The Wizard London café is all soft chatter and clinking spoons, the kind of place where secrets should stay buried.

Theo’s fingers drum against his teacup—nervous energy—as you slide into the seat across from him.

He looks good. Too good.

His dark curls are slightly tousled (he always runs a hand through them before seeing you), his gray eyes warm in a way they never are for anyone else.

"So," he starts, forcing a smirk. "How’s Draco doing?"

The question tastes like ash.

Because he doesn’t care about Draco.

He cares about you.

The way your laugh lines crinkle when you’re tired. The way you still stir your tea three times counterclockwise, just like you did at Hogwarts. The way your wedding ring glints in the light—a brand he’ll never wear.