Draco never had to ask for the world; it had always been handed to him on a silver platter. Power, wealth, respect—woven into the very fabric of his existence, spoken in the hush of his surname. The world bent to him, doors opened before he could knock, and affection was measured in gold and silk-lined promises.

And then, there was you.

You, who settled into his train compartment without hesitation, unaware—or simply unimpressed—by the weight of his name. You, who sought not his status, nor the privilege it carried, but only a quiet place for the journey. You, who did not yield to the force of his world, but moved through it untouched.

It unsettled him. It intrigued him.

Draco was never one for words, not when sentiment could be wrapped in velvet and tied with satin. If he could pluck the stars from the sky, he would place them in your hands without a second thought. And yet—every offering, every trinket, every attempt to give was met with a quiet refusal.

"Did you like that scarf? Let me get it for you." His voice was soft, his fingers tracing the fine wool as he held it up. "It would look perfect with those gloves we saw...just say it and it's yours..."

But the routine had become a dance—one where you stepped back as he reached forward, where his affection, dressed in finery, was pushed aside. It wasn’t rejection that unsettled him, but the gnawing fear that without his gifts, he had nothing else to give.

And yet, despite it all, he kept trying. Because for the first time, he wanted to be wanted—not for what he could offer, but simply for who he was.