The Buddy System. *Updating In Process*

40. The Lines We Cross for Each Other

Draco let out a long, slow breath, shoulders finally dropping as if he'd been holding himself together by sheer will alone.

"Well," he murmured, voice low and dry, "that wasn't mortifying at all."

I couldn't help it — I grinned, wide and unapologetic, and caught his sleeve, tugging him gently farther into the room.

"Oh, come on, Malfoy," I teased. "Survive another five minutes, and you earn the right to call me your girlfriend in the morning."

His reaction was immediate.

His eyes widened just a fraction — not dramatic, not exaggerated — but enough that I saw it. Awe. Surprise. Something warm and almost reverent blooming there, like the word itself meant more than he'd expected it to.

"Lead the way," he whispered, and there was no bravado in it. Just sincerity. Just him.

Together, we stepped fully into the room, closing the longest night behind us.

The quiet felt different tonight.

Not empty. Not lonely.

Heavy in the best way — humming with everything we'd said, everything we'd survived, everything we were becoming. The air felt charged, like it was holding its breath along with us.

Draco lingered just inside the doorway, his hand hovering halfway between reaching for me and retreating entirely, like he wasn't quite sure which instinct to trust.

It was... unbearably adorable.

I slipped past him, lighting the small lantern by my bed with a flick of my fingers. Soft golden light spilled across the room, washing over the familiar shapes — the shelves of books, the framed photographs, the rumpled duvet — turning everything gentler, safer. A world away from the sharp edges of the night we'd just left behind.

When I turned back, he was still standing there.

Frozen.

Like a very tall, very beautiful statue of panic.

"Draco," I said softly, unable to keep the smile out of my voice. "You planning to sleep standing up?"

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then straightened abruptly, clearing his throat with an air of dramatic dignity that fooled absolutely no one.

"I—no. Obviously not," he said quickly. "I was just... collecting myself."

I raised an eyebrow. Slowly. Deliberately.

"You need to collect yourself to get into bed?"

"Yes," he said immediately.

Then he winced. Hard.

"I mean—no. I just—Rae—Merlin—stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" I asked innocently.

"Like you're amused."

"I am amused."

He groaned and dragged a hand through his hair, mussing it in that careless, frustrated way that made him look younger and softer and entirely too kissable. He paced once, then stopped, then exhaled again like the room itself had personally wronged him.

"This," he muttered, gesturing vaguely between us, "is not how I imagined I'd be acting."

"Oh?" I asked, leaning back against the edge of the bed. "And how did you imagine it?"

"Cooler," he said immediately. "More... composed. Less like I might trip over the rug and perish."

I laughed softly, stepping closer, close enough now that I could see the faint flush along his cheekbones, the way his eyes kept flicking to my lips and then away again like they were betraying him.