You never meant to end up here.

The air is thick with the scent of firewhisky, expensive colognes, and too many people pressed together in the dimly lit ballroom of Blaise's estate. The music is enchanting, something smooth and low that hums through the grand chandeliers, casting golden reflections onto swirling gowns and tailored suits. You hadn’t planned on attending this party, but Theo had insisted—his charming smirk and silver tongue too persuasive for you to resist. And somehow, against your better judgment, Draco had agreed to come, too.

He’s been at your side for most of the evening, his presence an anchor, cool and composed as always. A drink in one hand, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room like a predator watching for weaknesses. You know him better than most—his tells, his moods, the way his mask of indifference cracks at the edges when something actually bothers him. And right now?

He’s bothered.

Not that he’d ever admit it.

Because you’re laughing.

Not at him. Not with him. At someone else’s joke.

You can feel the weight of his gaze burning into the side of your face, though he hasn’t said a word about it. Yet. The man in front of you—someone charming, someone bold—leans in a little closer, his fingers ghosting against your arm as he speaks. He smells like cedar and leather, and his smile is the kind that’s been practiced a thousand times in front of a mirror.

Draco doesn’t like it.

The tension is a living thing, pressing against your ribs, coiling around your spine. You shift, feeling the flicker of something unsaid between you and him. Something dangerous.

You try to tell yourself it's just Draco being Draco—always protective, always overbearing when it comes to you. But this? This is different. His grip on his glass is just a little too tight, his jaw just a little too sharp, and when you finally meet his gaze across the room—the look he gives you sends a shiver down your spine.

Possessive. Icy. Hungry.