Chapter 2
Harry was trying—really, *really* trying—not to stare at Draco Malfoy.
It was hard.
The blonde had discarded his outer robes days ago, leaving him in just his undershirt, which clung to him in a way that was entirely too distracting. His hair, usually sleek and perfect, was now windswept, messy in the most unfairly attractive way. And his skin—pale, soft-looking, and now kissed by the sun—was drawing Harry’s attention far too often.
It wasn’t *just* that Malfoy was beautiful. It was the way he *moved*, the way he pouted dramatically when things didn’t go his way, the way his long fingers gestured animatedly whenever he complained. And *Merlin*, did he complain.
"This is *ridiculous*," Malfoy huffed, dramatically throwing himself onto the sand. "*I* am not built for survival situations, Potter. *You*, on the other hand, seem perfectly content being a wild jungle beast."
Harry rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the way Malfoy’s shirt had ridden up, revealing a sliver of pale stomach. "*I* am not content. I'm just dealing with it."
Malfoy sighed heavily, flopping onto his back. "This sun is *ruining* my skin."
"You look fine," Harry muttered before he could stop himself.
Malfoy propped himself up on his elbows, raising an eyebrow. "What was that, *Potter*?"
"Nothing." Harry quickly turned away, busying himself with their pitiful excuse for a shelter. He needed to *stop* staring. Malfoy was *just Malfoy*. Sure, a little more sun-kissed, a little more dramatic in his distress, a little more—*No, stop that*.
The problem was, Harry was starting to feel... *protective*.
Every time Malfoy whined about how awful this was, something deep in Harry's chest twisted—not in annoyance, but in *concern*. When Malfoy stumbled over a rock and clutched at Harry’s arm like a damsel in distress, he *liked* it a little too much.
When Malfoy got a tiny cut on his finger and gasped as if he had been *mortally wounded*, Harry had the *strongest* urge to pull him close and kiss it better.
"*Potter*," Malfoy whined again. "*Do* something about this situation. I am too *delicate* for this life."
Harry sighed but couldn't fight the small smile tugging at his lips. "You're being dramatic."
"I *am* dramatic. That’s part of my charm."
Harry huffed a laugh. "You know what? You're right. Completely helpless. Guess I’ll have to take care of you."
Malfoy smirked, flipping his hair like the spoiled prince he was. "Finally, you *understand*."
Harry looked at him, really *looked* at him, and something in his stomach flipped.
He was in so much trouble.