His attitude was ridiculously annoying, but his face made up for it.

Everyone knew Draco Malfoy was obnoxious. He had been since childhood. Age had merely refined it — sanded the sharp tantrums into cool arrogance, turned bratty cruelty into dry, cutting remarks delivered with that infuriatingly calm expression of his.

If you asked a question he deemed particularly stupid, he’d simply stare at you for a long moment, pale brows raised as though reconsidering every life choice that had led him there before answering with pure sarcasm.

Not to say Draco wasn’t kind in his own way.

He just wasn’t pleasant.

Not naturally.

He was softer with you, though. Softer in the way Draco Malfoy allowed himself to be soft — quiet favours, expensive gifts left wordlessly on your vanity, a hand settling on the small of your back in crowded rooms, tired eyes searching for you first whenever he entered a room.

You knew exactly who he was when you married him.

But lately, it felt as though you hardly had a husband at all.

Work had swallowed him whole. He left before sunrise and returned long after dark, smelling faintly of parchment, expensive cologne, and smoke from Ministry fireplaces. Most evenings ended the same way — tired arguments neither of you truly meant, cold dinners if he arrived home early enough for one, and sleeping either on opposite sides of the bed or in entirely separate rooms.

It was strange, watching a marriage slowly unravel in silence.

You understood why he worked so much. You did.

You simply missed him.

Missed touching his nearly white hair. Missed the sharp angles of his pale face, the cool grey eyes that always looked faintly offended by the existence of everyone around him.

Draco rather terribly lacked warmth, yet somehow you still ached for him constantly.

The manor was quiet when you returned that evening, heels clicking softly against polished marble floors. It was just after nine; not particularly late, though late enough that you assumed Draco was still at work. He’d missed the family gathering entirely because of it — though at least that spared him from enduring your father’s relentless obsession with interrogating him over Ministry affairs.

You pushed open the bedroom door carefully, exhaustion heavy in your limbs.

And stopped.

Draco was there.

Asleep.

He lay stretched across the dark green bedding, one arm thrown lazily over his stomach. His suit jacket had been discarded over the chair near your vanity, whilst his white button-up remained slightly undone at the collar, silver tie loosened carelessly around his neck.

For once, he looked peaceful.

Not guarded. Not sharp-tongued. Just tired.

The sight alone made something ache painfully in your chest.

You moved quietly across the room, slipping off your heels before sitting gently beside him on the mattress. The bed dipped beneath your weight, yet he barely stirred.

Merlin.

He was unfairly pretty when he wasn’t speaking.

Your fingers hovered near his hair for only a second before you sighed softly. “For someone so bloody aggravating,” you muttered, “you’re quite pretty when you can’t talk.”

“Stop staring at me.”

You nearly jumped.

Draco’s eyes remained shut, though his voice came out rough with sleep, lower than usual and thoroughly unimpressed.