Looking at him—at the careful way he holds himself, the genuine concern in his eyes when I looked faint, the pride that keeps him from asking for help—I find I don’t want to call the police. At least not yet.
"I don’t know," I admit honestly.
"That’s fair," he says. "It’s a lot to process."
"You’re not what I expected," I tell him.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone… scarier, I guess. More dangerous."
"How do you know I’m not dangerous?" he asks, and there’s something almost gentle in the question.
I consider this seriously. How do I know? Because he apologized for moving my fruit bowl? Because he’s maintained a careful distance since I found him? Because something in his eyes suggests he’s more likely to protect than harm?
"I don’t, I suppose," I say finally. "But you don’t feel dangerous."
"Feelings can be wrong," he points out.
"Can they?" I look at him directly. "Are you dangerous, Draco?"
Another long pause. The coin rolls across his knuckles.
"Not to you," he says quietly. "Not to innocent people."
There’s something in the way he says it that suggests there might be others to whom he could be dangerous. But somehow, that doesn’t frighten me. It makes me curious.
"Are you sure you’re not hungry?" I ask again.
He stares at me as if I’ve just suggested something completely insane.
"You want to make food for the man who broke into your cottage and picked your brand-new lock?"
When he puts it like that, it does sound insane. But somehow, sitting here in my sanctuary with this careful, mysterious stranger, it also feels right.
"I want to understand," I say simply. "And I think better when I’m doing something with my hands."
"Understand what?"
"You. This. Why finding you here doesn’t feel as wrong as it should."
He’s quiet for a long moment, studying my face. Then the coin disappears into his pocket.
"I could hurt you," he says seriously. "You’re alone here with a stranger who’s bigger and stronger than you. You don’t know anything about me."
The words should terrify me. My palms go damp, but then, instead of fear, warmth blooms—low and steady—like sunlight I didn’t know my body could produce.
"You’re right," I agree. "I don’t know anything about you. But I know you’ve been living in my cottage for days, and the worst thing you did was move my fruit bowl. I know you’re trying to warn me away instead of taking advantage of the situation. And I know…"
I pause, trying to put into words the strange certainty I feel.
"I know you needed somewhere safe, and somehow you found your way to the one place that’s always been my refuge, too."
He studies my face, something shifting in his expression. "You really mean that."
"I don't know what I mean." The admission comes out shaky. "This is insane. I should be calling security. But I'm not."
I can’t believe I just said that. Sweet, sheltered Charity Pembroke, sitting having a relatively calm conversation with a stranger who broke into her cottage. Mother would faint. Father would call for an immediate psychiatric evaluation.
