The early morning light spilled through the half-open curtains, soft and pale, dust floating in its path like fragments of dreams still lingering in the air. Outside, birds sang shyly into the mist. Inside, it was nothing but heat, tangled limbs, and the steady weight of them.

You didn’t remember how you got like this — only that you always woke up like this now.

Trapped between them. Always.

Your wild dirty-blonde curls were a mess, strands sticking to your flushed cheeks. One strap of your thin nightdress had already slipped down your shoulder, exposing freckles across soft skin, the gentle curve of your breast nearly spilling free. Your little tummy pressed slightly against the fabric, thighs folded close to your body, warm and full.

Draco was on your right side, possessive as ever even in sleep, pale hair mussed, lashes dark against his sharp cheekbones. One hand was curled firmly over the swell of your breast, palm claiming, thumb brushing lightly over the soft curve just above the fabric. His other hand rested on your belly, dangerously close to sliding under.

His breath ghosted against your throat. His lips pressed against the underside of your jaw, barely awake, murmuring something soft, incoherent. Something only you got to hear.

“Bloody dream,” he whispered hoarsely, pressing a kiss there, tongue flicking out just faintly. “You’re always bloody warm. Can’t stand it.”

But his hand never moved away. If anything, it squeezed just a little harder, molding your softness to his palm like it belonged there.

On your other side, Bill shifted, the bedsheets rustling low, dragging rough against your thighs as he moved. His broad chest was warm, scarred, the faint roughness of old curse wounds brushing against your bare arm. He smelled faintly of smoke and wild places.

“Look at her,” Bill murmured, voice deep and gravelly with sleep, brushing his freckled nose against the curve of your shoulder. His lips followed next, dragging soft, reverent kisses over your collarbone, pressing one fang-touched kiss right into the soft hollow of your throat. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever seen, waking up with you like this.”

His hand trailed down, warm and steady, gripping your thigh possessively, thumb brushing back and forth against the faint dimple of flesh near your hip bone.

“You’re trouble,” he chuckled softly, biting your shoulder—not hard, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you inhale sharply. “Waking up in this little scrap of fabric—what were you thinking, love?”

You whimpered, caught between them, too warm, too touched, too seen. Draco’s storm-silver eyes cracked open fully now, sharp, possessive, as his hand slid lower, catching the hem of your nightdress and tugging it upward to reveal the soft curve of your tummy.

“Typical,” Draco muttered, smirking faintly. “Can’t even sleep properly without you making a mess of yourself.”

Bill nuzzled the underside of your jaw, nosing along your pulse point. “Lucky for you, we’re very good at messes.”

The early morning quiet was gone now. All that was left was the burn of their hands on your thighs, their lips on your neck, and that dizzy, floating feeling of belonging to both of them at once.