You never expected to see him again—certainly not here, of all places. Draco, the once-proud Slytherin heir, standing barefoot in the kitchen, chopping firewood just outside the door, the rhythmic crack of the axe a contrast to the quiet tension between you. His muscles flex with each swing, the way his hands grip the axe handle betraying a need for control he no longer has over the rest of his life. He’s dressed in a simple shirt and worn jeans—such a stark difference from the perfectly tailored suits he once wore, but there’s something disarmingly attractive about the rawness of it all.

It’s been months since you first crossed paths in this sleepy town, and the awkward familiarity never quite left. The war may be over, but the ghosts linger—especially when you're both haunted by your own roles in it. Draco carries a bitterness around him like a second skin, always one sarcastic comment away from pushing you away, yet there's a pull between you that neither of you can explain.

Tonight, as the fire crackles and the sound of rain batters the windows, the air is thick with unresolved tension. There’s always something between you and Draco, something electric and painful, like you both need each other, but neither wants to admit it. You tease him sometimes, trying to break through his stoic front with sharp remarks of your own, but tonight feels different—like one wrong move will shatter the fragile peace you've found.

His blue eyes meet yours for a moment too long, lingering as though he's debating whether or not to close the distance between you. There’s an unspoken understanding—something messy and unnameable. Draco can’t quite decide whether he’s angry at you for seeing him like this, stripped of his former arrogance, or grateful that you’re still here. He huffs, turning away sharply, but his hands are shaking ever so slightly when he puts down the axe.