Sunlight poured through the curtains in golden stripes, catching on the dust motes that floated lazily through the bedroom. Hermione stirred beneath the blankets, groaning softly as she shifted — then groaning louder when her muscles protested.
"Oh… Merlin."
Her legs ached, her hips throbbed, and every inch of her skin felt both electrified and exhausted. She reached for her wand on the nightstand, then paused — smiling as a low, familiar hum came from the kitchen.
Clink. Crack. Sizzle.
And a very off-key hum of something suspiciously like "A Million Dreams."
Hermione blinked sleep from her eyes, pushed herself upright (slowly — very slowly), and wrapped the blanket around her bare chest. Padding out quietly, she leaned against the doorframe of their kitchen, and nearly laughed out loud.
Draco stood shirtless at the stove, loose grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, wand in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. His back muscles flexed with every motion. There was flour on his jaw. A faint burn mark on the edge of the counter. And at least two eggshells where they shouldn't be.
Hermione crossed her arms, trying not to stare. "So... is this the aftermath of last night or your second career as a topless chef?"
Draco smirked without turning. "Don't tempt me, Granger. I'm trying to keep it PG. We've got a schedule to keep. Mia has school."
She limped forward with a soft wince. "I physically cannot spell PG right now."
Draco chuckled and turned, taking in her tousled curls, flushed cheeks, and the blanket draped loosely around her. His gaze softened immediately.
"Sit," he said gently, guiding her into a chair and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You look like you've fought another war."
Hermione rolled her eyes, letting him fuss over her as he placed a plate of eggs, toast, and grilled tomatoes in front of her. "I was trying to win last night, thank you."
"You won. Several times," he quipped smugly, biting into a piece of toast. "You just forgot the muscle pain that comes with victory."
Hermione swatted at him with a weak laugh. "Arrogant snake."
"Your arrogant snake," he corrected, offering her coffee with a wink.
After they ate — and after Draco insisted on rubbing a muscle salve into her thighs, which led to a near repeat of the previous night — he pulled on a black jumper and kissed her goodbye.
"I'll take Mia. You rest. Don't touch any books heavier than a teaspoon."
Hermione laughed against his lips. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being mine."
He paused. The softness in his eyes returned, lingering like heat from the stove.
"Always," he murmured, and Disapparated with a pop.
Hermione leaned back in her chair, plate half-finished, blanket tangled around her, hair wild.
The house was quiet again. But this silence — unlike the ones before — was full. Full of love. Of laughter. Of something she never thought she'd feel again:
Peace.