promise

the week after

It still feels like a dream.

Draco trails tentative fingertips over the curve of her shoulder, shuddering at the soft skin. It's been so long since he's had so much physical contact that didn't include violence — and it makes his heart heavy.

Elara doesn't stir from beside him, her hands wedged underneath her head, curled up facing him. The early morning light seeping in through the thin drapes makes her skin look golden, her hair a shade lighter. One shaft of light falls perfectly on her freckles, illuminating them.

Draco lies on his side, fingers grazing up and down her bare skin. Memorising every dip and curve all over again. She's changed over the past two years — her stomach and hips have rounded out, an effect he hopes means she's been eating more these days.

Her hair brushes her collarbones still, curls wild and with a mind of their own after a full night's sleep. Her eyelashes are just as dark and long as he remembers and he knows her eyes are that same honeyed brown that makes his knees buckle.

He still can't believe she's here in his bed. Curled up beside him, sleeping, his white sheets draped over her. He has to bury his face in her hair and breathe in lavender before it really settles in.

That she's here. With him.

He feels her wake a couple minutes later when he's slid down the bed and has his face buried in her neck, his arms twined tightly around her torso. He feels her breath stir his hair, feels her fingers trace over his shoulders and sighs into her skin, his eyes shut.

This is how he wants to wake every morning. Wrapped up in her. He's earned it — he's earned this. Earned her.

"I love you." It's muffled against her skin as he says it, her fingers faltering through his hair.

Elara's lips press into his hair and he finds his eyes burning. "I love you, Draco."

"Elara," he whispers and she's crying into his hair then, her shoulders shaking.

He pulls back and tugs her against him so her head rests in the crook of his neck, her tears wetting his skin.

"Sorry—" she hiccups between sobs, her frame trembling. "Sorry, I just—I didn't know if I'd dreamt it all and—and if none of this was really real."

"It's real." He slides a hand down her hair — Merlin, he's missed the feel of her soft curls — and exhales a long breath, trying to pull himself together. "It's real. I promise."

She cries harder, fingers digging into the skin on his back. It's one of the best feelings he's felt in a long time — to feel her so firm and alive and full of emotion. To know she really is here with him, all wet eyes and flushed cheeks. Sniffling and embarrassed. It's evidence of how real she is.

He loves her. He doesn't think he could love anything more.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, maneuvering enough so that she can wipe her eyes. "I should go shower. Can we—Can we have breakfast after?"

He smiles down at her, tucking a wild curl behind her ear. "Bathroom's down the hall."

She disentangles herself from him, still sniffling, still red in the face and tugs the sheet off him as she wraps it around her bare body. He scowls at her and she sticks her tongue out.

"I've been starved of seeing you naked for two years, Jacobs." He yawns, tucking an arm behind his head to watch her pad over to the door. "Give me a break."

"Absolutely not," she shoots back over her shoulder, indignantly.

She leaves the room — and he loves her.