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There’s a moment before she wakes where she knows instinctively something is amiss. Her dreams ebb and flow, the feel of soft sheets beneath her are an ocean. Her body remembers moving against this fabric. The push of it against her back. The way it slipped through her fingers as she fisted her hands in it.
Her hand closed against his bare chest as she whispered, “Please.”
A sliver of brilliant morning sunlight cuts through the curtains. She sees it bright behind her eyelids, and the twist of anxiety finally rouses her. Her gaze lands on the cherry-stained side table. An alarm clock facing the wrong direction. There’s a long leg stretched beneath hers.
He’s a stomach sleeper.
She touches her lips, tingly and swollen, a taste in her mouth that’s both foreign and familiar. She doesn’t want to think about it. Can’t bring herself to turn her head and look at him, but she sees his blond hair from the corner of her eye.
She’d been the guest speaker at a conference in Eastbourne. He’d been in the audience—third row, off to the right. Her eyes were drawn to his again and again, and the third time she met his gaze, he’d had the gall to smirk. It was so infuriating she’d nearly lost her train of thought, stumbling over words she had perfectly memorised.
The rest of the evening replays itself in her mind. Flashes of charming smiles, witty retorts, hands and lips, and bare skin.
I’ll give you everything. Galaxies.
Her stomach flips and it’s pleasant for a split second before it turns to dread. Panic.
What a mess she’s made.
He shifts beside her and it takes all her willpower not to scurry off the bed and make a hasty retreat. It doesn’t matter that this is her hotel room. Seeing him in the daylight after what they’d done sounds like a special sort of hell. He’d said all the right things the night before, but….would he be cruel now that he’d gotten what he wanted from her?
She knows he’s capable, years of torment coming back to her. Years she’d conveniently ignored when she fell victim to his charm.
She glances over reluctantly, flooded with relief when she sees that his eyes are still closed.
He looks serene. Almost angelic in the morning light, which is ironic. Draco Malfoy is far from angelic, as he’d proven again in a brand new way the night before.
Her face is warm, knees wobbly. She feels him smirk against her skin. “Any kinks I should know about, Granger?”
Hermione rolls discreetly toward the side of the bed and gathers the sheets around herself as she sits up, trying her best not to rouse him.
She needs her clothes.
Using magic in a muggle hotel was unwise, but she would rather chance a power outage than stand up nude.
Her wand pops into her hand on silent request, and she Accios her dress robe without a sound.
It doesn’t fly into her hand like her wand had, but it must be there somewhere.
She takes a calming breath, trying not to let panic set in as she swishes her wand fruitlessly.
With an impatient twitch and a quickening heartbeat, she whispers, “ Accio dress robe!”
“I might have vanished it.”
She jumps up in surprise, and then, realizing her state of undress, drops herself down and tugs at the sheet, hiding herself on the side of the bed.
Ridiculous.
Peeking her head nervously over the side, she meets his grey eyes. He’s lying on his stomach still, arms wrapped below the fluffy hotel pillow. Messy hair and a long expanse of bare skin.
She’d pulled the sheets off of him in her haste.
His grey eyes narrow, scrutinizing her.
“I’ve seen it all, Granger.” He taps a finger lazily against his forehead. “No point hiding.”
He pressed her into the bed and stared down at her, his gaze moving slowly down over her chest like he was committing every inch of her to memory.
In the light of day, it all feels like such a wretched mistake, letting her childhood bully charm his way into her hotel room and out of her knickers.
“You—“ she touches her throat. Clears it. “—You vanished my clothes?”
He pulls his lips between his teeth and rubs them together. Oh, the things he could do with that mouth.
“I wasn’t thinking,” he says, with an infuriating dose of nonchalance.
“Clearly not!”
He sits up with little regard for his own nudity, stretching his arms behind his head. She fumes silently as he stands up, averting her eyes from his half-hard cock. It suddenly seems very immature that she’s hiding behind the bed while he struts around naked, so she stands and wraps the sheet firmly around herself.
