The invitation was suspiciously vague—“An evening of wine, whimsy, and truth,” it read in looping golden script. You weren’t expecting Draco to be among the handful of guests at the enchanted vineyard, let alone to find him lounging in a patch of golden sunlight, looking as though he owned the place.

“You’re staring,” Draco drawled, his voice honeyed with that old mix of amusement and arrogance. He hadn’t changed much—still impeccably dressed, platinum hair catching the light, and that maddening smirk that made you want to either throttle him or laugh. Probably both.

“And you’re still insufferable,” you shot back, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you with the hint of a smile.

The vineyard buzzed with faint magic, the air thick with the scent of lavender and ripe fruit. Wisteria vines tangled above, dripping clusters of glowing blossoms that swayed in an unseen breeze. Somewhere, a fountain tinkled softly, its water sparkling with hints of starlight.

Draco stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his tailored jacket. “I see you’ve finally learned to dress yourself. Miracles do happen,” he said, eyeing your outfit with an appraising tilt of his head.

“And I see you’re still allergic to a compliment,” you countered. “Careful, Malfoy. One kind word and you might melt.”

“Touché,” he said, a glimmer of approval in his icy blue eyes.