Moonlight spills through the window, the only light in the room, and it catches Draco just right—pale skin glows. Like he’s from another world where angels are born.
The mattress dips, then settles, as Draco pulls free of the sheets. His hair is a mess, back marked in faint, criss-crossed lines that Harry put there. A claim.
Harry watches from the corner of his eye, still sprawled on his front, skin tacky, unmoving. He always waits a moment before cleaning himself. It’s Draco’s claim. Not that he knows it.
“You know—” Harry starts, then stops, voice muffled against his arm.
Draco glances over, trousers halfway up his thighs. He never bothers with boxers—he’s only heading for the Floo. Destination: his own bed.
“I know what?” Draco asks, buckling his belt.
Harry pushes up onto his elbows and looks at him properly. “You could stay,” he says. “You don’t always have to run away.”
Harry used to hate that smirk. Before. Before they started sleeping together. Before they learned each other again. Now he knows there are different versions of it, and this one—the one meant for Harry—is quieter. Careful. Full of things Draco isn’t brave enough to say.
“I’m not running away,” Draco replies lightly, flicking his wand. His shirt is somewhere over the bannister, and his coat is likely in the living room.
“Stay,” Harry says. Not loud. Not pleading. Just firm.
The clothes fly into the bedroom. Draco catches them easily—but his grip tightens, knuckles whitening, and he doesn’t move.
“I can’t,” he says, and this time he doesn’t hide the sadness.
“Why not?” Harry asks, because he’s done pretending this doesn’t hurt. Done waking up alone. Done feeling like he’s constantly stepping wrong in something that never gets named.
Draco gestures vaguely between them. “Because this isn’t… like that.”
“Fuck’s sake, Harry.” His voice is sad, and he’s staring at the floor.
Draco only swears like that when they’re fighting, or when they’re fucking—and they’ve just finished fucking. Harry doesn’t rise to the bite. If he does, Draco will use it as an excuse to disappear.
“Draco,” Harry says softly. “I want you to stay.”
He shifts to his knees at the edge of the bed, unashamed, steady. Draco doesn’t look at him—but he doesn’t leave either. So Harry reaches out, takes the clothes from Draco’s hand, and drops them to the floor.
“Stay,” he repeats, quieter now.
He unbuckles Draco’s belt. It slides free without resistance, and the stupid part of Harry’s brain decides that means something. That if Draco truly wanted to go, the belt would catch.
Harry takes Draco’s hand and guides him back onto the mattress. Draco lets it happen.
They’re level now. Knees on the bed. Close enough that Harry can feel the heat coming off him, but he’s trembling as if he’s cold.
Draco still won’t look at him.
Harry cups his jaw, thumb brushing gently over flushed skin. “Draco.”
Draco finally meets his eyes. “This could wreck us,” he says as if he’s been thinking it for a long time.
“Okay,” he says simply, because he agrees. “But it could also be everything.”
Something in Draco breaks. Finally. It’s not big or grand or an epilogue in a love story. It’s simple and minute.
In the morning, sunlight streams through the window, and Draco opens his eyes.
“Morning,” he says, voice like honey.
Harry shifts into his arms; it’s warmer in the nook. “Morning,” he says.
Draco doesn’t let go, because he’s finally tired of running.
