𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 | 𝐝.𝐦

𝟐𝟕

Draco Malfoy | February 1996

The words were like a sledgehammer to the stomach.

It actually made Draco jump back, almost in surprise.

He wasn't expecting that.

It was like the faint pain of his injuries were gone. He felt nothing, but a big fat punch in the face by words. Fucking words.

"I scare you?" His voice quieted down, brows pinched together. He looked down at her, standing up straight. His eyes were locked tightly with hers.

Her eyes were a very dark brown, they were almost black. And her lashes were long, thick and full, framing her big, doe eyes elegantly.

But he didn't have to dip his head forward too much to meet her eyes. She wasn't a gnome.

She was a perfect height. She was maybe five-foot-nine.

He only now remembered how beautiful her collarbone was. He could see it through the V-cut of her shirt.

And her skin was smooth and such a perfect caramel colour. It wasn't pale and fair like his own skin.

And her lips. He remembered how... pretty her lips were. She had a full bottom lip, and full top lip, but her top lip was just a tiny bit thinner than her bottom. Her cupid's bow was near damn perfect if he had a say in it.

And from how close he was to her, he could see scars on her neck. They were like cuts and small gashes on her neck that healed and left scars.

Scars from where? Draco didn't know.

Kaimana's face flush red, the redness creeping to her ears and neck in embarrassment, almost as if she didn't mean to say it out loud.

"Sit, please." Her voice wavered as she said this. She strode back to the cupboard and rummaged for something.

Draco went back to sit, not because he was asked to. But because he felt like his legs would give out on him if he stood any longer.

He scared her?

Was he really that handsome that he was scary?

Stop that, he told himself, not the time.

But why was Kaimana scared of him? What did he do to her? He couldn't recall anything he did to her badly.

He never teased her or called her names or bullied her. Maybe a snide comment here and there, but nothing down to the word of bullying.

The only time he could recall that they interacted properly was their hookup, when they talked a bit—both pleasantly drunk—when they laughed and then they fucked, and then he woke up in bed alone.

And after that, she avoided him.

Was he too rough in bed? Was that it?

If he recalled, he remembered her praising him and telling him that it felt—her words—fucking amazing.

And when they finished, she was laughing and smiling. She was joking with him and because she was drunk, she was laughing at the stupidest things. He was laughing too, with her, and then he had gone back down to the party to get them both drinks.

They were drinking and talking and smoking weed, both in his king sized bed, in the wrinkled sheets. They made out quite a bit as well in his bed.

He remembered blowing smoke into her mouth and she blew it into the air. He remembered her spitting the drink into his mouth, and then he remembered the way she kissed him hungrily to taste the weed on his tongue.