Notes:
Let's close out the year the only way I know how—with a smut-filled, emotionally unhinged, slightly feral chapter that tastes like love and regret.
Thank you for every kudos, every comment, every unhinged scream you've shared with me this year. You lot have been the absolute best kind of chaos, and I can't wait to be just as unwell with you in the new year.
Happy almost-2026, my darlings. May your tea stay warm, your characters stay morally questionable, and your favourite ships always end up in bed.
The first six months of parenting two babies could only be described as beautiful, life-affirming, soul-crushing chaos. The kind of chaos that made Hermione wonder if she'd ever truly understood exhaustion before this.
It wasn't like staying up at the Ministry or making it through a war. It wasn't even like cramming for ten NEWTs with three hours of sleep and a sugar quill headache. This was something else entirely. A wild, feral kind of tiredness. Something that sank into her bones and blood. It crept into the corners of every quiet moment, whispering in her ear like a ghost.
You haven't slept. You will never sleep again.
And yet, in the middle of all that madness, there was Draco Malfoy. Stoic. Smug. Absolutely useless in the most maddeningly graceful way.
He had somehow floated through the first half-year of their twins' lives with this maddening ease. So casual, so polished, that Hermione had considered hexing him more times than she could count. Not out of hatred. Just good old-fashioned spite. Because while she was knee-deep in spit-up cloths and dragging herself out of bed for the third time in an hour, he was swanning around the house with Cassiopeia on his shoulder.
Precious, doe-eyed, giggling Cassie. Draped over him like some divine baby-shaped scarf. As if fatherhood had simply arrived, fitted itself to his frame like a bespoke robe, and made him even more infuriatingly perfect.
From the very first day, Cassie had made one thing clear. She was a daddy's girl.
Not in a sweet, oh-she-smiles-when-he-walks-in sort of way. This was loyalty. Devotion. Worship. The moment she'd come out of the womb and caught sight of Draco's face, she had squeaked something that sounded dangerously close to "mine" and never looked back.
She wanted to be carried by him. Held by him. Rocked to sleep, fed, sung to. If he even thought about passing her to anyone else she would unleash a shriek so sharp it could shatter glass and self-esteem alike.
And Draco, the arrogant sod, adored every second of it.
He carried Cassie through the house like she was some priceless enchanted artefact. Whispered the most ridiculous things in her ear. "You're the superior twin." "Don't listen to your mother, princess. You absolutely deserve a tiara for pooping." Cassie, of course, blinked up at him with wide, glimmering eyes that Hermione was now convinced had been bred solely for manipulation.
As for Lyra—their other daughter, the fireball, the wildcard, the one with Hermione's glare and tactical ruthlessness at six months old—her relationship with her father was... more complicated.
She liked him. She tolerated his presence. She allowed him to live.
But she had opinions.
And those opinions grew especially vocal the moment she sensed Cassie was receiving more than her precise share of Draco's attention. Which was often. Every three minutes, give or take.
Lyra, armed with all the inherited Granger-Warrior fury and none of the patience, refused to accept this injustice. She had been placed on this earth to conquer. And if she had to start by reclaiming her father's arms, so be it.
Every time Draco had the audacity to sit down with Cassie peacefully curled against his chest, Lyra would begin what could only be described as a protest cry. It wasn't a scream. It wasn't a sob. It was something in between, sharp and political. The kind of noise that carried a clear message: I see what you're doing. And I object.
Then, as if she were leading a movement, Lyra would raise her little fists and flail with purpose. Her tiny arms cut the air in measured, dramatic strokes that seemed to say, Excuse me, father, but I am also here. And I too am divine.
To his credit, Draco tried. He really did.
He juggled. He sang. He read bedtime stories in ridiculous accents. He spoke to Lyra in the same tone he used on foreign ambassadors. But she was unmoved. She didn't want equal attention. She wanted exclusive rights. And she wanted them immediately.
This led to several family "meetings" held over cold tea and half-finished bottles, where Hermione had to gently remind her husband that he had, in fact, fathered two daughters. Not one spellbound, golden-haired princess who refused to let him go.
Still, Hermione had to admit—through gritted teeth, perhaps—that Draco's side of parenting had looked... easier.
His job was simple. He carried Cassie.
From bed to cot. From the rocking chair to the window seat. From the kitchen to the garden, where she would squeal at sunlight and butterflies as if she'd discovered magic. Draco didn't do the bottles or the sleep charts or the frantic spellwork to find a pacifier at two in the morning. He didn't manage the schedule or the endless laundry or the potion-dosed nappies.
But he carried Cassie.
He carried her like he'd been made for it. Whispering family gossip from long-dead Malfoys in a ludicrous drawl that always made her laugh. He kissed her hair. He hummed lullabies. He called her "my darling girl" like he couldn't believe she was real.
And somehow, that made it alright.
Because even when Lyra was screaming and Hermione's shirt was soaked through with spit-up and her left eye twitched with caffeine tremors, he was still there. He was still present. Still trying. And sometimes, when the house went still, she would look over and see him pressed cheek to cheek with Cassie, his face lit up with a softness that made her chest ache.
He loved them. Not just Cassie. Not just Lyra.
He loved fatherhood.
For Hermione, the first six months were nothing like the glowing, pastel fantasy promised by glossy magazines and aggressively cheerful parenting books. There were no soft montages. No serene smiles over steaming mugs of tea. No looking back fondly and saying, "That was hard, but lovely."
This was something else entirely.
This was the kind of chaos that settled deep into her bones. The kind that made her wonder if she would ever pee alone again. If her body would ever feel like it belonged to her. If her mind would ever produce a single coherent thought that was not about feeding schedules, gas drops, or the sharp spike of dread that came with sudden silence. Because silence always meant trouble. Someone was either pooping somewhere deeply inappropriate or planning something far worse.
And somehow, that was not even the worst part.
The worst part was Lyra.
Lyra, her beloved child, had revealed herself to be a miniature Hermione Jean Granger Malfoy in every soul crushing way imaginable. She was colicky. Opinionated. Red faced and furious at the state of the world. She did not simply want attention. She demanded order. Control. Answers to questions she could not yet form.
She radiated intellectual superiority from behind her pacifier.
Her moods shifted from peaceful cherub to apocalyptic demon in the time it took Hermione to undo one nappy tab. She clung to Hermione like her life depended on it and screamed with full theatrical commitment if anyone else tried to take her. Especially Draco. Five seconds was too long. Ten was a personal betrayal.
Those long days were sticky and loud and endless. Shriek filled hours blurred into sleepless nights. Hermione found herself pacing, bouncing, pleading, bargaining with a baby who stared back at her with pure, unyielding judgment.
