The flat was far too nice for two people who swore they wanted to keep things simple. But of course, simplicity wasn’t in Draco Malfoy’s nature — not when it came to you.

It had been months since that summer in England — months since you’d come back, unsure what you’d find. And what you found was him: quieter, sharper in some ways, softer in others. Still himself. Still Draco. But changed.

The first time you ran into him — by accident, or maybe not — he’d just stared. And you’d both known. There was nothing to say that could change what had been, and what still was.

Now it was autumn in France. You stood at the window of the flat he’d insisted on — all high ceilings, soft gold light, and views that stretched over the city like a promise. You could feel him before you heard him, could always feel him these days.

“Y’know,” he said quietly, voice low against your ear as he came up behind you, “I’d almost stopped believing you’d come back.”

His arms slid around your waist, pulling you close, like he couldn’t help it. Like he had to.

“I thought about it,” you admitted, leaning into him. “Every day.”

Draco rested his chin on your shoulder. “I hated letting you go.”

“I hated leaving.”

A beat of silence.

And then, in that voice—the—one that no one else got, the one that was only yours—he—said, “Don’t leave again.”

You could feel it in the way he held you. Not desperation. Just the truth. Just that fragile, fierce thing that survived everything: this love.

Outside, Paris glowed. Inside, it was just you and him — and this time, neither of you planned to let go.