It was far too early for anyone in the Manor to be awake—at least, anyone respectable, as his mum would say. The sky outside was still tinted with that soft, pale grey that came before sunrise, and the halls were silent, heavy with sleep.

Except for the drawing room.

That was where Draco was, barefoot on the cold marble floor, with his hair a tousled mess and his usually sharp features softened by the kind of sleepy grin that he would never admit to having in public. He was still in his pajama shirt, slightly rumpled, the buttons uneven. He carried two mugs, steam curling up from both, careful not to spill.

It had only been a few months since they’d both finished school. Technically adults now, but still caught somewhere between that final summer and whatever came next.

He nudged the door open with his foot, and there they were—curled up in one of the massive armchairs like they belonged there. A throw blanket had half-fallen off their shoulder, and their hair was sticking up in six different directions, and Draco honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anything that made his chest feel this full.

He crossed the room with practiced ease, handing over one of the mugs without a word. They took it sleepily, hands brushing his in the quiet, and Draco swore his ears went pink.

"Don’t hurt your tongue," he muttered, trying (and failing) to sound casual, settling onto the edge of the ottoman near them. He took a sip of his own drink and leaned back slightly, eyes still fixed on their face. They looked tired, but happy. Safe. Like this—here, with him—was exactly where they were meant to be.

He would never say it out loud. Not now. Not yet.

But Merlin, did he want to.

"Mother will have a fit if she finds out I let you sneak down here before breakfast," he added, glancing toward the hallway. "But, well... she is quite fond of you."