It was during those moments that Hermione finally understood every dramatic, bone deep sigh her own mother had ever released. Every long pause. Every weary look. Every muttered comment about stubborn children and boundless curiosity.
Because now she knew.
Now she had given birth to her karmic equal.
And karma, it turned out, had arrived with curls, lungs of steel, and an iron will. An utterly unhinged infant who had Hermione wrapped around her tiny, tyrannical finger.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Karma had never hit so hard.
Cassie, of course, was no trouble at all.
She arrived in the world like she already had a family crest stitched to her soul. All soft coos and delicate fingers. A porcelain heir with one singular obsession.
Draco.
From the minute she opened her eyes, it was game over. She was his. Irrevocably. Utterly. Possessed by the sight of him, the scent of him, the sound of his ridiculous voice humming some ancient Malfoy lullaby about stardust and glory. As long as he was near, she was perfectly content. Happy to be toted around the manor like a treasured heirloom. A tiny duchess in sleep suits and smugness.
But Lyra?
Lyra was a different story altogether.
She had opinions. Loud ones. Sharp ones. Stubborn as hell. She didn't just cry when she was tired or hungry. She objected. Protested. Filed formal complaints in the form of banshee wails and full-body flails. From the moment she could lift her oversized baby head, she made it perfectly clear that Hermione was hers. Entirely. No substitutions. No alternates.
She didn't tolerate being passed around like a parcel. Not to Draco. Not to the elves. Not even to Crookshanks, and that cat had survived every disaster known to man. Try to set her down and she'd scream like she was being personally betrayed.
Even at six months, she knew her sister got round-the-clock devotion from their father. Lyra demanded the same. No, actually, she demanded more. She expected Hermione's complete attention. And Draco's. At once. Without pause. Without compromise. Her fury was theatrical. Her attachment was absolute.
So while Draco wandered about with Cassie draped over him like a fashion statement, all peaceful naps and proud smirks, Hermione was in the trenches. Clawed at. Headbutted. Sobbed on. Yanked by the neckline until she looked down into a furious little face demanding justice.
No one else would do.
Not for milk. Not for cuddles. Not for sitting still for one blessed second.
And it was in those milk-stained, overstimulated, sleep-deprived moments that Hermione finally understood every long-suffering sigh her mother had ever let out. Every warning. Every quiet, exhausted "just wait."
Because karma, as it turned out, had Hermione's curls.
Draco's temper.
And lungs that could rattle windowpanes.
Her name was Lyra.
Lyra, in all her tiny, chaotic glory, had made her position known from day one. She had no patience. No tolerance. No use whatsoever for anyone outside of immediate blood relations. If you didn't share her last name or the precise cadence of her father's footsteps, she wasn't interested.
She didn't even blink at strangers. She glared. Watched everyone like they were trying to steal her toys and her throne. Like a grumpy old pub regular watching tourists ruin everything.
She did, however, respect Crookshanks.
Maybe it was the fur. Maybe it was the fact he ignored her completely. Either way, she tolerated him like a proper little monarch recognises another seasoned elder of the realm.
But other children?
God help them.
Especially if they so much as looked at Hermione.
Lyra was a despot. A tyrant in a pastel onesie. A curly-haired warlord with no time for diplomacy.
Seline, with her angel-blonde curls and dozy little smiles, never stood a chance.
It wasn't that Lyra hated her. Not exactly. She just refused to acknowledge her. Treated her like some unwanted spirit haunting the edge of her mother's space. A background noise in baby form. Unwelcome. Irritating. Best ignored.
If Seline so much as reached for a toy, Lyra would suddenly act like that toy was sacred. One she had loved since birth. One she'd been tragically separated from for years. She'd lock eyes with Seline like she'd just witnessed daylight robbery, then snatch it back with all the drama of a Shakespearean widow.
And then there was Seraphina.
Poor girl.
Seraphina made one crucial mistake. She liked Hermione.
She adored her. Lit up every time Hermione entered the room. Giggled when she was picked up. Reached out with sticky little hands and babbled with joy like Hermione was her own personal sunbeam.
It was sweet.
It was lovely.
And to Lyra, it was high treason.
She might have tolerated the existence of other babies. Possibly. If they kept their distance and minded their business. But Seraphina, climbing into Hermione's lap, flashing those wide eyes full of adoration and demanding cuddles?
Unforgivable.
And Lyra, small and savage, filled with righteous fury passed down from generations of stubborn witches, was ready to fight.
With every squeal. Every flop onto the rug. Every icy little stare fired over her shoulder, she seemed to ask the same question.
How dare you?
How dare my mother hold another baby?
How dare she laugh with someone else? Kiss someone else's curls? Share her arms, her voice, her warmth?
Hermione was supposed to be hers.
All of her.
Every moment. Every cuddle. Every lullaby and bedtime story and crumb of affection.
Cassie, of course, couldn't have cared less.
Sweet, dreamy little Cassie took one look at Seline and decided they were soulmates. No fuss. No hesitation. She reached for her with chubby hands and a happy gurgle like it was destiny.
They sat together for ages, side by side on the floor, gnawing on the same plastic giraffe like it was gourmet cuisine. Sometimes they'd bump foreheads, burst into delighted squeals, then collapse into one another with the kind of lazy joy that only babies could pull off.
They had no rivalry. No resentment. Just squishy friendship and a shared fascination with shiny things.
But Lyra?
Lyra saw betrayal.
Everywhere.
And she made it known.
She didn't just cry. She wailed. Full-body, dramatic sobs that rose like a storm. A symphony of fury, broadcast at top volume until the world bent to her will.
Every tantrum was a statement. Every tear was a curse.
This was her nursery.
That was her mum.
And if anyone, especially that giggly little traitor Seraphina thought they could worm their way into Lyra's kingdom without consequences, they had another thing coming.
By the time the third night ended with teething screams echoing down every corridor, Hermione was finished. Not in some dramatic, ha-ha-isn't-parenting-exhausting sort of way.
No. She was properly, soul-deep, hair-thinning, jaw-clenched done.
Every top she owned was covered in some vile mix of sick-up, breast milk, and something sticky she sincerely hoped was jam. Her hair had been yanked so many times it looked like it had given up the will to live. She hadn't had a proper wee alone in nearly a fortnight.
And Lyra, sweet hellspawn that she was, had just screamed blue murder at a visiting Healer for the crime of standing slightly too near Hermione's leg.
That was the moment she snapped.
She was done with the chaos. The noise. The crying that rattled her teeth. The baby monitor that glowed at her all night like it knew she would never sleep again. She was done with banana mashed into the rug, with nappies flung like weapons, with stuffed animals occupying every flat surface.
