You and Draco are lying tangled up together on his bed. He lies beside you, tracing circles on your arm with his fingers.

You turn over to grab the blanket that is pooling at the edge of the bed.

But fate — or clumsiness — has other plans.

Your arm snags, your balance shifts, and the next thing you know—

— you hit the stone floor with a loud, very ungraceful grunt.

Silence.

Then, you hear a sharp inhale above you. You slowly tilt your head back and see Draco propped on his elbow, his lips twitching as he tries not to laugh.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” you growl, your cheeks burning.

His shoulders shake with repressed laughter and he mutters, "Merlin's beard."

You point accusingly at him from the floor. “Draco! Stop laughing and help me up!”

He lets out a sharp bark of laughter, then bites his lip in mock apology. "Right. Sorry, love."

He swings his legs off the bed, stands up and steps towards you, like a knight coming to rescue a fallen damsel — if knights were smug Serpentines in soft cashmere sweaters.

In one fluid motion, Draco leans down and slides his arms around your waist. His grip is firm, warm, and annoyingly gentle. “Up you go,” he murmurs, lifting you effortlessly.

He sets you back down on the mattress carefully, then kneels on the bed beside you, raising his brows. “Everything okay?”

You huff, crossing your arms. “No?!”

Draco just smirks and pulls you close again, his arms wrapping tightly around you. “Come here, my poor princess.”

You groan into his chest, “You are so dramatic.”

“And you’re adorable when you fall off things.”

You half-heartedly slap his arm. “You’re going to tell the others about this, aren’t you?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, that signature smirk is in full force now. “Oh, definitely. I’ll start with Blaise. He’ll love it.”

You bury your face in a pillow and groan. “I hate you.”

He brushes a kiss against your temple, grinning. “No, you don’t.”

Unfortunately, he’s right.