It’s only been a fortnight, but Draco’s made a habit of inserting himself into your personal space as though it were always his. Tonight is no different. You’re tucked into a corner of the library, notes spread across the table, and he drops into the chair beside you without a word.

“Still pretending to work?” he drawls, plucking the quill right out of your fingers. You reach for it, but he just leans back in the chair, holding it just out of reach, smirking as though this is his birthright.

When you glare, he tips his head, voice dropping low. “Merlin, don’t look at me like that. You’ll have the whole castle knowing you’re mine.”

You scoff, muttering something about his arrogance, but the warmth crawling up your neck betrays you. He notices, of course. He always notices. Draco shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours, and lowers the quill onto the table only to lace his fingers with yours instead.

“You’ve got ink on your hand,” you say, trying to distract yourself.

His lips twitch. “And you’ve got me. Ink wipes off, love.” He presses your knuckles to his mouth, soft enough that you feel it more than hear it.

For a moment he doesn’t look like the boy with the perfect sneer and sharper retorts. For a moment he’s just Draco—quiet, possessive, a little undone by how much he wants to touch you. And then, as if remembering himself, he smirks again, settling back in his chair like nothing happened.

“Don’t look so pleased,” he says airily. “You’re lucky I’m lowering myself to this sort of sentimental nonsense.”

But his thumb is still stroking circles into your hand under the table, and he doesn’t let go.