Being in a loveless marriage was difficult enough.

What made it worse — infinitely worse — was that Draco Malfoy had grown into someone unfairly attractive.

It would’ve been easier if he were cruel still. Easier if he’d remained the sharp-tongued boy from Hogwarts, sneering and careless. But sometime after the war, after seventh year and everything that followed, he’d changed.

Quietly. Completely.

And now you had to live beside it.

You noticed everything.

The elegant precision of his fingers as they turned pages in the evenings, the Malfoy signet ring catching firelight with every movement. The way pale blond hair slipped into his eyes when he grew distracted, forcing him to push it back with absent irritation. The privilege — your private torment — of watching him remove his cufflinks and shrug out of formal robes after events, unaware of how closely you watched.

Or perhaps aware, and choosing not to acknowledge it.

During gatherings, his hand would rest lightly at your back or waist — never possessive, never lingering long enough to mean anything. Just convincing enough to fool watching eyes.

A performance.

That was all your marriage was meant to be.

Yet Draco himself no longer felt like one.

His maturity had arrived suddenly after Hogwarts, forged by survival rather than age. He observed rooms before entering them, silver eyes sweeping exits, threats, conversations worth avoiding. When he asked you something, he’d glance up only after a pause — silent impatience written plainly across his face if you delayed answering.

And those eyes—

Merlin.

You’d caught yourself watching them far too often. When he focused on work, when music occupied him, when thought softened the usual guarded sharpness.

You never imagined you’d be the one to give in first.

But a year of distance — of shared beds untouched, polite conversations, careful avoidance — wore a person down. And eventually there would be expectations. Heirs. Continuation. Duty wrapped neatly in tradition.

You told yourself that was all this was.

Practical.

Necessary.

Not pathetic.

Except the truth was far less dignified.

It hadn’t started tonight. Not really. Tonight had only been the final push — the way he’d looked after the event, sleeves rolled, quietly working at his desk… then later, seated at the piano, long fingers coaxing soft notes through the manor halls.

If you were honest, it had begun a year ago.

A thought you never dismissed.

Which was how you ended up here.

Your back met the edge of the bed, breath uneven, while Draco laid over you — far closer than propriety or habit allowed. He looked up at you, silver eyes darker now, searching rather than guarded.

There was hesitation there. Control.

Always control.

His hand rested around your thigh, steady and warm, thumb barely moving as though testing whether you might pull away. The other settled lightly over your hand against your abdomen, grounding rather than claiming.

Draco swallowed, gaze flicking briefly away before returning to yours.

“You ought to tell me to stop,” he said quietly, voice rougher than usual.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t presume.

Just waited — eyes fixed on yours, giving you the choice he’d deny anyone else.

And somehow, that restraint made it worse.