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I shake my head, a soft smile playing on my lips.

He looks at me, and I look at him.

Gosh, I missed this.

I missed him.

Soft moonlight bathes the room, casting long, dancing shadows across the walls. I lie in bed, the sheets cool against my hot skin. Draco stands by the door, his arms crossed and staring in at me. The sight of him should be comforting, but it only has me more scared.

He’s going to leave.

“Stay,” I whisper. “Please. Lay with me.”

I hate the desperation in my voice, the need that claws at my throat, but the thought of being alone is too much.

I want to panic just thinking about it.

He sighs, his eyes reflecting the silver light of the moon shining through one of the windows.

“Why?” he asks. “I’m not gonna leave. I promise. Is the couch not close enough?”

“I don’t want to be alone,” I say, my voice cracking.

“You won’t be alone, Mercy. I’m still right here.”

“I’m scared.”

He watches me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he moves towards the bed without a word. I watch him, and I’m holding my breath, my heart pounding in my ears. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his weight sending a ripple through the sheets.

“I won’t leave you, Mercy,” he says. “Not tonight.”

“Then stay.”

He pauses.

It lasts for a long time.

“Just for tonight.”

Relief washes over me. I lie back down, my eyes fixed on the ceiling, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Draco stretches out beside me, his arms folded behind his head.

But I can’t shake the weight of unease that coils within me.

Just for tonight.

His words ring over and over inside my head.

Draco’s breath is steady beside me, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, same as mine.

What could he be thinking?

I can’t stop thinking about our conversation earlier, the way his eyes softened when he talked about that stupid church picnic. The laughter that bubbled out of me, a sound I hadn’t heard from myself in so long.

I turn my head to look at him. I look at his tattoos. They seem like they’re alive, but I know it’s just my eyes trying to make sense of them in the darkness. Part of me wants to reach out and run my fingers down them. But I can’t do that, can I?

Maybe?

I reach out, my fingers tracing the edge of the sleeve of the white t-shit he wears. My finger slides over the skin along the underside of his biceps, and in the low light, I can see the ink.