Her muscles feel abused.
He slips on a pair of boxer briefs and flings her bra at her like a barbarian. His smirk says he’s trying to lighten the mood, but she feels heavy and sluggish, her panic finally calming into grim resignation as she picks up her bra and puts it on beneath the sheet. He doesn’t even have the decency to avert his eyes, watching as she awkwardly tries to keep herself covered while she fastens the clasp behind her back.
He shakes out his white Oxford shirt and walks toward her, a warm look in his eyes that makes her feel uncomfortably susceptible.
If she had questioned how he seduced her, this would be where she recalled it in vivid detail.
He holds the shirt open for her by the collar and sleeve, and in a silky voice says, “My penance.”
A few seconds pass before she decides that, yes, it will do for now, until she has a moment to shower and dress. She puts one arm in, holding tight to her sheet with the other, and then he helps her with the second sleeve. The material is soft against her skin, obviously expensive. And it smells like him. A subtle hint of cologne that’s woodsy and masculine and conjures vivid images of her mouth against his neck while he buried himself inside her.
His hips rolled, mouth against her ear. “You feel so fucking good.”
Draco’s fingers work the button below her collar, and she lowers the sheet a little to give him space. Her eyes are fixed on his pectorals, because they’re staring her in the face but also because his body is beautifully sculpted, from his broad shoulders to the ripples of his abdomen. She tries not to notice the way his throat bobs. The way his boxers bulge.
“Five laws, Granger.” He’d grabbed her wrist, gentle but impatient, and touched her pinky. “Food,” he said, then moved to her ring finger, “money—“
He ticked off the next three, but by the time he reached her thumb, his voice had dropped an octave, wrought with tension. They fell silent, staring over the table at one another, the argument suddenly unimportant in the midst of whatever had come over them.
His throat had bobbed then as well.
Four buttons down, he stops and tugs at the sheet she used to cover herself, and she’s frozen in place again as the cool air hits her skin.
He pretends he’s focusing on buttons, but his hands have lost their steadiness. Boxer briefs now unmistakably tented. The clench behind her navel keeps her still and compliant.
There’s something luxurious about being dressed by Draco Malfoy. His little touches spark fires. The dark look in his eye as he gazes down at her feels like stepping into a warm bath. He inches closer, pushes her hair back behind her ears, and presses a kiss to her temple, hands drifting slowly down her back.
It feels so nice, the loose hold he has on her, the soothing heat of his palms and his breath. When her hands slide up his sides, melting into him, he groans and slides his hands over her arse.
He’d walked her back to her hotel, finding little ways to touch her. A hand on her back as they crossed the street, a brush of fingers to draw her attention. At the bottom of the steps that led to the lobby, she’d felt a pang of disappointment that the evening was coming to an end.
“Well, this is goodnight then,“ she had said awkwardly.
He studied her with unwavering attention, his dark eyes smouldering as he tugged a spiral curl and released it. “I’ll say yes. If you ask.”
It took a moment for her mind to catch up to his words.
Ask?
Oh! Ask if he wanted to—
She aimed for an annoyed expression even as her stomach fluttered, warmth radiating from her chest outward.
“I wasn’t planning to ask,” she said primly.
He inched toward her. “You’re thinking about it.”
“I’m thinking about hexing you!” she argued.
“Both can be true,” he whispered, kindling something inside of her as he moved even closer, touching her collarbone and tracing a path to the back of her neck. She felt a pleasant shiver as he continued, “Tell me to go home and I’ll never mention it again.”
There’s a saying about being made twice a fool. It plays in her head along with Draco’s long abandoned slurs and Harry’s voice. She can hear what he’d say like he was right beside her.
He’s using you.
I thought you were smarter than this.
Hermione breaks herself out of Draco’s spell and steps backwards abruptly.
“We should talk,” she says, without quite meeting his eyes.
