It’s well past midnight, and the city outside is nothing but glass and rain — streaks of silver reflected in the towering windows of Malfoy Industries. The office is silent now, emptied hours ago, save for the soft whir of the city lights below and the ticking of the clock above Draco Malfoy’s desk.

You’re still working. Of course you are.

Your desk lamp casts a soft golden circle over a spread of contracts and spreadsheets. Across the room, his office door stands slightly ajar — a sliver of light spilling from within. You can hear the faint rustle of papers, the low hum of his voice on a late-night call. He always stays later than he should, but then again, so do you.

You tell yourself it’s loyalty. In truth, it’s something more complicated.

A moment later, the door opens. His footsteps are quiet, deliberate — the sound of polished shoes on marble. When you look up, he’s there, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened, hair just slightly disheveled. It’s the kind of imperfection that only makes him look sharper, more dangerous.

“Still here?” he asks, voice smooth, almost indulgent.

You offer a tired smile. “I could ask you the same, sir.”

The corner of his mouth twitches — not quite a smile, but close. “You could,” he concedes softly. “Though I imagine you’d deflect the question better than I would.”