The door closes behind them, and I'm left standing in the formal dining room with my heart hammering and my hands shaking.
"I'm sorry," Draco says immediately. "I shouldn't have—"
"Don't." I cross to him, grab his hands. "Don't apologize for telling the truth."
"I justruined dinner."
"You saved me." The words come out fiercer than I intend. "You stood up for me when I couldn't stand up for myself. You saw exactly what they were doing and called them on it."
His hands tighten on mine. "Are you okay?"
"I don't know." Honest answer. My whole body feels like it's vibrating with adrenaline and fear and something that might be freedom. "I just told my parents I'm done being their perfect daughter after I used the wrong fork on purpose. I defended a man they think is completely unsuitable."
"You did." His smile is gentle. "How does it feel?"
I think about it. Really think about what I've just done—the bridge I've just burned, the safety I've just rejected.
"Terrifying," I admit. Then, because it's also true: "Exhilarating."
"Good." He pulls me closer, wraps his arms around me. I bury my face in his shoulder, breathing in his spicy scent.
From somewhere in the house, I hear raised voices. Mother and Father, arguing behind closed doors. About me. About Draco. About the family reputation and what people will think.
"They're going to make my life hell," I murmur against his chest.
"Probably." His hand strokes my hair with gentle certainty. "But you're not facing it alone."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He pulls back enough to frame my face with his hands. "Whatever comes next, we handle it together. Okay?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Then he kisses me—slow and sweet and full of paragraphs of unspoken words. Like we have all the time in the world, instead of standing in the wreckage of my family dinner.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless but smiling.
"We should probably go," I say. "Before Mother comes back with the security staff."
"Good call." He releases me reluctantly. "Back to the cottage?"
"Please."
We slip out through the side door, avoiding the main hallway where I can still hear my parents arguing. The November air is cold against my overheated skin, sharp and clarifying.
Halfway to the cottage, Draco stops walking.
"What?" I ask.
"You used the wrong fork." His grin is wicked. "On purpose."
"I did." The memory makes me want to laugh and cry in equal measure. "It was stupid."
"It was perfect." He pulls me close again. "Asmall rebellion."
"More like a declaration of war." I think about Mother's face when I picked up that salad fork. The shock. The betrayal. "They're never going to forgive me."
"Maybe not." His voice is gentle. "But you're going to forgive yourself. And that matters more."
