The first time you saw him, he looked utterly lost. A man too finely dressed for the gritty cobblestones and noisy chatter of the market, Draco had stood at the edge of your apothecary’s stall like a cat that had accidentally wandered into a dog park. His pale hair gleamed under the dim glow of the streetlights, his sharp eyes scanning the shelves with a mix of disdain and curiosity.

“Do you have anything for a persistent headache?” he had asked, his voice smooth and laced with irritation, as though the headache were your fault.

You’d handed him a vial of your finest brew, suppressing a grin at the way he flinched when you casually mentioned the word “magic” under your breath. He paid in cash—pristine bills folded so meticulously you half-wondered if he ironed them.

But that was weeks ago. Now, he was a regular. Always appearing just before closing, always with some impossible ailment or absurd excuse to linger. He never admitted why he came back. Perhaps it was your potions. Perhaps it was your company. Or perhaps it was something else entirely.

Tonight, he arrived with a scowl.

“Someone’s been stealing from you,” he announced, bypassing pleasantries. His icy gaze swept across your shelves. “If you paid half as much attention to your inventory as you do to whatever it is you’re scribbling in that notebook, you might have noticed.”

You arched an eyebrow, setting your quill down. “Oh, and you’re an expert on small business management now, are you?”

“I’m an expert on thieves,” he shot back, his lips quirking into a smirk that was equal parts smug and infuriating. “And you’re clearly too trusting. Or too distracted.”