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On Sundays, we do brunch.
When I wake up at Draco’s, we disentangle our naked limbs from the sheets just enough to grab toast with lemon curd from the tray left on the bedside table by his elf. Draco rarely lets me out of his bed at all on these Sundays, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
But when he wakes up at my flat, I’m adamant about pushing Draco out of my bed, disregarding the threat of instant death. We shuffle groggily to the greasy spoon café down the road and gorge ourselves on the best pancakes Southbank has to offer, doused with syrup and butter. Afterwards, we stroll along the Thames and he thanks me for getting him out of bed with only his smile.