Word Count: 658

~ Epilogue ~

"Draco, we're going to be late!" Harry called through the house, rolling his eyes when Draco called back that he'd be five minutes.

He'd said that twenty minutes ago.

Harry checked the cupcakes he'd packaged up and then climbed the stairs, two at a time, to find his wayward boyfriend.

"What are you faffing about for?" He asked, walking into their bedroom. Draco was standing in the mirror holding two shirts up against himself, biting his bottom lip worriedly. "Draco, what's wrong?"

"I don't know which one to wear," Draco complained, holding the two shirts up. "I want to make a good impression."

"Draco… I hate to tell you this, but Molly and Arthur aren't going to care about the shade of blue your shirt is. Arthur will want to know about your healer training, and Molly will want to feed you, because despite you eating my cooking every night and being my tester for the bakery, you're still skinny as a bloody rake."

"You're just jealous that you have to work out," Draco teased, holding the shirts up again. "Which one do you prefer?"

Harry walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a green t-shirt and a pair of jeans. "Wear these. Nobody else is going to be wearing black trousers and a shirt, and you said you wanted to fit in. You look gorgeous no matter what you wear, you dolt."

Draco leaned up for a kiss, which Harry pressed to his lips. "Thank you."

"Uh huh. And remember, Draco. It doesn't matter what they think in the end; you make me happy, and that's the important thing, okay?"

Draco nodded. "I'll be down in a couple of minutes, promise."

Harry smiled at him and left the bedroom, making his way back downstairs. The house—the one they'd stayed in while in hiding—had been completely redecorated since Harry had convinced Kingsley to sell it to him, but Harry wasn't used to it yet, and he fell over the coat rack at the bottom.

The same way he did every morning.

Cursing softly, he rolled his eyes when he heard Draco laughing from upstairs. He was sure Draco had put it there on purpose, just so Harry would keep falling over the stupid thing.

He sat down at the kitchen table—one of the few things they'd kept—and tapped his fingers against the hardwood.

So much had changed since the first time he'd sat there, it was a little mind boggling when he remembered it had only been a few months.

Draco had gone into Healer training as soon as Kingsley had given him the go ahead to leave the house, and after a lot of deliberation, Harry had decided to open a bakery. He was still in the planning stages—which meant lots of cakes and cookies for Draco—but while he'd thought cooking could become a chore, he'd found he absolutely loved baking.

It was a little freer, a little more creative, and he'd been having so much fun coming up with new recipes and flavours. It was certainly less stressful than chasing dark wizards, and honestly, if nothing else, Harry was glad that he'd accepted that he really didn't want to be an Auror.

Draco stepped into the kitchen in the clothing Harry had suggested, and Harry smirked at him, eyes moving up and down his slight body unashamedly.

"You look hot; I think we should stay here instead," he said, standing up.

Shaking his head, Draco reached out to bop him on the nose. "I know how much you've been looking forward to seeing Weasley and Granger."

Harry sighed but nodded, because Draco was right. Ron and Hermione were finally back from Australia, and he couldn't wait to see them.

"Yeahhhh, I know. Come on, then. I'll save you for dessert, hmm?"

Draco snorted. "You're an idiot, Potter."

"Back atcha, hun."

"I love you."

Harry pressed a kiss to Draco's cheek. "I love you too."