Mostly, she was done with the awful, aching truth that no amount of brains, no war-forged grit, not even seven years of Hogwarts or defeating a Dark Lord, could prepare her for a furious, teething, six-month-old who clung to her like a barnacle and screamed whenever she so much as sneezed.
Hermione Granger-Malfoy, former prodigy, former revolutionary, current mother of two, was absolutely and completely burnt out.
She stood there, frozen in the centre of the nursery, clutching a crusty burp cloth like it might turn into a wand and rescue her. Her lips parted, dry and trembling. And only one word came out.
"Love..."
It barely passed her lips, quiet as breath. But it carried every ounce of the weariness she hadn't dared to speak.
Her shoulders sagged. Her chest gave one shallow heave. And just like that, the dam gave way.
The tears were hot and immediate, pouring down her cheeks like they'd been waiting days for permission. Every drop carried a scream she hadn't let out, a nap she never got, a moment she'd sat awake while everyone else slept, wondering if she was still a person underneath all this.
Her voice cracked. Thin and frayed.
"I can't... I can't do this anymore."
Draco had only been three steps away, mid-thought about how Cassie had tried to eat a wax crayon again. He nearly tripped over a stuffed Kneazle when he turned. His whole body moved before his brain caught up.
He rushed to her, heart hammering, eyes wide. She hadn't cried like this since the war. And even then, not like this.
"Bloody hell, love, what's happened?" His voice cracked. His hands were already on her, pulling her close. Desperate. Scared. Guilty. Because how had he not seen this coming?
She just cried.
Sobbing so hard her whole body shook. It hit him like a punch to the chest, hearing her like that. He held her tighter, arms wrapped firm around her, like he could squeeze the grief out of her and into himself.
Just wept into his shirt, wetting the collar and trembling in his arms, while he held her like she was all that existed.
She clung to him. He clung back.
And finally, when her fingers stopped clutching the burp cloth, when the gasps slowed, when her legs gave out and she let herself go boneless in his arms, he stayed right there.
Silent. Steady. Holding her through it. Because that's all he could do.
~~~~~~
What Hermione needed — no, what she deserved — after surviving six months of endless crying, breastfeeding battles, sleep regressions, rogue magical toys, smug portraits offering unsolicited parenting tips, and a toddler whose only consistent trait was "drama queen with abandonment issues" — was not another half-hearted dinner or five minutes hiding in the loo pretending she couldn't hear her name being screamed through the door.
She needed a proper escape.
Not a polite little breather. Not a cup of lukewarm tea in the garden while someone tugged at her dressing gown. She needed silence. Luxury. A full-scale exodus from motherhood for at least one bloody afternoon. Somewhere no one could say "Mamma" or mutter "mon cœur, the baby's leaking again" with the resigned air of a man betrayed by a nappy.
It came to her at two in the morning, mid-caffeine crash, sorting socks with the dead-eyed stare of someone on the brink. Something inside her snapped.
She launched a sippy cup into the sink. Missed the startled house-elf by inches. Declared, quite loudly and to no one in particular, that she was taking the girls on a spa day.
Not just any spa day. A goddess-tier retreat.
There would be facials. There would be foot rubs. There would be massages so blissful they'd make her forget she ever lactated.
And so, with all the grace of a woman who hadn't showered in two days but was dangerously close to an emotional breakthrough, Hermione dragged herself and Pansy, and Luna into the most expensive spa in the county.
Now she lay cocooned under a plush blanket, in a room that smelled faintly of lavender and deliverance. No spit-up. No muslin cloths. No tiny feet kicking her ribs. Just warm towels, soft music, and a patient aesthetician who applied expensive creams with reverent little circles, like she was handling royalty.
Hermione hadn't been touched like this in months. Not without someone screaming. Not without someone needing something. This was sacred. This was holy. This was what she imagined the afterlife might feel like if you lived a particularly selfless life and died holding a teething ring.
No one here was Lyra. No one needed feeding. No one was flinging mashed carrot at the ceiling or doing that sharp, offended cry that made her want to walk into the sea.
It was just her. Hermione. Not "Mamma." Not "love, she's pooed on my shoulder again." Just Hermione. In a white robe. Letting her skin soak in something that smelled like expensive fruit and possibly contained crushed pearls.
And she wasn't alone.
Pansy, stretched across the next table in full diva repose, was sipping cucumber water like it was Champagne and recounting a Daily Prophet article accusing Theo of fathering a child with a vampire courtesan.
"I mean, honestly," she said, flicking her fringe out of her face, "if that turns out to be true, I hope the kid inherits her bone structure."
Luna, of course, was seated in a strange position on the floor, eating a chocolate-dipped strawberry and calmly explaining that Mercury in retrograde might explain why Lyra had spent two nights glaring at the baby monitor like a cursed Victorian doll.
It was absurd. Glorious. Adult.
Hermione breathed it in. Every second.
The spa was silent, aside from the faint hiss of steam and the occasional distant clatter from somewhere she refused to acknowledge. The strawberries were clearly made with dark magic. The Champagne was off-limits for her — but she sniffed the glass anyway, reverently, like it was Amortentia.
This moment wouldn't last. She knew that. Soon she'd be back in the nursery, tripping over toy broomsticks and wiping banana off the cat.
But for now she was untouchable.
No one needed her. No one was screaming. No one was leaking.
And Hermione, war heroine, wife, mother of twins, woman on the brink — was finally at peace.
She didn't have to share her food. She didn't have to clean anything. She didn't have to soothe anyone's bruised ego because they were told "no" for the seventh time in an hour. She was warm, polished, and content, with a scalp massage scheduled in fifteen minutes and a foot rub waiting after that, and if this was what divinity felt like, then she fully intended to ascend and remain here permanently, leaving behind a forwarding address for Draco and the children to write her letters.
The thought of returning home, of being needed again in ten different ways by three humans who had no concept of boundaries or volume control, felt like a distant cloud looming on the horizon of her spa-induced bliss.
And so, as the massage therapist gently pressed into her shoulders, kneading months of stress and resentment out of muscle and bone, Hermione clung to the moment like a woman possessed, dragging each second out with the quiet desperation of someone who knew the price of peace, who understood it was finite, fragile, and about to be shattered the moment someone screamed "MAMMA!" from the fireplace.
°°°
She had spent the entire journey home floating.
Still half-glowing from oils, skin soft and lavender-scented, riding the high of an actual nap. She had imagined it clearly. The door swinging open to the sound of giggles, a spotless flat, two scrubbed and sleeping babies, and her husband waiting with that dazed, lovesick look he only ever wore for her.
She pictured him whispering "finally" and pulling her in like he couldn't stand another second apart.
She imagined her absence had gutted them all.
Instead, the first sound she heard was that laugh. High and shrill. Too familiar. Too loud.
Astoria bloody Greengrass.
