Chapter Forty-Six
The days following that heated kiss in Harry's office were a blur of tension, longing, and a new kind of uncertainty that neither of them had been prepared for. Draco and Harry both knew the stakes had changed. There was no turning back from the kiss they had shared, no pretending it was just some moment of weakness. But the real question lingered, hanging between them like a heavy fog—what did it mean now?
Draco, despite his usual calm and control, found himself waiting for Harry's next move. He wasn't sure what was going on in Harry's head, but his actions had spoken louder than words ever could. They were past the point of pretending that this was just some game. The fight, the banter, the insufferable back-and-forth—it had all been a cover for what was becoming something real. Real, complicated, and far too fucking intoxicating for either of them to deny.
Harry was beginning to accept it too, though he had to admit that it wasn't easy. He had spent so many years hating Draco, loathing the mere sight of him, that to suddenly be so close to him, to want him so badly, was enough to make Harry want to crawl out of his own skin. But the pull was undeniable. The way Draco looked at him, the fire in his eyes, the way he kissed him like he was claiming something long overdue—it was too much.
But Harry had never been good at pretending, and he wasn't about to start now.
Draco's flat was quiet when Harry arrived, just a little after midnight. He hadn't planned on staying, but the need to see him, to feel him, had been unbearable. He knocked once, the sound sharp against the silence, and then entered without waiting for an invitation. It wasn't like he hadn't done this a hundred times before.
But now, as the door clicked shut behind him, something was different.
Draco was standing in the middle of the living room, his back to Harry, his posture stiff, like he was waiting for something. Or someone.
"You're late," Draco's voice cut through the silence, but there was no bite in it this time. It was too... soft, almost like he was testing the waters, wondering if Harry was really here for the right reasons.
"Would you prefer me to leave?" Harry asked, his voice tight, but his lips pulling into a small, defiant smirk. He had to keep up some semblance of control. It was what he was best at.
Draco turned slowly, his eyes dark with something Harry couldn't quite read. "You're here now," he said, stepping toward Harry. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the moment. "And we both know why."
Harry swallowed hard. His pulse was racing, and he could feel the heat between them building again, threatening to take over. He wanted to fight it. Wanted to tell Draco to stop, to make him leave, to pretend it was all still a game. But he couldn't. Not anymore.
"I'm not here to fuck you, Draco," Harry said, his voice barely a whisper. The words tasted strange, like a lie he had to tell himself to keep from giving in completely. "I'm here because—"
"Because you want me," Draco finished for him, his tone dark with satisfaction. There was no challenge in his voice now, only acceptance. "I know. I fucking know, Potter. And don't try to pretend you're not feeling it."
The raw, blunt truth of it cut through Harry like a knife. But instead of pulling away, Harry stepped closer, closing the space between them, his breath quickening as his gaze fell to Draco's lips.
"You're right," Harry said finally, his voice hoarse, barely controlled. "I want you. More than I should."
Draco smiled, his eyes flickering with that same, familiar arrogance. "Good. Because I want you too. And I'm not going to wait for you to figure it out anymore."
Before Harry could respond, Draco closed the distance between them. The kiss was immediate, hungry, and full of that wild energy that had been building between them for weeks. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty—only the heat of their lips crashing together as if they were two forces of nature colliding.
Harry's hands gripped Draco's shirt, pulling him closer, feeling the hard press of Draco's chest against his own. Every inch of him was burning with need, and he couldn't hold back any longer.
Draco responded in kind, his hands moving quickly, pulling Harry toward the nearby couch. In a matter of seconds, their clothes were discarded in a hasty, fevered rush. They had no time for anything slow, no patience for pretending this wasn't exactly what they both wanted.
When Harry's back hit the couch, Draco was on top of him, his lips trailing down Harry's neck, biting and sucking with urgency. The moans that escaped Harry's throat were involuntary, but he didn't care. This—this was real. He wasn't pretending anymore. He wasn't pushing it away. And he wasn't going to deny it.
"Don't stop," Harry gasped, his hands tangling in Draco's hair, pulling him back up to kiss him again.
"I won't," Draco growled, the words a promise. "I'm done waiting for you to figure your shit out, Potter."
They tumbled into each other again, mouths crashing together, hands exploring every inch of skin they could reach. Their bodies moved with the same rhythm, the same urgency, as though they were trying to make up for lost time.
It was messy, it was frantic, and it was everything Harry had been trying to ignore for so long. But now, he couldn't pretend it was anything less than what it was—pure, raw, and undeniably real.
When they finally broke apart, both of them gasping for breath, Harry's heart was pounding in his chest, his body aching for more.
Draco was looking at him with a mixture of satisfaction and something else—something Harry couldn't quite place. But there was no question now. No more fighting. No more running.
"What now?" Harry asked, his voice low, still trying to catch his breath.
Draco smiled, a wicked grin curling on his lips. "Now? Now we both finally admit that we're fucking stuck with each other."
And in that moment, Harry realized he didn't mind at all.