His hand sweeps over his face. He’s practically bursting out of his pants. He walks over to the small kitchenette, chugging one of the bottles of water that were left in the room as a courtesy. He looks resigned, and she wonders if she really needs to say anything at all.
Probably best to have the conversation, just to be clear.
Her eyes catch on the coffee maker and she’s decided. Some conversations are best had over a cuppa, and caffeine is an indulgence she won’t feel uncomfortable about later.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Making coffee,” she replies, her voice sounding a little more like her own as she gathers the coffee filter and spring water.
“That’s a coffee machine?”
“Mhm.”
The very act of making something in a muggle appliance brings her back to herself. Reminds her who she is and where she’s from. Why she should be sceptical of men like Draco Malfoy.
“You put the coffee here,” she says, dropping the filter in. She tears open the coffee packet and dumps it inside, then pours the water into the reservoir. “And the water goes here.”
Draco sits down in the nearby rolling chair and watches as she presses the start switch. She considers what she’s going to say to him.
This was a mistake.
It can’t happen again.
Please don’t tell anyone.
The silence is suspended by the sound of coffee brewing. The aroma fills the room. He leans forward against the table and rests his head on his arm, watching the pot fill with the dark liquid.
The walk up to her hotel room had been awkward and quiet, filled with second thoughts and rehearsed dismissals that she told herself she would say as soon as the lift stopped on her floor.
She hadn’t said yes to anything, after all. She’d just held open the lobby door and allowed him to follow her.
When the lift dinged, the doors opened to a couple of older women on the other side. Draco slid his palm against her lower back and tilted his head to them in greeting, holding the lift door until they stepped in, met with thank yous and stupid giggles and oh he’s so charming—
The doors closed and she was right in the middle of an eye roll when he had pressed his lips against hers.
“Fascinating,” Draco says to the coffee maker.
Hermione is in the middle of another eye roll when she says, “No need to be facetious.”
“I’m not,” he mutters, waving his hand through the steam that rose from the machine as if it were magical. “I think it’s clever, all the little contraptions muggles have invented to simplify life.”
She can’t tell if he’s being authentic or if he’s still trying to get her into bed, but she tries to give him the benefit of the doubt.
He blinks up at her, recognising her suspicion. His eyes flash with annoyance and it feels comfortable. Known.
“Ingenuity is a rare trait in the Wizarding world,” he drawls. “We learned almost the same exact curriculum at Hogwarts that my great-great-grandparents were taught. The same charms. The same potions. We even wore the same fashions.”
Draco stands up and she’s grateful his bulge has diminished.
“Things change quickly in the muggle world. Technology. Transportation. They’re constantly finding new and better ways to do things.” He leans against the table.
Her scepticism wanes and a warm feeling ebbs in. Draco had undoubtedly changed over the years since Hogwarts. A shrewd businessman. A generous philanthropist. A womaniser—if the papers were to be trusted.
She clears her throat as he pours two cups of coffee from the glass carafe, and then serves himself cream and an unholy amount of sugar.
“Have you watched the telly?” she asks, trying to break the awkwardness of the situation. Postponing the conversation she’s planned out in her head.
Draco smiles into his cup as he watches her serve her coffee. And then he glances toward the corner of the room, where a flat-screen sits facing the settee. “I tried once, in a hotel like this. But I couldn’t figure out how to use the—“
He moves his thumb as if demonstrating.
“The remote,” she supplies. “I could show you.”
He seems tense as he walks toward the settee, picking up his trousers along the way. He sets down the mug and slips them on one leg at a time, and she almost regrets he’s covering himself. It is, at the very least, a breathtaking view.
But distracting. And counterproductive when she’s trying to keep a level head.
His kiss was soft and coaxing, his hands framing her face as if she were something precious. Her core clenched and she melted into him, utterly confounded by the wash of hormones flooding through her.