It rang from the sitting room like a cursed soprano note and shattered whatever remained of Hermione's spa serenity in under five seconds.
She didn't need to look to know something was off.
Draco's voice was low, muffled. Barely there beneath Astoria's dramatic wittering. There were no toddler footsteps crashing through the corridor. No shrieks. No chaos. Which meant someone had shuffled the girls away.
Left her in the room with him. Alone.
And when Hermione finally stepped into view, the sight hit her like a jinx to the sternum.
Astoria was draped across the end of the settee like she paid the rent. One leg tucked under, the other extended far too casually in Draco's direction. Her hand, manicured within an inch of its life, rested along the top of the sofa—just behind his shoulder.
Not touching him. But close enough to burn.
She was laughing. That fake, breathy laugh she used when she wanted to sound flirty without saying anything of substance. The laugh of someone trying too hard to be adored. Her posture said something else entirely. At ease. Comfortable. Like she belonged there.
Hermione's fingers curled into fists before her brain even caught up.
Draco wasn't even looking at her. His eyes were fixed somewhere off to the side. Jaw clenched. Face blank.
The look he wore during Ministry galas. Or when Pansy's mother cornered him to talk about property tax.
He looked irritated. Bored, even. But that didn't matter.
Because he wasn't standing up.
He wasn't moving.
He wasn't leaping off the bloody sofa to throw himself at her feet like a man in mourning who had survived a full afternoon without his wife. And worst of all, he wasn't doing anything to stop her.
Astoria's shin brushed against his knee. Light. Intentional. And it stayed there.
Hermione's heart kicked against her ribs.
Whatever peace she'd harvested in that spa, whatever calm had been coaxed back into her bones with steam and lavender oil, was now crumbling. The air behind her eyes sharpened. Her temples pulsed.
She said nothing.
She stood in the hallway, bag in hand, staring like she'd walked into a hexed portrait.
Draco made a noncommittal humming sound. The same one he used when Lyra asked if she could marry her stuffed kneazle.
He wasn't involved. But he wasn't stopping it either.
He wasn't telling her to leave. He wasn't sending her packing.
And he definitely wasn't acting like a man who had spent all day dreaming about his wife, pining like a tragic hero while their children screamed about mashed banana.
Hermione blinked once.
Twice.
And that was it.
The storm behind her eyes cracked wide open.
Hermione's nostrils flared.
She stepped into the room with the poise of a woman holding it together by a thread, while privately sorting through a mental catalogue of hexes that were, at best, morally questionable and, at worst, banned by three international treaties.
"Oh, you're going to die," she said, calm as anything. Her voice was low, sharp as broken glass, the kind of tone that didn't need volume to level a room.
The effect was immediate.
Astoria jerked upright like someone had tossed a bucket of ice water over her. All that draped elegance vanished, spine straightening in a flash. Her expression faltered, panic flickering across it, just beneath the polish.
Draco's head whipped round like he'd just sensed a curse flying at him. His mouth parted. He looked like he couldn't decide whether to shield Astoria or throw himself in front of Hermione. To his credit, he chose neither.
"Love—"
"Shut it."
She didn't even glance at him. Just flicked her hand once, and he obeyed like a well-trained owl. Not out of fear. Out of instinct.
Astoria's mouth opened. Maybe to explain, maybe to apologise. Maybe to lie. But she barely managed an inhale before Hermione turned that stare on her.
"Greengrass."
She said the name like it was something foul stuck to her shoe. Her voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. It was clean and final. Icy. The kind of cold that burns.
"I've killed people for less."
She stepped forward. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't rushed. It was steady. Like justice. Like vengeance.
Her gaze never wavered. Fixed on Astoria like a curse waiting to be spoken.
"But you?"
She smiled.
It was the kind of smile that had once made a Minister resign mid-sentence. A smile that didn't touch her eyes. Didn't soften a thing.
"You'll get the other version."
Another step.
Close enough now that the air shifted. Close enough that Astoria's breath caught without meaning to.
"I'll take my time. I'll be cruel. I'll make it scream."
She tilted her head, eyes still locked.
"And when I'm finished, all anyone will find is a perfume stain, a blood-slick floor, and a very long list of your mistakes."
Astoria didn't move.
Because the thing standing in front of her wasn't just Hermione Granger. It was every trauma she'd survived. Every line she'd crossed. Every nightmare she'd learned to command.
And it wanted her gone.
She stopped, now only a few feet away. Close enough for the warning to settle beneath Astoria's skin.
"If you ever, ever touch my husband again—"
The word my cracked across the room like a whip.
"—you'll find out just how far a tired mother can go when she's had enough."
Astoria didn't speak. She just stood there, pale and trembling, as though searching the room for a Floo grate or a nearby portkey. She blinked, swallowed, then fumbled for her handbag and clutched it like it could shield her from the storm brewing in front of her.
She turned. Muttered sound that might've been her soul leaving her body.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Hermione exhaled, slow and sharp.
She turned to Draco.
Her eyes were fire. Just quiet, contained fury. The kind that hurt more because it didn't shout.
Then she walked away.
She didn't look back.
Draco stood frozen for a second too long, then followed. Not quickly. Not confidently. Like a man walking barefoot toward a landmine.
"Love..."
His voice was soft. Careful. Like maybe if he said it right, she'd stop.
She didn't.
"No one said," she said, flat as stone, "you were allowed to speak."
He stopped. Just like that.
The words landed like a spell.
And it should've gutted him. It did. But underneath it, something shifted.
Because no one, in his entire life, had spoken to him like that.
Not his father. Not the Minister. Not anyone who knew what kind of man he was now.
But Hermione? She didn't fear him.
She told him to shut up, and he did. Because he would do anything for her. Always had.
And somewhere in that sharp burn of humiliation, something darker stirred. Something he wouldn't admit out loud.
He was hers. Fully, stupidly, wildly hers.
And when she was like this, spitting fire, not letting him speak, looking at him like she might throw a chair it did something to him.
The hallway was quiet again.
Hermione reached the nursery. Her hand landed on the door handle like she meant to rip it off the frame. She pushed it open slowly, and the soft creak of the hinges might as well have been a war drum.
She didn't look back.
He could feel her anger filling the space between them, heavy enough to press the air from his lungs. When she spoke, her voice stayed low, controlled, but it carried the weight of something cursed. It warped the room around them.
"Pack your things."
The words hit him square in the chest.
His heart faltered. For a second, his mind refused to catch up. Then the meaning landed, brutal and unmistakable. This was not a suggestion. Not a warning. It was a directive. Final. Absolute.
"Hermione." His voice cracked, sharp with panic before he could stop it. "What are you talking about?"
She didn't turn. She didn't have to. Her reply drifted back to him, calm and lethal.
