You are sitting at the far end of the library, tucked away in a corner by towering shelves. With quill in hand, you hunch over your essay, scribbling notes with growing frustration.

Draco is lounging across from you, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows and his tie loose. He’s pretending to read a book, but his eyes keep flicking up — never meeting yours for long, just watching.

He clears his throat. You don't look up.

"You know, you’re really bad at keeping your hair out of your face," Draco says, his voice dry, but there's a softness beneath it.

You huff, brushing the hair away impatiently. "Thanks for the insight," you mutter, not looking at him.

A pause. You hear the subtle creak of his chair, then feel the faintest touch — his fingers, brushing a stubborn strand behind your ear. You freeze. So does he.

He quickly pulls his hand back, like he touched fire.

"Don't get used to that," Draco says, his eyes darting back to his book. "I’m not some sentimental type when it comes to... people like you."

You glance up at him. He isn’t looking at you. His jaw is clenched and he turns a page in his book too roughly.

You go back to your essay, biting back a smile.

A moment later, something falls from your lap — a small, folded piece of parchment that must've been slipped into your robe pocket without you noticing.

The handwriting is familiar. Too familiar.

You’re impossible when you’re focused. You chew your quill. Do you know that? It’s obnoxious. And distracting. Stop it. Or don’t.

You slowly glance up at him. He’s pretending to be interested in a book. It's upside down.

"You really should be more careful with your 'anonymous' letters," you say casually, folding it again. "Your handwriting is very... recognizable."

Draco doesn't look up.

"Wasn't me," he says stiffly. "Might’ve been someone else. Apparently you’re popular these days."

"Mm-hm," you hum, sliding the note into your bag. "Of course."

Silence settles between you again. Comfortable, but charged.

A few minutes later, Blaise passes by on his way out. Without looking up, Draco moves closer to you under the table, his knee brushing yours.

Then, slowly, his hand finds yours beneath the desk.

You glance at him in surprise. He’s still staring at his book. His expression hasn’t changed, but he curls his fingers around yours.

"Completely absurd," Draco mutters.

You blink. "What is?"

"The idea of dating you," he says. His voice is low, like he's convincing himself. "I mean, can you imagine?"

You turn back to your parchment, your heart beating faster.

"Yeah," you say, letting your thumb brush over the back of his hand. "Ridiculous."

And when you glance up at him, just briefly, you catch him staring—not at the book, not at the door, not at anything else.

Only at you.