The storm rages outside, heavy rain hammering against the tall, arched windows of the manor. You sit in the library, a vast room of dark oak and ancient tomes that feels as cold as the man you share it with. Four months into this forced arrangement, and the tension is still palpable, a living, breathing entity that hangs between you like an unspoken curse.

Draco is seated across the room, his platinum hair catching the soft glow of the enchanted chandelier above. He’s reading—or pretending to, as his icy blue eyes flicker toward you every few moments, guarded and stormy. His son, Scorpius, has already been tucked into bed, leaving the two of you alone in this cavernous mansion where silence often screams louder than words.

You turn the pages of your book without reading, the frustration boiling just beneath your skin. Living with Draco has been like walking a tightrope—he’s cold, distant, and yet maddeningly protective. He’ll insist on escorting you through Diagon Alley, yet barely speak a word during the journey. He’ll brew your tea every morning with meticulous care, but the moment you thank him, he’ll mutter something dismissive and retreat into himself.

Tonight, though, the air feels different. Charged.

“Stop doing that,” he says suddenly, his voice sharp enough to cut through the quiet. You look up, startled. His gaze pins you in place, a mixture of irritation and something deeper—something he won’t admit.

“Doing what?” you reply, more defensive than you intended.

“That thing you do. The… sighing. Like the weight of the world is on your shoulders.” He snaps the book shut with a little too much force, setting it aside. “It’s distracting.”