When they finally found her door, she’d fumbled in her pocket for her room key with unsteady hands. It was hard to concentrate while he was kissing the back of her neck, sliding his palm up the inside of her thigh.
The key had been in her hand when he reached her knickers, thumb tracing a line over her centre. The key dropped to the floor, forgotten as she gasped, holding the door frame to keep herself steady.
Draco dropped slowly to his knees, presumably to pick up the fallen key.
His hands and lips detoured.
“How’s the coffee?” she asks, tugging down the shirt he’d given her, making a solid effort to cover her bottom as she sits. “Enough sugar?”
His gaze flickers down to her thighs. “Just the right amount.”
Hermione shivers. She’d thought maybe him having his trousers on might clear up the fog in her brain but it turns out she finds almost everything about him distracting. His eyes, his hair, his chiselled jaw and cheekbones. His entire body.
She takes another breath and holds herself to plan. “I think it’s important we get a few things clear about what happened.”
“Maybe you can teach me first,” he says. There’s a hint of amusement playing at his lips and the way they curve reminds her of whispers and barely there touches. She adds his wicked mouth to her Irresistible Things about Malfoy catalogue. He offers her the remote and continues, “Before you begin your lecture.”
His voice.
She sighs and scoots closer, explaining the symbols on each of the buttons.
The corridor had been blessedly empty as he threw her thigh over his shoulder. She hadn’t even stopped to question what happened to her knickers, too far gone to care. His thumb swirled at her entrance, the tip of his tongue doing things that made her squirm and whimper. Her breath was shallow and quick, both from pleasure and from nerves. She’d never done anything like this in a public place. Someone could come up the lift. Walk out one of the doors.
He pushed a finger inside of her and she braced her hands on the door frame, balancing on one foot. She pointed her toe over his back and her shoe clattered to the ground.
Gods. He was going to make her come right there against the door. It felt like the sort of thing she read about in books, not the sort of thing that happened in real life. To her. With Draco Malfoy.
“Fuck—“ he muttered as her body tensed. “That’s it, Granger.”
He pushed her thigh up higher and grabbed a fistful of her skirt, holding it at her stomach. She could see him then, no longer obstructed by her dress robe, and his eyes were hot on hers, hair a mess as his mouth worked magic.
She grabbed the doorknob to steady herself as he sucked her clit, pleasure rocketing through her from head to toe.
“Explain the list there,” Draco says, leaning forward on his elbows as he stares at the telly.
“It’s a guide,” she says, flipping through the programmes. “It’s to tell you what’s available to watch.”
He scratches his jaw, and she can almost hear the texture of his stubble, even if she can barely see it.
“Like a library of—“
He gestures with his fingers again, trying to find the words.
“Shows, movies, documentaries,” she offers. “There’s quite a selection. Here—Indiana Jones for example.”
She clicks on Raiders of the Lost Ark and Draco is entranced, staring for at least three solid minutes. Wishing she’d chosen something boring so she might retain his attention, she says, “Oh and this here is the off button.”
The screen goes black. He faces her fully, doing that thing with his eyebrow again. “Well aren’t you a tease.”
She shifts her legs, tugging down the shirt over her thighs. He watches her hands with another of his subtly amused looks.
“Malfoy—“
“I don’t need your brush off speech, Granger,” his grin collapses into something almost bitter. Blank. “I know where we stand.”
He plucks the remote from her lap and turns the telly on again, kicking his legs up on the nearby ottoman, and she can’t tell if he’s annoyed or indifferent. She feels the sting of dismissal and it’s utterly infuriating. She was the one who—how could he just—
“Excuse me. This is my hotel room and I need to get ready to leave—“
“You have three hours until checkout. Says so right there.”
He waves his hand toward the table with the small sign, and then he turns up the volume a notch.
“You can’t just—“
“Oh, I believe you’ll find I can. And I may just reserve the room a few more nights. I rather like it.”
