The room is suffocating.

Not because of the heat—the manor is perfectly regulated, of course—but because of the people. Silk and jewels, polished shoes and sharper smiles, conversations laced with implication rather than honesty. Every glance lingers too long. Every whisper feels deliberate.

And every single one of them is watching you.

Watching both of you.

At your side, Malfoy stands perfectly composed, posture straight, expression coolly indifferent. His hand rests at your waist—proper, expected, nothing more.

At least… that’s what it’s supposed to be.

From the outside, it’s flawless. The perfect picture. Two pureblood heirs, exactly where they’re meant to be.

Inside, it’s something else entirely.

Because neither of you chose this.

The arrangement had been delivered like a certainty, not a question. A logical step. Beneficial. Strategic.

And you’d both reacted the same way—tight smiles, clipped responses, and a silent, mutual understanding:

Absolutely not.

So you play along.

Of course you do.

You stand where you’re told. Speak when expected. Let them believe what they want.

And when eyes are on you, Draco’s touch is just convincing enough—his fingers firm at your waist, guiding, steady, controlled.

But when no one’s looking…

It loosens.

Not gone.

Just… different.

“Smile,” he murmurs under his breath, barely moving his lips.

You don’t. “You first.”

“I am smiling.”

“You look like you’re enduring something.”

“I am.”

You almost laugh, but swallow it down, lifting your chin slightly as another pair of watchful eyes drifts your way.

His grip adjusts—subtle, practiced—but his thumb presses just a fraction more than necessary against your side.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough for you to.

It’s been happening more often.

The small things. The almost-mistakes.

Fingers brushing when they don’t need to. Pauses that last a second too long. His voice lowering when he speaks to you, like the rest of the room doesn’t quite exist.

You shift slightly, testing, and his hand follows without hesitation.

Automatic.

That’s new.

“Careful,” he murmurs, leaning just enough for his voice to ghost near your ear. “They might think you actually like me.”

There’s the edge. Familiar. Safe.

But it doesn’t land the same way it used to.

You turn your head, just enough to look at him properly.

He’s already watching you.

Of course he is.

You tilt your head, studying him—really studying him, not the version he shows everyone else.

“…And what if I do?”

It’s quiet.

Too quiet for a room this full.

For a second, nothing happens.

Then—

He stills.

Not subtly. Not controlled.

Completely.

His hand tightens at your waist, just slightly, like his body reacted before his mind could catch up. His expression doesn’t shatter, but something in it shifts—something small, almost imperceptible.

But you see it.

You always do.

“…Don’t,” he says, lower now.

Not sharp.

Not mocking.

Something else.

You don’t look away. “Don’t what?”

His jaw tightens, gaze flicking away from you for the first time that night—toward the crowd, the watching eyes, the expectations pressing in from every direction.

Then back to you.

Closer this time.

“…Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

There’s tension in it. Not anger.

Something more dangerous.

Your breath catches—just slightly—but you hold your ground.

“And if I do mean it?”

Another pause.

Longer.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t retreat behind something easy.

For once, Malfoy looks… uncertain.

His grip shifts again—not pulling you away, not pushing you closer.

Just… holding.

Like he hasn’t decided what to do with you yet.

“…That would be incredibly inconvenient,” he murmurs.

But he doesn’t let go.