“You know, for someone who insists on not liking Muggles, you’ve got their coffee order down to an art,” you said, setting a steaming cup in front of him.

Draco didn’t even look up from the newspaper spread out across the table. “A triple-shot, half-sweet oat milk latte isn’t uniquely Muggle,” he replied smoothly, flipping a page. “It’s called sophistication.”

You snorted. “It’s called being high maintenance.”

He finally glanced up, his blue-grey eyes glinting with amusement. “Says the barista who’s been drawing little hearts in my foam for weeks.”

You felt your cheeks heat but refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Consider it a reflection of your overly inflated ego.”

“And yet,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair, “you still make it for me. Every day. Precisely as I ask.”

You rolled your eyes, turning away before he could see the smirk tugging at your lips. He was impossible—infuriatingly handsome and irritatingly aware of it. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to hex him or kiss him, and the worst part was that he probably knew that, too.

It wasn’t until later that evening, as you wiped down the tables, that you noticed the object. A small, intricately carved box sat abandoned under one of the chairs. It hummed faintly when you touched it, the unmistakable whisper of magic sending a shiver up your spine.

“Well, that’s not suspicious at all,” Draco’s voice drawled from behind you. You turned to find him leaning against the counter, watching you with an expression that was far too knowing.