She stands up and stomps her bare foot on the carpet, uncertain what to do. She wanted to shower and order room service. Sit on the terrace. Watch a bit of news since she didn’t have a telly of her own in her flat.
And he’s set on ruining it.
She runs through her options, which aren’t many if she wants to keep their interlude private, and finally decides to go about her morning as if he wasn’t there at all. She keeps the shirt pulled down as she walks toward the bathroom and places her hand on the doorknob.
It had been Draco who finally slid the key into the doorknob and jiggled it open. Hermione was barely capable of standing, flushed and wobbly as she stepped in. She gasped as he picked her up and kicked the door closed, then walked her to the bed like she weighed nothing.
He tossed her down on the mattress and her stomach somersaulted as she bounced against the soft pillows. He smothered her gasp with a deep kiss that tasted like—her. There was a complaint lodged in her throat, but it fell flat as his hands explored her, stripping off her dress robe.
Hermione closes the door of the bathroom behind her and leans against it heavily. Her reflection does nothing to ease her concerns. Hair matted. Love bites on her neck. Wearing the shirt she’d stripped off of Draco Malfoy last night.
What had she been thinking?
She removes her (his) shirt and finds the situation is more unfortunate than she thought. Love bites litter her body—places she had never had love bites in her life.
Not that she is terribly experienced. Perhaps just enough to know that the pain in the arse man loitering on her settee had given her a proper shag.
Nothing run-of-the-mill about it.
She pulls the bruise paste out of her purse and sets to healing the marks on her neck. The rest would have to wait until she bought a new supply.
He leaned back and dragged in a ragged breath, cursing as she wrapped her lips around him. He gathered her hair in his hand and guided her gently down his shaft, hissing as she sucked her way back to the tip. The noises he made would have kept her mouth on him until the very end. She loved a man who vocalised his pleasure. But after a minute of whispered praise and gentle thrusts he pulled her off of him.
“Perfect fucking mouth—“
He kissed her back into the pillow, tongue delving between her lips, licking shamelessly deep as he tweaked her nipple. He set about exploring her with his hands and lips for quite a few more minutes before he positioned himself at her entrance and eased his hips forward, filling her deeper with each thrust. And then he pressed his forehead against hers, pulled himself out almost completely, only to shove himself back in until their hips were flush.
She still feels every inch of him as she stands in the shower, head pressed against the wall as she washes herself. If only he’d been horrible, or at least mediocre, this would all be so much easier. But no, he’d had to be the absolute best shag of her life. Excellent enough that just thinking about being under him left her needy and wanting.
It wasn’t the variety of positions he’d had her in, though a few were memorable. It was the whispers. The attentiveness. The sounds.
She turns the hot water down and the cold water up.
Because the sappy, soft-hearted part of her had never been able to keep anything casual, and great sex does not a relationship make. Already, that tiny part of her that wanted to keep him forever felt crushed at how dismissive he’d been before she left the room.
What if she’d meant to say let’s go on a few dates and see where this leads? She hadn’t been, but that’s not the point. If she had, Merlin, she’d have set herself up for devastation.
Changing into clean clothes leaves her feeling almost like herself again. She’d brought a sundress, thinking that she’d spend an afternoon on the beach. Maybe she should. Maybe it will help her forget. She raises her chin and steps out into the room.
The credits are rolling on the movie, the familiar tune bringing back memories of childhood for a split second.
Malfoy is nowhere to be seen.
She doesn’t feel the relief she’d expected.
She walks to the telly and shuts it off, and then a cool breeze catches her still damp skin and she notices the door to the terrace is cracked.
She steps outside and is immediately grateful she’d splurged on a seaside view, but it only holds her attention for a moment before she notices the variety of fruits on the small table. The muggle newspaper unfolded in front of him. Draco leans back and takes a bite of a green apple.
“What are you doing?”
He swallows and wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb.
“Enjoying the scenery,” he says. She’s stuck staring at the way his hair gleams in the sunlight, the shocking grey of his eyes, the way his shoulders ripple as he leans his elbows on the table.
