You were lying across the sofa with your legs draped over Draco’s lap. One of his arms was curled around your waist and the other was absentmindedly flipping through a textbook. Or at least he pretended to be reading. His eyes hadn't really left you for the past ten minutes.

“…and then I tripped into the hedge, trying to chase the gnome,” you said, laughing at your own ridiculous childhood memory. “I had grass in my hair, a scraped knee, and no ice cream left. My mum nearly cried with laughter.”

Draco glanced down at you, his expression unreadable, but with the faintest hint of a smile. You waited for the snarky comment that always came next.

“Raspberry,” he murmured.

You blinked. “What?”

He turned a page without looking at it. “That’s the flavour. You dropped it after one bite. You said it was your favourite, but now you hate it because of that.”

You stared. “You remembered that?”

He shrugged. “You talk too much.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I told you that, like… months ago.”

“You keep telling me stories,” he said, still not looking at you. “Some of them stick.”

“Why are you being weirdly sweet?” you teased, nudging him.

“I’m not,” he muttered, sounding annoyed — or at least pretending to. “You’re being annoying.”

“Oh, I’m annoying now?”

“You always are,” he replied. Before you could respond, he leaned down and kissed you, shutting you up.

When he pulled back, he looked smug. “You told me once to kiss you when you were talking too much.”

You shook your head. “I said that once.”

“And I took it very seriously,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. “So maybe don’t talk so much.”

You stared at him. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re still here,” he chuckled, leaning back against the sofa and pulling you fully into his lap.

You didn't protest. When it was just the two of you and no one was watching, melting into him like this was too easy. Here, away from the corridors, the name and the mask he wore in public, Draco was soft. Clingy, even.

“You miss me when I’m not around, don’t you?” you said quietly, nuzzling closer.

“…No.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him sceptically.

He groaned. “Fine. Yes. All right? I do. All the time. Are you happy now?”

“Very,” you smiled, kissing the edge of his jaw. “I like it when you’re honest.”

He sighed in exasperation, but the way he pulled you closer suggested otherwise. “You like me more when I’m pathetic and desperate. Lovely.”

“I like you more because you’re brilliant and secretly the clingiest person I know.”

He scoffed. “I am not clingy.”

“You’re literally holding me like I’m going to vanish.”

“Because you might. You always wander off — disappear into the library or some classroom — and you expect me not to lose my mind wondering where you’ve gone.”

You blinked, surprised by his sudden honesty. “…You do like me,” you whispered.

He closed his book and tossed it onto the table. “You’re infuriating.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

He didn't answer, but his hand curled under your chin again and he tilted your face up to kiss you — longer and slower this time, as if he wanted to make you forget everything you'd just said.

When he finally broke away, his lips barely brushing yours, he whispered, “I am.”