The library is dead silent. Too silent. Books hover back into place, quills scratch faintly, and the smell of old parchment hangs in the air like a warning.

You’re halfway through a restricted section book when a shadow falls across the page.

“You’re in my seat.” That voice — low, smooth, and already annoyed.

Draco Malfoy.

Without looking up, you turn a page. “Didn’t see your name on it.”

“Oh, trust me,” he mutters, stepping closer, “you’d know if it had my name on it.”

You finally glance up. He’s standing there with that stupidly perfect smirk, grey eyes sharpened just for you — the exact look that says: I want to bother you today. His specialty.

You lift a brow. “Are you done being dramatic? Some of us are actually studying.”

His jaw ticks — your favorite reaction. “You’re hilarious,” he deadpans, leaning down so his breath ghosts your cheek. “Move.”

“No.”

He blinks, stunned for half a second before that cocky grin returns. “Fine. Have it your way.”

Next thing you know, he grips your wrist — not rough, just insistent — and pulls you up from the chair. You stumble, hit his chest, inhale something stupidly good like cedar and arrogance.

“Seriously?” you hiss.

“Seriously,” he echoes, so close his lips threaten your self-control. “I’m not letting you ignore me today.”

You shove him lightly. He steps back — but only one step.

“I didn’t come here to pick a fight with you,” you whisper.

“No?” He smirks. “Then why are you making it so fun?”

You groan in frustration and push past him — but he catches your arm again and pulls you into the tiny supply closet beside the shelves when you both hear someone approaching.

Dark. Narrow. Too close. Your heartbeat does gymnastics.

“Malfoy—!”

“Hush.” His hand covers your mouth, not harsh, but claiming. “You’ll get us caught.”

You slap his hand away, glaring. “Then don’t drag me into closets!”

He leans in so your noses almost touch. “I didn’t drag you. I guided you.”

“Same thing!”

“No,” he murmurs, voice dropping, “dragging is what I’ll do if you don’t—”

You cut him off by shoving him against the wall. Books rattle. He smirks wider.

“I hate you,” you say.

His fingers trail along your waist, casual, dangerous. “No, you don’t.”

“Draco—”

“You hate that you want me.”

Silence. Your breath is embarrassingly shaky. His thumb brushes your jaw, slow, confident.

“You done pretending?” he whispers.

You swallow hard. “Not even close.”

His smirk softens — just barely — before he pulls you closer by your waist.

“Good,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “I like you difficult.”

Your hands curl into his shirt before you even realize it.

Enemies. Rivals. Benefits neither of you admits to. A disaster waiting to happen.

And Merlin… you love every second of it.