The gravel crunched softly beneath his polished boots, that sound swallowed whole by the hush of the evening. The garden was awash in gold, the last of the sunlight lingering on the high hedges like a benediction, bleeding warmth into the old stones of the manor behind them.

He walked a half-step beside you—never ahead, never behind—with his hands tucked behind his back, the way Lucius had taught him to do when hosting, and the way he had always resented. But now, for once, it felt…appropriate.

Draco cast a sidelong glance at you. Your profile caught in that amber light—it did something to him. Something wordless. Something uncomfortable. Like reverence. His throat worked.

He hadn’t spoken in minutes, too preoccupied with the weight of the words pressing against the roof of his mouth. He’d practiced them, stupidly, the night before—standing in front of his mirror, shirt half-buttoned, imagining how it might land if he just said it.

But now? Now the syllables tasted too sacred.

Still, he stopped walking.

You turned to face him, curious. He looked down at you, and something in his chest thudded hard—like a warning or a prayer.

He exhaled, slow. “This place,” he began, voice low and sure, “was built on tradition. On names. Power. Legacy. You know all that.”

A pause. His eyes, grey, unreadable, storm-lit, rested on you fully now. No more sidelong glances. No more rehearsals.

“But none of that ever taught me what this was. What you are to me.”

His jaw flexed. He looked almost angry for a moment, at himself, at the vulnerability trembling beneath his skin.

“I don’t know how to say it like people do in books. I just know that I’ve never wanted to protect something more. That when you walk into a room, I forget who I’m supposed to be.”

A soft scoff, breathy. Almost bitter. “That terrifies me. And it feels like freedom.” He hesitated, but then—

“I love you.”

And there it was. Unearthed. Unvarnished. His voice dropped, almost reverent, almost private, “I don’t expect you to say it back. Not tonight. Not yet. That’s not what this is.”

He took a slow step closer—not presumptuous, not possessive. Just present.

“My love for you—it isn’t transactional. It isn’t a performance. It’s just yours.”

Another pause. He reached for your hand, not to pull you close, but to hold it like a vow.

“Malfoy men… we’re not saints. We were never taught how to be soft. But we were taught to worship. To choose. And I—” Draco took a deep breath.

“I choose you. Every day. Whether or not you choose me back.”

And for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy did not brace himself for rejection. He simply stood there, holding your hand in the fading light, letting his truth hang like perfume in the summer air.