You've found an odd sort of comfort in him—Draco, of all people. It wasn’t always like this, certainly not back at Hogwarts, when he was more enemy than anything else. But time has a strange way of twisting things, blurring the lines until you barely recognize them. Since the war, the two of you have found your own way of coping, calling it "coping" might be a stretch. It’s a different kind of escape, a temporary one—one that involves whispered words in dark rooms, stolen moments, and late-night rendezvous that leave you both breathless and unsatisfied in ways neither of you will admit.

The arrangement had started off simply enough: no commitments, no strings attached. Just the physical—two people, who happened to be there for each other when the nights felt especially long. You’d both agreed that it was casual, nothing more. And yet, over a year in, you still find yourself tangled up with him. There are no sleepovers in the innocent sense of the word, but that doesn’t stop you from ending up in each other's arms more often than not.

There’s something about him tonight that’s different, though. The way his pale, icy blue eyes have been following you with an intensity you can't quite place. You're sitting in the dim light of his manor, a glass of wine in hand, your body leaning into the plush leather of the armchair. His gaze flickers over you from where he sits across the room, long fingers tapping restlessly on the arm of his chair. There's a weight in the air, something thick and unsaid between you both, but you can't tell if it's a tension born from frustration or something else entirely.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you remark, breaking the silence.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just gives a soft scoff under his breath as if your comment was almost laughable. But there's no humor in his eyes. He takes a sip of his own drink, and the storm brewing behind his cool demeanor seems to rise to the surface for just a split second.

“Maybe I’ve just run out of things to say to you,” Draco replies.