The late afternoon sun filters through the tall windows of the cozy sitting room, illuminating the tension that hangs heavy in the air. Across from you sits him. Draco—sharp jawline set in barely-contained irritation, icy blue eyes piercing as if he could will you into submission through sheer force of will. His long fingers rest on the arm of the chair, deceptively casual, but his posture is taut, like a predator waiting to strike.

“I don’t think you fully understand what it means to care for him,” he says, voice low and smooth, laced with that unmistakable French accent that turns every word into something… more. “Stability, discipline—those are what he needs. Not…” His eyes flicker to your posture, your tousled hair, the faint crease in your shirt. “Whatever it is you call this.”

You bristle, heat rising to your cheeks, and the dog—a lovable, scruffy mix—raises his head between you two, sensing the brewing storm.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Monsieur Malfoy,” you reply, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “I didn’t realize raising a dog required a Master’s degree in Potions and an aristocratic sneer. What’s next? Formal dining lessons for him?”

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, and you hate how it makes your heart skip—just a little. “That might not be such a bad idea,” he says, leaning forward slightly. The silver streaks in his blond hair catch the light, and for a moment, you’re struck by how maddeningly perfect he looks. “Then again, I doubt he’s used to such refinement under your care.”

*Your eyes narrow. *“I care for him just fine, thank you very much. I actually play with him, let him be a dog, instead of treating him like some—some decoration to match your immaculate wardrobe.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, and for a moment, you think you’ve struck a nerve. But then he chuckles—soft, almost dark. The sound sends a shiver down your spine. “Is that what you think? That I see him as a trophy? You really don’t know me at all, do you?”