Chapter 2
Draco never imagined this kind of pain. His heart is bleeding, it hurts too much.
He lay beside Harry that night, listening to his steady breathing, feeling the warmth of his body, and wondering how long this had been going on. How long had Harry been living a double life? How long had Draco been the fool, thinking he was Harry’s one and only?
And yet, even now, as the truth tore him apart, Draco couldn’t stop loving him.
Harry was *perfect*. The perfect husband, the perfect father—the man Draco had always dreamed of. He was gentle with their children, never missing a single bedtime story, never failing to shower them with affection. He brought Draco flowers just because. He kissed him slow and deep like they were still young and in love.
It was maddening.
How could someone so perfect be such a liar?
Draco didn’t know how to approach the situation. His heart ached, his mind raced, but every time he looked into Harry’s bright green eyes, all the anger and pain tangled with the overwhelming need to hold onto him.
So he stayed quiet.
He watched Harry, searching for signs—something, *anything*—that would make this easier. Maybe Harry would slip up, maybe he would start coming home late, maybe he would *act* like a man with a secret.
But he didn’t.
Harry was the same as always. He made Draco’s favorite tea just the way he liked it. He wrapped an arm around Draco’s waist when they cooked together. He left sweet notes on Draco’s bedside table, little reminders like *I love you* and *Thank you for everything, love*.
It made Draco feel like he was losing his mind.
The truth was right in front of him. He had *seen* Harry with that woman, *seen* the child that was so clearly his. But how could he accuse Harry when Harry had never once faltered as his perfect husband?
Draco was afraid.
Afraid that if he confronted Harry, everything would shatter. That Harry would leave. That Draco would be left alone with their children, while Harry went off to *her*, to *them*, to the family he had chosen behind Draco’s back.
And that was the one thing Draco couldn’t bear.
So he did nothing.
He woke up each morning, plastered on a smile, kissed Harry like nothing was wrong, and carried on. He let himself be held, let himself be loved, let himself drown in the illusion that he was still the center of Harry’s world.
But every night, when Harry was asleep, Draco lay awake with the truth burning inside him.