"Can't pay the MTA in charm," he says lightly. "Gotta keep enough to get us home."
The beggar nods like a king accepting tribute. "Bless you, kid," he says.
Heat rises behind my breastbone, sharp and aching. Draco doesn't look at me. Doesn't make a show of it. Just takes my elbow and guides me around a puddle.
"Thank you," I say.
"For the puddle?" Hegrins.
"For being… you."
"Terrible idea," he says, but the corner of his mouth won't behave.
We pause at a cart that smells like ginger, garlic, and scorched oil. Draco orders noodles from a man who barely lifts his eyes from the wok. The container warms my hands. Steam curls up and fogs my face; I learn the art of chasing a noodle with a splintery chopstick while laughing at myself. He teaches—brief, patient—how to brace the bottom stick and move the top like a hinge.
Sauce dots his knuckles. I want to lick it. That thought is scandalous and would probably slay my mother where she stands in her marble kitchen.
We lean against the railing and eat with the river hustling below. The city hums like a living thing. My chest aches with a feeling I can't name, but it isn't fear.
He finishes first and tips his head toward a wire bin near a lamppost. We walk over together.
He drops his empty tray in; mine clatters on top. "No evidence," he says, deadpan. "City rule number two—leave a place better than you found it."
"Okay, teacher," I say, heart too big for my ribs. "What's the next rule?"
"Don't miss the good stuff while you're busy being careful."
We drift back to the railing, fingers curling around cold metal. Wind threads my hair; I tuck it behind my ear; it springs free immediately. Draco watches me fight the losing battle, then steps into my space and gently gathers the front strands, smoothing them back, tucking theminto my collar like it's the most ordinary intimacy in the world.
My breath goes unreliable.
"That's cheating," I manage. "Hair has a mind of its own."
"So do you."
He doesn't move away. My pulse knocks everywhere at once. The bridge hums like a tuning fork under my palms.
"Tell me to back up," he says, voice low. "I will."
"Don't," comes out before caution can stage a coup.
"Okay." He lifts one hand, fingers warm against my jaw, thumb painting a line along my cheekbone like he's memorizing the map of my face. Darkness makes his eyes look almost black. Wind shifts his shirt against his chest; I catch a flash of scar at the edge of his sleeve. It makes something fierce and protective spark in me.
This time, I kiss him first.
I rise on my toes and press my mouth to his before courage can fail me. He makes a sound—surprise, maybe pleasure—and then his hands are in my hair, angling my face to his, and the kiss turns hungry in a way the first one wasn't.
Less careful now. Less testing. His mouth moves against mine with purpose, coaxing mine open, and when his tongue sweeps across my lower lip, I gasp into the kiss. Heat floods through me, different from before—darker, deeper, more demanding.
My hands fist in his jacket, pulling him closer. The city falls away until there's just wind and salt and the hardline of his body when I press against him, the bridge humming beneath us like a living thing.
When we break apart, both breathing hard, his eyes are almost black in the darkness.
He breaks first, forehead against mine, breathing not entirely steady. "Dangerous," he says, but this time it sounds like a promise, not a warning.
"Then let it be dangerous." The words shock me as much as they do him. "Danger means I picked it."
Something like pride flickers across his face. The hand at my jaw drifts to the back of my neck, his thumb drawing slow circles I feel in places that would make my childhood therapist nervous.
