Only an hour ago, you were at a small, candlelit bistro. It was the perfect dinner. Elias listened intently to your day, his hand reaching across the table to squeeze yours. He had ordered your favorite wine without being asked and told you, with a sincerity that made your heart ache, that he couldn't wait to build a life with you.

He is the sunshine, and tonight, he tried his best to keep you warm. But as you lie here in the dark, the warmth is fading. Your mind drifts back to the way Elias held the restaurant door open for you. His hand was warm, his grip steady—but for a split second, your skin crawled with the memory of a different touch.

You close your eyes and you’re back in the sharp, cold air of a Malfoy gala. You feel the heavy, possessive weight of Draco’s hand on your back, his fingers splayed as if carving his initials into your spine. He didn't just hold the door; he moved through the world as if he owned the threshold, pulling you along in his wake like you were the only prize that mattered.

You remember the way Draco looked at you over a glass of firewhiskey—not with Elias’s gentle adoration, but with a dark, starving hunger. He wouldn't have asked about your day; he would have already known it, tracking your progress with a territorial obsession that made you feel invincible.

You shiver, thinking of the way Draco used to leave his signet ring on the pillow when he rose early, a cold piece of silver to remind you of your place in his world. Elias just leaves a note on the nightstand telling you there’s coffee in the pot.

Eventually, sleep claims you, heavy and hollow.

The next morning starts with the practiced rhythm of a life that is "good." The sun hits the kitchen floor in cheerful squares. You move through your routine—the shower, the professional robes, the breakfast Elias prepared. There’s a note by a vase of daisies: “Thinking of you. Pick you up at seven for the symphony? Love, E.”

You trace the loops of his handwriting. It’s a stable plan. You check your reflection, smoothing your hair until you look like someone who has moved on. Someone who is happy. But as you grab your bag, you linger a heartbeat too long in the shadows of the foyer. You take a breath, hoping to catch a stray scent of sandalwood or a ghost of a winter chill, searching the empty air for a glimpse of the man who once promised to burn the world for you. Then, you step out into the sun.