She holds his shirt out to him and looks out at the sea. Already the beachgoers are laying out their blankets. Propping up colourful umbrellas. Strutting around half nude.
Draco fits right in, she thinks. He has the decency to slip the shirt over his shoulders but he doesn’t bother buttoning it. His toned chest and abs remain a constant distraction and she’s starting to think that’s intentional.
He picks up a ballpoint pen and writes something on the newspaper. Curious, she sits down across from him and peeks over.
Sudoku?
She glances from the paper to his studious expression, watching his mind work, and she remembers him in the Hogwarts library. Stiffly dressed, even on the weekends. Too thin. Always sneering.
He looks up at her, eyes somewhat warm again despite his earlier brush off. He seems to take in her damp hair and healed marks. The strappy sundress. The corner of his mouth tugs upward just a little as he returns to his puzzle.
If her sixteen year old self saw him now, she would fall out of her chair.
His fingers were locked around her jaw as he worked his hips against her. “That’s it—you’re so fucking pretty when you come—“
She plucks the front page from the stack of papers and tries to focus on the words and not her companion. Fleeing the scene would be wiser than sitting across from him, courting trouble, but he’s deliberately disrupting her morning and she won’t be run off from her own room. If anyone should leave, it’s definitely him.
He’d overstayed his welcome.
A few minutes later, Draco steps off the terrace and into the hotel room and she wonders for a second if she’s gotten her wish. But then he returns with two cups of fresh coffee, setting one in front of her.
It’s prepared exactly the way she likes it, she realizes as she takes a sip. It’s strange, being with someone who pays close enough attention to learn things about her.
“Thank you,” she says, and he looks up long enough for her to catch a flash of mischief in his eye.
He’s waiting her out.
“Like that?” he’d asked, laying behind her as he rolled his hips forward. She nodded and moaned, unable to form words. He was grinding against that spot inside her that sent shocks of pleasure all the way down her limbs. He rubbed his fingertip in a tight circle and her entire body tightened and shook.
He leans toward her over the table. “Explain the cinema to me.”
Hermione picks up the section of the paper she tried to read and fans herself with it a few times. He needs to leave or she’s going to make a terrible mistake.
“It’s like the telly but on a large screen.”
“How large?”
His brows raise, genuinely curious.
“Too much?” he whispered against her temple. Her legs were thrown over his shoulder, her hand pressing against his hip as she acclimated to the position. The depth.
She moved her hand and let him sink in that last inch, forcing herself to breathe even though she had no room. He rocked his hips against her and the pleasure is mind-numbing. Worth the stretch. Her eyes roll back and she whimpers, “More.”
She looks around, anywhere but at him.
“Do you go to the cinema often?” he asks.
“Sometimes,” she says, opening the paper again. “Every few months or so.”
“Is it customary to take a date?”
Her heart thumps hard in her ribcage.
“Some people do. Or they go with friends. It’s also acceptable to go alone.”
“Do you go alone?”
She keeps her eyes fixed on the paper. “Mhm.”
The weight of his stare is agonizing. Maybe she should have said no. No, she didn’t go to the cinema. No, she definitely didn’t go alone. But that would be dishonest, and lying with the intent of making a person say, do, or feel a certain way was a clear case of manipulation.
That was his game, not hers.
“When’s the last time you dated someone?” he asks next.
She wants to throw the paper down and stomp away. Her love-life, or lack thereof, is none of his business. Instead, she keeps her face as neutral as possible. Doesn’t even look up. “It’s been awhile.”
She doesn’t want to admit anything to a man who's seen with a different woman at every society event. All purebloods.
She can hear his frustration building. Seems he doesn’t like being ignored.
“Enjoying the single life?” he asks.
She flips the page. “Are you?”
“What if I’m not?”
