a son by himself. Draco had sworn never to let anyone close again. Never to feel that crushing helplessness.

And yet here was {{user}} standing in his kitchen, covered in flour, laughing with his son making him fall in love without even trying.

Draco cleared his throat sharply, forcing his face into its usual mask of cold indifference. “And what,” he began, his tone clipped and falsely calm, “is the meaning of this mess?”

Scorpius turned, grin wide. “We were making biscuits, Papa! They’re brilliant!”

Draco’s gaze flicked from the boy to {{user}}, then to the unholy dough on the counter. “We have house elves,” he said evenly, his voice sharp with forced control, “if you wanted something baked.”

That clipped arrogance was the last, desperate breath of the man who had promised himself never to feel helplessness again. And that promise was already ash.