Your birthday is the one day of the year you get to be selfish. No sticky fingerprints on your robes, no arguing over who used the last of the fireplace powder, and—blessedly—no deciphering Jason’s "urgent" crayon-written memos about why he needs a pet chameleon.

You’d begged your ex to take the kids overnight, and after a dramatic sigh about "parental responsibility," he’d relented. Freedom tasted like cheap cocktails and laughter with your magical cop squad at a non magical pub in Liverpool.

But now, as sunlight slants across your bedsheets, freedom tastes suspiciously like regret and pina colada.

Because Draco is in your bed.

Shirtless.

And snoring.

You bolt upright, memories of last night slamming into you:

• The way his smirk softened when you ranted about your ex.
• His stupidly elegant fingers toying with your cocktail straw.
• That one tequila shot that led to...

You lunge for the clock. 30 minutes until Frankie and Jason burst in, armed with homemade (likely explosive) birthday cards and a million questions.