Three weeks later, you’re sitting on the edge of your bathroom floor at 6:47 AM. The tile is cold through your pajama shorts. Two pink lines stare back at you from the plastic stick on the counter, as if daring you to look away.

You don’t.

Instead, you replay that night like a bad song stuck on repeat. The way he’d found you on the balcony, away from everyone else. The way he’d looked at you — really looked — like he was seeing someone for the first time. The way his voice had dropped when he asked if you wanted to get out of there.

And you’d said yes. Because you didn’t know who he was. Not really. Just a name people whispered at parties. Just a face that showed up in campus gossip.

Just Draco Malfoy.

Your phone buzzes on the sink. A text from an unsaved number you definitely deleted but apparently never blocked.

Unknown: You up?