It was Valentine’s Day in Paris, and the city was drunk on romance. The lights below glowed like embers in a fire, casting a golden haze over the cobbled streets and balconies dripping in ivy. The Eiffel Tower stood in full view from the floor-to-ceiling windows of their suite, lit, sparkling on the hour like it had been summoned just for them. Candlelight flickered across the polished wood floors, mixing with the soft sounds of a romantic record spinning low in the background, one of the few Muggle things {{user}} had introduced him to that he hadn’t hated. Her perfume hung in the air, something warm and floral and maddeningly her.

Their suite smelled like champagne and her favorite roses. The concierge had practically bowed when they arrived, eager to please Monsieur Malfoy and his fiancée. She laughed and Draco didn’t correct him. He liked the way it sounded. No, he loved the way it sounded. Engaged. The word echoed in his mind like a secret, like a promise. The ring on her finger felt like a vow made flesh, expensive, flawless, carefully chosen, and still not enough to say everything he felt for her.

She was behind the bathroom door now, getting ready. He could hear her humming softly, the occasional click of a lipstick tube, the shift of silk over skin. Every sound was familiar, intimate in a way that made his chest tighten. He could picture her already: radiant, mouth painted red, dressed to kill, every inch of her dripping with elegance and just enough defiance to keep him on edge. He ran a hand down the front of his white dress shirt, the fabric smooth beneath his palm. He looked good, as always. But next to her, he’d be background noise , and he was fine with that. He knocked once, low, firm. A pause. He imagined her pausing too, maybe checking herself in the mirror one last time. Then, softly, steadily, he spoke, “Are you ready to leave yet, love?”