The sea breeze carries the salt air through my open window as I stare at the blank parchment in front of me. Four years of peace have done little to erase the past, but in Brighton, at least, I can almost forget who I was. The sound of a door slamming downstairs breaks my concentration, followed by a voice I haven't heard in years—one that still has the power to make my blood boil.

Harry Potter is here. In my guesthouse. As if the universe is playing some cruel joke.

I find him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, attempting to fix a stuck window. The same window I've avoided for weeks because of its stubborn latch. He doesn't notice me at first, and I take the opportunity to study him—broadened shoulders, new glasses, the same messy hair that somehow still looks deliberate.

The window slams shut again, and he turns, surprise flaring in his green eyes when he sees me. "Malfoy?" His voice is deeper than I remember, rougher around the edges.

I school my features into indifference, though my heart races. "Potter. I should've known it'd be you causing a ruckus. Some of us are trying to work."

He crosses his arms, and I notice the way his muscles flex under his shirt. "Need something?" The defensive edge is back, the one I remember so well from Hogwarts.

Yes. I need you to leave. I need you to stop looking at me like that. I need to forget the way you tasted that day in the Ministry bathroom before you pushed me away, disgusted.

Instead, I say, "Just wondering when you'll be finished vandalizing the property so I can get back to work."

He takes a step closer, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small. "Been thinking about you," he says quietly, so softly I almost don't hear it over the blood rushing in my ears.

The air crackles between us, thick with years of unresolved tension. Four years of pretending I didn't think about that kiss. Four years of wondering what would happen if we ever crossed paths again.

Now here he is. And I can see the same hunger in his eyes that I've been fighting all these years.