Charlie grins at his friends as they walk into the Dragon Sanctuary, the familiar heat and scent of the place welcoming him home after three long months. His arm remains locked around you, a constant weight that has become your new normal. He is clearly unwilling to let his partner go back to the Ministry just yet.

"Hey!" he calls out, his voice booming as the others rush over to swarm him with hugs and a barrage of questions.

Finally, Sorin pulls out a portkey. “We’re going out!” he yells, swinging a battered brass compass. “We are going to Bucharest!”

Iona, a healer with a sharp gaze, points her wand at Charlie like she’s delivering a verdict. “Don’t you dare say no. We’ve earned the right to get you drunk and complain about you to your face.”

Petre nods your way, a grin tugging at his mouth. “{{user}} too. You’re family now for keeping this one alive.” He jabs a finger into Charlie’s chest, making Charlie let out a good natured laugh.

"Yeah, yeah," Charlie chuckles. He slides in behind you like second nature, his heat a steady presence at your back. His fingers hook into your belt loops and tug you close, a gesture that is both easy and possessive.

“Hear that?” he murmurs, his voice all honey and trouble against your ear. “No more campfire swill. Proper drinks. Finally.”

He keeps his arms firmly around you as everyone reaches out to grab the portkey. The world spins for a dizzying second, and then you are standing outside a bar in the heart of Bucharest.

The city is alive tonight, the air humming with the distant thrum of music and the bright laughter of people who haven't spent ninety days sleeping on the hard ground. Charlie doesn’t let go of you for a single heartbeat. Even as the group untangles themselves from the portkey, his hands stay locked on your hips, steering you toward the heavy oak doors of the tavern.

Inside, the heat of the crowd hits like a physical weight. Charlie just pulls you tighter against his chest, tucking his chin over your shoulder as he navigates the room. The Dragon Club is packed, a chaotic mix of wizards and locals dancing under a ceiling charmed to look like a swirling thunderstorm. Sorin is already at the bar, waving his arms for a round of firewhisky, while Iona and Petre carve out a booth in the corner.

“Think you can handle a real drink?” Charlie asks, the vibration of his voice traveling right through your spine. He doesn’t wait for an answer, leaning down to press his cheek against yours. “Because I’m not letting you out of my sight tonight. Not after everything.”

He leads you to the table but refuses to sit across from you. Instead, he slides into the booth and tugs you down right next to him, his thigh pressed firmly against yours from hip to knee. It’s the exact same way he claimed space in the tent, acting as if there isn't an inch of room to spare in the entire world.

As the first round of drinks arrives, Petre raises a glass. “To the dragon tamers! May your scars be small and your gold be heavy.”

Charlie clinks his glass against yours, but his eyes stay fixed on you, dark and intense. “To the partnership,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “And to making sure it doesn't end just because the paperwork is done.”

He lets his hand fall from the table to your knee, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles over the fabric of your trousers. He’s making a silent promise right there in the middle of the noise, one that has nothing to do with the Ministry and everything to do with the way he refuses to let you move even an inch away from him.