"I said pack your shit," she continued, her tone flat, merciless. "And get away from me."
The room tipped sideways.
His breath caught, lodged painfully in his throat. His body refused to move, as though something unseen had pinned him in place. His pulse roared in his ears. Everything else vanished beneath the sound of her voice.
"Darling, please." He did not know what he was asking for. Time, maybe. Mercy. A chance to explain something he could not even name yet. "Just let me explain."
She laughed softly.
"I survived," she said, her voice impossibly calm now, and that calmness… that calmness was worse than any shout, any scream. "Off the idea that one day, my fury will be witnessed by the man who first poisoned me with it."
Her words were like a whip, snapping the final shred of hope he'd clung to. The silence that followed was so thick, he could barely breathe. But it wasn't the silence of peace. No, this was the kind of silence that made his chest tighten, that made his skin crawl with an insidious dread he couldn't shake.
She took a step toward him. One slow, deliberate step. And with it, the weight of her fury seemed to press down harder on him, making it feel like the walls were closing in. Her gaze held his, and for the first time in their relationship, he wasn't sure who she was anymore—or if he'd ever known her at all.
"I can't kill Ronald anymore," she continued, her words floating like poison in the air between them. She gave him a bitter, broken smile, and for a moment, he thought he might lose his mind. Because that smile, that little crack in her expression, felt like the death of everything he had ever believed about them.
"So…" she trailed off, her gaze darkening. "It will be you."
Draco didn't move. The room had turned to stone, and all he could hear was the rush of his blood pounding in his ears. His chest tightened, his limbs locked, as the reality of her words settled over him. This wasn't just anger anymore. It wasn't just a fight or a moment of frustration. This was her. This was his Hermione, the woman he had once adored, now standing in front of him with a fury that had transformed into something terrifying.
And yet, what made it worse was the sheer truth in her words. She wasn't threatening him with violence. She wasn't going to hex him or curse him into oblivion. No, she was telling him, with cold, unflinching clarity, that he had become a mirror of everything she had survived, everything she had fought against.
She had once fought, with all her heart, to survive the poison that had been poured into her by people who had claimed to love her. And now, he was the one standing in front of her, the one who had done the same thing in his own way. He had become him. The one who had poisoned her. The one who had broken her. And worse, he had never even realized it until now.
It was the realization that shattered him. Not because of the words she said, but because of what they meant. He had become Ron. The one who had hurt her. The one who had made her feel small, made her feel like she was never enough, like she was always meant to fix them instead of standing on her own.
And now, in this moment, standing frozen before her, he realized that he had destroyed everything they once had. He was the poison in her life. And there was no coming back from that.
Her words were the final nail in the coffin, and the suffocating silence between them felt like the end of something irrevocable, the breaking point of a relationship that had already been teetering on the edge for too long.
He was silent, broken. She was cold, calculating. And in that stillness, Draco finally understood. He was no longer the man she loved. He was just another part of the wreckage. Another casualty of the war they'd been fighting in silence for so long.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His expression shifted—no longer defiant, no longer pleading. Something deeper took over his face. Shame. Desperation. The kind of aching regret that didn't have words, just consequences. Because this—this wasn't about Astoria. Not really. This was about every broken piece of trust she had ever dared to glue back together, only to watch it splinter in her hands all over again.
Her voice didn't rise, didn't shake, didn't even crack under the weight of what she said—it was low, cold, terrifyingly flat, a monotone that rang louder than any scream as she stared him down from across the room, her arms wrapped around herself like armor she no longer trusted him to peel away. "You can go after her," she said, and the words were so calm, so devoid of emotion, that they should've been dismissive, should've felt like nothing—but they landed like a death sentence, like the stillness before a storm when the air thickens and the world holds its breath.
Draco blinked, frozen in place, heart thundering in his chest as if it were trying to warn him, but his feet refused to move. He was trapped in the gravity of her words, too stunned to comprehend the full weight of what she was saying. But he couldn't retreat. He stepped toward her instead, reckless, desperate, like a man determined to drown in his own mistakes. "I'm not going anywhere," he growled, his voice thick with something that might have been sincerity if it weren't already too late, if there were anything left to salvage. "I didn't do anything—"
And gods, he should have stopped there. He should have let the silence hang heavy, should have turned his attention to fixing things with actions, not more words. But his mouth ran ahead of his broken mind, and the moment the words left his lips, he saw it—the flicker of disbelief in her eyes, the way her lips parted in disgust.
"That's the problem," she said, her voice still eerily even, as if she'd rehearsed these words a thousand times. She was steady, poised, calculating, like a spell she had waited years to cast, something potent and sharp enough to leave him bleeding. "You didn't do anything."
The words sank into him like nails in his chest, and he stood there, speechless, staring at her as she took a step closer. She moved toward him like a predator circling its prey, her steps deliberate, unhurried. She didn't flinch, didn't falter. Her eyes, cold and unyielding, never wavered from his face.
"We created two gorgeous babies together," she continued, her voice rising now, thick with the weight of all the years they had spent building this fragile life. "Two perfect little girls. We survived hell and murder and blood, and I gave you my everything, Draco. And you—" She let out a laugh, but it wasn't a laugh of joy. It was hollow, cruel, the sound of a woman unraveling at the seams but refusing to shatter. "—you're the one who begged for this."
His body tensed, the truth of her words landing like a punch to his gut. His heart clenched, but he didn't retreat. He couldn't.
"You begged for a family," she went on, her voice climbing, fury thickening her words. "You begged me to let go of every fear, every hesitation. You begged to fill me up, begged to make my belly swell with your heir, begged to brand me with your legacy so no one would ever doubt that I belonged to you."
Her voice broke on the last word, a crack that cut through him, deep and raw. But there was no mercy in her eyes—just fire, just ice, as she took another step closer.
"You begged for this," she repeated, quieter now, but still trembling with rage, with something far more dangerous. "And now, now you're standing here defending yourself like a coward, because you didn't do anything?"
His mouth opened, but the words died in his throat, choked by the weight of everything she was saying. Her truth. His betrayal. Everything he hadn't seen coming.
But she didn't give him the chance to speak. Didn't give him any space to hide behind apologies or excuses.
"Not doing anything doesn't make you innocent," she said, and now the venom was thick, sharp, coiling in every syllable. "Not doing anything is the reason we're here. Not doing anything while she perched herself all over you like she belonged to you. Not doing anything while I carried your daughters on cracked ribs and half-slept through feedings just to keep this fantasy you sold me from shattering."
Her words burned into him, each syllable a lash that tore at the fabric of everything he thought he understood about her—about them. She was right. He hadn't done anything. And now the silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating, as if the very air was refusing to let him breathe. The truth of it all was overwhelming, suffocating.