Her eyes flicker up to his and she immediately wishes they hadn’t. He looks like he’s invested in her response, probably trying to figure out how to use it to his advantage. “I’m sure you could find someone if that’s what you wanted.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and then, “Say I found someone and she isn’t interested.”
Merlin, help her. There’s a tightness in her chest that she has to fight to exorcise. He’s manipulating her. Because he’s a womaniser. Get it together.
“Maybe she thinks it’s all a game to you.”
There’s not a hint of emotion in her voice. There isn’t.
“What would be the end goal of this game?” he asks.
“Sex without commitments. It’s not everyone’s style.”
She wishes it was. Wishes she weren’t so easily attached and didn’t have to go to such lengths to protect herself from men like Draco. Men who treated sex like a hobby.
His hand tightened on her flesh, cheeks pink and breath quick. “Can I come inside you?”
“Please,” she begged shamelessly, watching him unravel with her name on his lips. She did that to him. It was her body that left him cursing and shuddering. It was her he looked at, like she was something incredible. Her lips he sunk into like they were bliss.
Draco turns the ballpoint between his fingers, considering her words. “She wants a commitment, then.”
“No!” Hermione whisper-shouts. “She wants you to leave her bloody hotel room before she starts to actually like you!”
He leans in and says softly, “I think you already like me. You’re afraid you want to keep me around.”
She looks down at the newspaper. At this point it’s just a prop to avoid his eyes and they both know it. What he said is right, of course. She can’t very well deny the truth when it’s spoken so plainly, but it leaves her feeling as exposed as she’d been when she woke up beside him.
Draco Malfoy with a muggleborn witch. Sure, he might be grown up enough to set aside his prejudices. Enjoy her company and indulge in extracurriculars. But the novelty would wear off quickly, and he’d be back to his usual type. Hermione would be left remembering what it was like to be the sole focus of his attention.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered against her ear.
“Why was I at the conference yesterday?” he asks like she ought to know the answer.
She takes a sip of her coffee but she doesn’t taste it.
He leans forward over the table, his voice low. “Why am I still here?”
She looks up. Needs to see his face. To know the answer.
“For you,” he says, rubbing his hand along his jawline, suffering in discomfort. “Because I know what I want. I’m just not sure how to get it this time.”
Her heart pounds. She needs to tell him to stop. To leave.
The words won’t come out.
Something in his expression tells her he’s putting himself on the line right now and she can’t bring herself to shut him down.
So instead she asks, with a curiosity bordering on desperation, “What do you want?”
He moves his hand over hers on the table, looking at her fingers. Touching them as he had the night before.
“To spend as many days and nights with you as you’ll allow.”
A warm feeling spreads over her.
How could her resolve weaken so quickly, with so few words? There’s a voice in her head that keeps questioning what in the world is so special about her. She does know her worth, at least in the intellectual realm, the friendship realm, but in romance? She’s never been anything very special to anyone, really.
But the more she acknowledges the thoughts running through her head, questions their legitimacy, the more they sound like fear.
This need to distance herself from Draco before she grows attached—it’s fear disguised as wisdom. Because even if things don’t work out, which she can admit is the most likely outcome, she is strong enough to bounce back from it. And retain a few good memories. Experiences.
She can take this chance. Be brave enough to enjoy life one day at a time, instead of worrying what pain the next day might hold.
“Can I stay?” he’d asked, brushing her curls from her face as she drifted between asleep and awake.
Her hand curled against his chest. Tired and happy. “Please.”
“So fucking—“ he breathes in her hair, kisses her temple. “All your pleases are mine from now on. I’ll give you everything. Galaxies.”
Both his hands are clasped around hers, tracing patterns against her skin as he waits for her response.
He’s put himself out there. Perhaps it’s safe for her to do the same. The question plaguing her takes a bit of courage to say aloud, but she says it anyway.
“What if I want too much?”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a small smile as he looks up. Leans closer. Kisses the palm of her hand.
“Galaxies, Granger.”