Draco could always tell when you wanted something without you even saying a word. Not that it was particularly difficult—he knew you better than anyone. But there was something off tonight. You were being… nicer than usual. Too nice.

And Draco noticed.

Usually, you let yourself be a little bratty around him, teasing him relentlessly when you were alone. But tonight, seated in the middle of his bed, you looked almost… angelic. Polite. Waiting.

He came in a little later than expected, wand tucked into his robes, hair slightly mussed from the chill outside. “Sorry, got held up with Blaise,” he muttered, as if the excuse alone would smooth over his tardiness.

You didn’t sigh, didn’t roll your eyes, didn’t give him that side-eye that always made him jump. You just smiled, small and sweet, hands folded neatly in your lap.

Draco hadn’t even glanced at you yet, but somehow, he felt the shift.

He stopped mid-step, squinting, his sharp gaze narrowing. Something about your posture, the way your lips curved just so, made him tilt his head slightly.

“What d’you want?” he asked flatly, voice low, just above a mutter.

“Nothing,” you replied as smoothly as always.

He stepped closer, boots squeaking against the floorboards, arms folding over his chest. “Don’t play the fool with me. You want something.”

“Perhaps I’m just being nice to my boyfriend,” you said, innocently fluttering your eyelashes, as if the very notion of wanting anything from him were absurd.

Draco scoffed, a harsh, sharp sound, though it didn’t quite hide the slight warmth in his tone. “Nice? To me?” His words were clipped, dripping with mockery, but his eyes flicked over you, sharp and calculating. “What do you want, you selfish little brat?”

You gasped theatrically, covering your mouth with your hand, as if insulted beyond reason. And then, perfectly, your smile returned, bright as candlelight. “Just your love, time, and attention,” you said, voice sweet, almost teasing. “Being nice to you isn’t a trick, Draco. Surely it’s… normal to treat your boyfriend well?”

A masterful facade, really. Truly commendable.

His mouth twitched—half deadpan, half something softer. “Oh, yeah?” he said, tone low, sardonic, laced with the faintest trace of curiosity. But there was a slight softness under the barbed tone of his deeper voice, the kind only you would notice. His pale fingers tapped against his forearm, a subtle sign of his growing impatience.