Draco had spent years in denial, cloaking himself in excuses, in justifications. But now, as he stood before her and he was nothing but a coward. And she knew it. And worse, she wasn't afraid to make him feel it.
He stared at her, stunned silent, because there it was—laid bare, ugly and unflinching, the truth he had never dared put into words. He hadn't touched Astoria. Hadn't flirted. Hadn't welcomed it.
But he hadn't stopped it, either. He hadn't said no loudly enough. He hadn't gotten up. He hadn't moved away. He hadn't done anything and that, to Hermione, meant everything.
"You're breaking the family you claimed you'd die for," she finished, barely above a whisper now, and it was that softness, that landed the final blow.
And suddenly, the silence was worse than the shouting.
~~~~~~
Draco did what he did best—disappear into the shadows and return drenched in the sins of the world. The night he came back, blood still drying beneath his fingernails and a bracelet dangling like a morbid trophy between his fingers, the house seemed to hold its breath.
He stepped through the threshold with a quiet sort of violence, the kind that clung to him like a second skin.
Hermione was curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, Crookshanks sprawled lazily across her lap as she popped a piece of dark chocolate into her mouth, chewing slowly, deliberately. She didn't look at him right away. Just stared at the flickering fire like it held answers, like his return was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
"So," she murmured at last, voice flat and cold, "back to work, I see."
He dropped the bracelet on the table between them. The delicate gold bangle spun slightly before clattering to a stop—too elegant, too familiar, too damning.
"I killed Astoria."
Her eyes flicked to the jewelry, then to him, unimpressed. "Should I congratulate you?"
"Yes," he snapped, stepping closer, shadows pooling around him like smoke. "Just once, in your goddamn life, you could say thank you for the things I do for you."
She stood slowly, placing Crookshanks on the couch beside her, her gaze locked onto his with glacial precision. "I thanked you when you gutted Greyback. I applauded when you buried Karkaroff's bones in six feet of cursed soil. I even toasted when Jelena's heart stopped beating. You want a standing ovation for killing your ex-girlfriend now, is that it?"
His eyes darkened, jaw clenched.
Her voice dropped, bitter and low. "Did you fuck her first?"
The question cracked the air like lightning, jagged and unforgivable. His breath hitched, his control snapped, and in one motion, he crossed the distance between them and backed her into the nearest wall, his hands not gentle, not cruel—just desperate. He gripped her jaw, not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to make her feel it.
"Don't," he growled, his voice shaking with fury, with madness, with something older and more primal than either of them dared name.
"Don't you ever suggest that anyone in this fucking world could touch what's mine. No one, Hermione. No woman. No one could ever be you."
His fingers stayed firm around her throat—not enough to hurt her, not enough to truly frighten her, but just enough to silence the chaos of her thoughts, to hold her in place, to make her look at him and only him.
His eyes were wild. He didn't blink. His chest rose and fell like he couldn't contain what burned inside him, like it was too much for his bones to carry.
When he finally spoke, his voice was raw. Scraped. Cracked with something he couldn't bear to let slip through his fingers.
"I didn't do anything with her."
He said it again, slower now. Every word sharp. Like if he carved it clearly enough, it might cut through the wreckage between them.
"I didn't let her touch me. I didn't kiss her. I didn't even let her breathe too close. This is yours. Your kingdom. And I would never let another woman stain it."
Something flickered behind her eyes. A twitch at the corner of her mouth. She didn't speak. Just clenched her jaw like the words were there but wouldn't come.
He loosened his grip a little. Just enough for her to take a deeper breath. But he didn't let go.
"You are the only one I've ever loved."
The words came louder now. Steadier. Like they'd lived in his chest too long, begging to be spoken.
"You are the only one I will ever love. D'you understand that? No one else. They could crawl through fire, scream in my face, bleed at my feet, and I wouldn't even look. Because they're not you. They will never be you."
He eased her onto the settee. Not gently. Not forcefully either. Just with purpose. With care.
His hands cupped her face like she was made of something fragile. His thumb brushed her throat where his fingers had been. His lips hovered close. Close enough to steal breath. Not close enough to kiss.
He studied her like a map. Every twitch. Every shift. The whole war she fought behind her eyes.
Then, softer, steadier, but still burning, he asked, "Do you believe me?"
Her mouth parted. Her voice trembled. "I…"
She didn't finish.
He shook his head.
He already knew.
"No," he muttered. Not angry. Just bitter. Like he'd already accepted it, like he was already carving the sentence himself.
"I know what your problem is."
He leaned in again. His lips brushed her cheek. Her jaw. Her ear.
Each word was a ghost. A curse. A promise.
"Your problem is that you haven't been fucked properly."
His voice dropped. Rough. Low. Unapologetic.
"And that—" he kissed the corner of her mouth, slow and aching, "that's on me."
He pulled back enough to see her. Really see her. Her breath caught. Her pupils widened. Her skin flushed.
He saw all of it.
"So let me fix it," he whispered. "Before you ever question who I belong to again."
Hermione knew. Deep down, beyond pride, beyond logic. In the part of her that had loved him too long to pretend she didn't still feel it.
He was possessive to the point of obsession, territorial in a way that was sometimes maddening but always undeniably clear; if there was one thing in this world he never wavered on, it was his singular, ferocious devotion to her.
He had proven it time and time again—in the way he looked at her like she hung the stars, in the way he touched her like his fingers didn't believe she was real, in the way he would sooner set the world on fire than allow another person to even think of claiming what was his. He would never, ever, touch another woman—not because he feared her reaction, but because the very idea repulsed him.
And still she couldn't help it. That ugly, unwelcome surge of jealousy had bloomed like poison in her gut, irrational and all-consuming, twisting through her like thorns.
Because sometimes love didn't obey logic, and fear didn't listen to facts, and no amount of proof could quiet the voice in her head that whispered, what if you weren't enough?
"I'm not…" she started, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with vulnerability and shame she hadn't meant to expose so easily, her fingers fidgeting in her lap as she avoided his gaze, eyes instead focused on the edge of her nightgown, fraying slightly at the hem, her body curled inward like she was trying to make herself smaller, as if retreating into herself might somehow mask the way her heart was thrashing against her ribcage.
"Speak up, love," he murmured, not as a command but as an invitation, his voice low, smooth, and impossibly gentle as he knelt before her and let his hands drift over the silk of her nightgown—not to provoke, not to tease, but to remind her that she was his, still the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on, not despite the changes but because of them, because those changes told a story, their story, one carved into skin and stretched across the delicate canvas of the woman who had given him everything.
"I'm not…" she tried again, the words trembling on her tongue before they finally spilled out in a rush of emotion, "My body is ruined. It's not the same anymore. I'm not the same."
