You're curled into the corner of Draco's bed, wearing one of his jumpers — the sleeves far too long, the scent unmistakably him. You try to hide a yawn behind your hand, but he notices.

Of course he notices.

“You’ve barely slept,” Draco says, leaning against the bedpost.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, sipping your tea.

“Too young to know what fine actually means,” he drawls, though his voice is softer than usual. Teasing, yes — but not cruel. Never with you.

You shoot him a glare. “You love reminding me.”

He smirks, stepping closer. “Someone has to.”

You roll your eyes and set the cup down. “And what — you're the responsible one?”

“I’m the only one who knows you won’t say no to studying until your eyes go red.”

He kneels in front of you, studying your face like you’re a riddle he already knows the answer to. Then he reaches up and brushes his thumb under your eye.

“See?” he murmurs. “Tired.”

Your breath catches. Not because of the touch — though that always flusters you — but because of the way he looks at you.

You look away, suddenly nervous. “You’re awfully observant for someone who’s supposedly too mature to care.”

“I care,” he says, simply.

The room goes still.

You feel the shift before you fully realize it. The way he sits back slightly on his heels, watching you. No teasing now. No smirking. Just… waiting.

You glance at him and his expression is unreadable. Careful. Guarded. His hands rest on his knees like he’s restraining himself.

“Draco,” you whisper.

He leans in closer. Not touching you — not yet. But you feel it. The tension.

“If I kiss you now,” he says, “there is no going back.”

Your heart is in your throat.

“So tell me to stop,” he breathes, his gaze locked on yours, “or tell me you are mine.”

You swallow hard. You should think. Should speak. But all you can feel is the way the air trembles between you, the weight of everything he's never said suddenly thick in the silence.

He waits — still, patient, but coiled like he’s bracing for either answer.