For a moment, silence settled between them like a third presence in the room before he leaned closer, brushing his thumb just beneath her eye, then down the slope of her cheek, and finally over her collarbone as if he were memorizing the shape of her all over again, anchoring himself to her truths.
"Oh, it would be ruined, darling," he whispered, a small smile curling at the corner of his mouth, his tone teasing but reverent, "yes, ruined after I've reminded you exactly how sacred this body is. Ruined in the way I ruin things I worship—over and over again, with the kind of devotion that never fades."
And with that, he kissed the inside of her wrist as though it were something holy, as if she had never been more perfect to him than she was right now flushed with doubt, trembling with fear, yet still his in every possible way.
His touch was featherlight, almost hesitant, as he let his hand glide slowly over the soft curve of her stomach, his fingertips tracing every delicate rise and fall as if the story of their life was etched into the skin itself. He paused there for a moment, palm flat, feeling the quiet strength beneath her surface, the way her breath stuttered just slightly beneath his touch, and he let his eyes follow the path of his hand with something close to awe.
"This," he murmured, his voice low and thick with emotion, the kind that crawled up from the depths of his chest and lodged itself somewhere in his throat, "this gorgeous belly carried my babies. This was home for them before they ever breathed a single breath. This—" he pressed a kiss to the skin, slow and reverent and full of a kind of worship he rarely let himself show, "this is the center of my universe."
He rested his forehead lightly against her, breathing her in, grounding himself in the warmth of her body, in the way her fingers curled around his wrist like she wasn't quite sure if she believed him or if she deserved to.
And still, he moved with unhurried purpose, his hands never leaving her, not even for a second, as he shifted just enough to cup her breast in his palm with the gentleness of a man holding something far too precious to mishandle.
"These," he continued, his thumb brushing lightly over the soft swell of her skin, "these beautiful, perfect tits fed our children. They kept them alive. They grew because of you. Thrived because of you. Every laugh, every step, every breath they take—it started right here."
He bent forward again, pressing another kiss before he looked up at her, eyes dark and wide, voice softer now, but no less steady. "You think your body is ruined?" he asked, the disbelief in his voice tender rather than sharp. "You think I could look at you and see anything but the woman who gave me a world I didn't even know I wanted?"
His hands cradled her sides now, holding her as if he was trying to anchor her back to herself, trying to make her see what he had always seen—that she wasn't ruined, she was rewritten, transformed, made even more extraordinary by the very act of loving, living, and creating.
And when she closed her eyes, trembling from the weight of it, from the quiet intensity that pulsed between them like a second heartbeat, he didn't say anything more. He simply held her. Worshiped her. Let her feel it. Let her know.
The room was quiet save for the low hum of breath between them, the dim lamplight casting soft golden shadows across the bed where she lay beneath him, her body bare but far from exposed. His hands moved with aching slowness, like he was trying to memorize the geography of her skin—the places only he knew, the delicate curves and subtle lines that told a story he never stopped reading.
Her breath hitched when his lips found the hollow of her throat, not in surprise but in surrender, her fingers curling in the fabric beneath her as though the softness of the sheets might ground her where his touch had already undone her. He kissed her there, then lower, again and again, like she was sacred and this was a kind of prayer.
"You're my everything," he whispered against her skin, not just words, but a vow pressed between heartbeats.
He didn't rush when it came to her. Every breath she gave him was studied, every tremble cataloged, every desperate, whispered "Draco" absorbed like it was gospel.
He touched her like he owned her—because in his mind, he did.
His fingers mapped her with reverence and claim, dragging over every curve like they'd been carved for his hands alone. He kissed her temple, her cheeks, her throat, the corner of her mouth like someone who had bled for the right.
Her body arched toward him on instinct, her breath hitching with every caress, but it was the quiver in her voice that made his head snap up.
"I'm… I'm jealous," she whispered, as if confessing a sin.
His eyes darkened, that familiar storm gathering behind them, and a slow, sharp grin twisted across his face. "Jealous?" he echoed, the word tasting like a threat on his tongue. "Of what, exactly? My pathetic, empty years without you? My name doesn't even sound right unless it's on your tongue."
She looked away, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts, fingers trembling where they pressed into his chest. "Let me go," she murmured, her voice small.
He laughed—low, dark, humorless. "No," he said, like it was a curse. "You don't get to run. Not after everything."
He leaned in closer, his mouth brushing her ear. "You're going to come on my hands. And then again on my mouth. And after that, when I've wrung every last sound out of you, you'll crawl into bed where I'll ruin you all over again."
She whimpered, the weight of his words, from the way he said them like they were prophecy, like her body already belonged to the moment he'd crafted.
"It's too much," she breathed, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, not from sadness but from the unbearable heat coiled in her chest.
He cupped her face again, fingers firm, eyes boring into hers. "You are mine. You have always been mine. And the only mistake I've made is not reminding you of that every goddamn day."
He carefully lifted her into his arms, the soft weight of her against his chest both grounding and breaking him in ways he couldn't fully comprehend.
His heart hammered in his chest, racing in time with the quiet, fragile breaths she took, as though the very act of holding her might somehow mend the cracks in both their souls.
With slow, deliberate steps, he carried her to the bed, each movement filled with an unspoken reverence, as though she were something precious he couldn't bear to let go of. When they reached the edge, he gently laid her down, the heat of her body against his skin searing into him.
His hands lingered, tracing the curve of her waist, the soft, familiar lines of her body—touching her as though every second of contact might be the last.
But then, she pulled away. Her eyes cast down, her chest rising and falling in unsteady breaths, the distance between them thick with unspoken words. She curled inward, hiding her face in her hands as though she could somehow shield herself from the vulnerability of the moment.
A choked sob broke through her control, a sound so raw, so broken, it shattered something deep within him. He had always admired her strength, but in that instant, he saw the fragility of the woman he loved.
The walls she had built around herself seemed to crumble beneath the weight of her own self-doubt. And he, the one who had always been so steady for her, was powerless, helpless in the face of her pain. His heart cracked, every piece of him yearning to take her hurt and make it his own, if only to give her peace.
Her voice broke the silence, and it felt like a blade slicing through the air. "I hate my fucking body," she whispered, her words laced with so much self-loathing that it made him ache. "I hate how I look... I hate the way everything feels so wrong... I hate..." She couldn't finish. Her breath hitched, the weight of her own reflection crushing her.
He couldn't stand it. The pain in her voice—the way she thought so little of herself—ripped him apart. His hand trembled as he reached for her, cupping her face gently, lifting her gaze to meet his. She was so beautiful to him, so utterly perfect in every way, and yet here she was, consumed by her own insecurities. His chest tightened at the sight, a familiar ache rising in him—a fierce protectiveness, a desire to erase every one of her doubts.
Without a word, he lowered himself, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that was soft but laden with emotion. His kiss was an apology, a promise, a desperate plea.
His mouth moved over hers with a reverence that bordered on worship, each caress slow, tender, as though he was savoring every second of the connection. He kissed her as if he could pour all his adoration into her, as though the very act of kissing her could soothe the self-doubt gnawing at her.
His lips trailed down her jaw, brushing against the soft curve of her neck, his breath warm against her skin as he whispered, "You are everything to me. Everything."
He didn't rush. Every touch, every word was deliberate, meant to make her feel cherished, desired, and loved in ways that went beyond the physical.
When his hands slid to her waist, he gently guided her back, pulling her flush against him, the warmth of his body a promise of his devotion. His kisses deepened, more urgent now, but still tender, his body pressing into hers with the weight of every unspoken emotion he held for her.
She shivered beneath him, her body responding to the tenderness, the heat, as though she couldn't fight the pull of him, couldn't deny how much she needed him. His hands wandered slowly, reverently, tracing the lines of her skin, savoring the feel of her, as though memorizing every inch of her.
The way she gasped when he touched the soft curve of her breast, the way her body arched into him instinctively when he nipped at the delicate skin of her neck—it was all him, all her, the perfect dance of love and passion.
When his hands finally slid beneath her, pulling her closer, the heat between them ignited once more. He kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring hers as though it was the first time.
And yet, as he moved with her, slow and steady, the rhythm was one of complete and utter devotion. He didn't need to speak; every movement, every breath was a confession, an unspoken vow that she was his—body, heart, and soul.
He moved slowly, deliberately, his hands running down her body with worshipful reverence, as though each inch of her skin was a treasure he would cherish forever. And when he finally took her, his gaze locked with hers—his eyes dark, filled with something so intense, so deep, it could only be called love.
She gasped, her body tensing as he entered her, but there was no pain, only the pure, aching pleasure of being completely, utterly claimed by him. He
moved slowly at first, deeply, filling her in the way only he could, his every thrust a promise of something deeper, something more than physical. He was taking her, yes, but he was also giving her every piece of himself. And when she met him, her hands pulling him closer, her lips pressing against his in a frantic kiss, he knew it was right.
Her body moved beneath his, shuddering with pleasure, every inch of her trembling from the intensity of it. He kissed her again, his lips brushing against hers in the briefest of moments before he whispered, "I love you. Only you."
And as he sank deeper into her, their bodies moving together in perfect harmony, it was no longer just about physical pleasure—it was a union, a surrender, a connection that ran deeper than anything either of them had ever known. He was hers. She was his. And nothing else mattered.
As they moved together, slow and steady, the world outside seemed to vanish. There was only the space they occupied—only the space between their hearts, between their bodies. His hand trailed down her side, fingers brushing the smoothness of her skin as though committing every curve, every inch of her to memory. She shuddered beneath him, her breath hitching in her throat as his thumb traced delicate circles on her hip.
His lips hovered near her ear, his voice a low whisper, thick with emotion. "You're mine," he murmured. "Completely. Every part of you is mine."
The words filled the air like a sacred vow, binding them closer than ever. She responded with a breathless moan, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as she pulled him deeper, her body eager, desperate for more, even as she reveled in the sheer tenderness of every motion.
He responded with a growl, his own need rising to meet hers, but there was no haste, no urgency in the way he moved. There was only devotion, only the deep, unyielding need to love her in a way that transcended everything they had ever known.
He leaned down, pressing his chest to hers, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath his. His hands moved to her face, gently cupping her cheeks, forcing her to meet his gaze. The vulnerability in her eyes made his heart ache. He was lost in the beauty of her—how she trusted him, how she was allowing herself to truly feel, to truly give. He kissed her again, his lips soft but insistent, a plea for more of her, more of the love they shared.
Her body responded to his, arching up to meet him with a yearning that left him breathless. The way she kissed him back, with the same urgency, the same hunger, made him feel as though they were the only two people in the world.
Each thrust was a shared declaration of love, each kiss a promise that they would always be there for one another. They moved together in a rhythm that was both tender and intense, a seamless dance of passion and affection. There was no rush, no end in sight—only the feeling of being so deeply connected that it was as if they were becoming one.
His hands drifted down her body once more, tracing the curve of her back, slipping beneath the sheets to feel the soft, heated skin of her thighs. He pulled her closer, feeling her warmth engulf him, and a wave of tenderness washed over him.
She was his anchor, his everything, and he was determined to show her how deeply he loved her. With every slow, deliberate thrust, he was telling her that she was perfect just as she was, that she was everything he had ever wanted, everything he would ever need.
Her breaths grew more erratic, her nails digging into his shoulders as she pulled him in tighter. Her body was arching against him with every movement, a symphony of pleasure and desire that made his pulse race.
The sound of her name on his lips, whispered with reverence and love, seemed to unlock something inside her, something primal and beautiful. Her hands moved to his hair, tangling in the strands as if to hold him in place, as though she couldn't bear to let go of the moment, the connection they were sharing.
"I love you," he said again, his voice a low, raw whisper as he kissed the side of her neck, his lips trailing down her skin, tasting the salt of her skin as if it were the sweetest nectar. "I love you, always."
With every word, every movement, he reaffirmed it: their love wasn't a fleeting passion—it was a deep, unbreakable bond that would last forever.
Her eyes fluttered shut as her pleasure mounted, and the air around them seemed to crackle with the intensity of their shared desire. Her body responded to him with an almost desperate need, matching his rhythm, pushing him further, deeper, as though she were trying to give him every piece of her soul.
She cried out his name, her voice raw and vulnerable, every syllable a plea, a confession of how much she needed him, how much she loved him.
His heart raced as he felt her body tighten around him, the pressure building, the heat between them unbearable.
He could feel the tremors of her release before she even said a word, her body trembling beneath him as she reached the pinnacle of pleasure. And with one final, deep thrust, he followed her, his body shaking with the force of his own release. His lips found hers in a kiss that was every bit as tender as it was consuming, his heart thundering in his chest as he poured every ounce of love he had into her.
They stayed like that, tangled together in the aftermath, their bodies still connected as they caught their breath. He held her close, his arms wrapped around her as if to shield her from the world, to keep her safe in the cocoon of their love.
Her body fit perfectly against his, and he could feel the warmth of her skin against his own, the steady rise and fall of her chest as she slowly came back to herself. He kissed the top of her head, his hands gently running through her hair, every motion an act of devotion.
"I'm here," he whispered. "Always. And you... you are everything to me."
The world outside their room faded away, leaving only the quiet thrum of their hearts in perfect synchrony. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. They had each other, completely.