Draco barely remembered getting to Moonbrew. He could not recall Apparating, could not remember leaving his own front step, because by the time his mind caught up to his body, he was already moving. He was already pushing through the door with the kind of purpose that could level mountains, already burning so hot from the inside out that nothing short of claiming her, of owning her, of making her feel exactly what he was feeling, would settle the storm that had gripped him since yesterday. The door slammed open so hard it rattled on its hinges, the bells above it clattering in frantic, metallic protest, their bright little chime almost mocking in its delicacy against the weight of the fury he carried inside him.
It was too early for this. Too early for rational thought, too early for restraint, too early for anything except the singular, maddening need that had driven him here like an animal following the scent of its prey. He had left his house without a plan, without a single intention other than finding her. He had not stopped to consider what he might say, what he might do, or how he might keep the weight of yesterday from tipping over into something irreversible. There had been no need for planning. This was already inevitable.
The moment he had walked away from her, the moment he had left her standing in the quiet after his kiss, still caught somewhere between disbelief and something far more dangerous, this moment had been written in stone.
He had not slept. He had burned. He had turned restlessly in his bed, too hot beneath the sheets and too cold without them, his jaw clenched until it ached, his palms pressed hard against his eyes in a useless attempt to block out the image of her. He had seen her again and again in the dark. The way she had felt in his arms. The way she had gasped when he had pulled her closer. The way her body had seemed to fit perfectly against his, as if it had always been meant to be there.
But all of that, as unbearable as it was, had been nothing compared to the single moment that had gutted him entirely. Hearing her call another man Rolfie. Watching her allow him to touch her, to lift her from the ground, to hold her as if she belonged there, as if she were his to keep, his to claim, his to whisper into.
She was not his. She had never been his. She would never be his.
She was Draco's.
And if she thought he was going to sit quietly with this feeling, if she thought he would let it fade, if she thought she could slip out of his reach into whatever game she was playing without consequence, she was wrong. Completely, dangerously wrong.
The shop was quiet when he stepped inside. Too quiet. It was peaceful in a way that set his teeth on edge, as if the air itself had no idea what was about to happen. Sunlight spilled in through the windows, soft and golden across the warm wood of the floors, the shelves lined neatly with jars of tea and glass canisters of dried herbs. It looked exactly as it had the day before. But Draco was not the same man who had stood here yesterday.
And then, he saw her.
Serene. Unbothered. Devastating.
She was behind the counter, her movements unhurried and maddeningly graceful. Her hair, pale as spun silver, fell loose down her back. Her fingers trailed along the smooth sides of glass jars as if she had all the time in the world, as if she had not torn him apart piece by piece and left him to live in the wreckage. When she turned, when her eyes found his, there was no hesitation. No surprise. No guilt. No trace of shame or even awareness that she should have any. His pulse spiked so sharply he almost swayed where he stood.
"Luna."
Her name left his mouth stripped of warmth. It was not a greeting. It was not a question. It was not a plea. It was a command, sharpened and edged with something raw, something dangerous, something that did not simply request her attention but demanded it without mercy.
She did not flinch.
If anything, she smiled.
It was slow, deliberate, almost lazy. It curled at the corners of her mouth with the faintest, wicked amusement. A smile that told him she was enjoying this, that she had expected him to come, that she had known from the very beginning he would not be able to stay away.
"Did you enjoy your performance yesterday?"
The words slid from her lips with the same calm precision she always carried, but they hit him like a spark to kindling. His whole body went rigid. His fingers curled into tight fists at his sides. His jaw locked until pain shot down the line of it into his neck.
And the worst part was that she was not even trying.
She was leaning against the counter as if it were the most natural thing in the world, her hip resting lazily against the wood, the soft fall of her hair catching the light in strands that almost glowed. Her hands were loose at her sides, not a hint of tension in them. Her eyes were steady, untroubled, almost lazy in their focus, and it was that calm— that infuriating, untouchable calm— that made something sharp twist in his chest. It was as if she did not know she was standing on the edge of a fire, as if she was not holding a lit match over a floor already slick with oil. As if she had no idea she was coaxing him, inch by inch, toward a line he could never uncross.
"You would rather get hit by a broom than spend a single minute without all the attention on you, wouldn't you?"
The words were nothing on the surface, but her tone was another matter entirely. Taunting. Teasing. Dragged out with a lightness that made them even more vicious. It was a blade slipped between his ribs without effort, a twist so precise it was almost elegant.
He moved before the thought could form. There was no strategy in it, no plan, only an instinct as old as the blood in his veins. He was closing the space before his mind caught up, his steps slow enough to be deliberate but not slow enough to stop. Reason clawed at him, telling him to stand down, to remember where he was, to remember who she was, but reason was nothing compared to the pull of her. Every step made the air feel thicker, made the air between them hum. By the time he stopped, he was close enough that she would feel it—the heat pouring from him, the tension wound tight in his body, the way his gaze locked on hers as if she were prey that had made the mistake of not running. Close enough that if he wanted to, and Merlin help him, he wanted to, he could close his hands on her hips, push her back until her spine met the counter, and make her understand every single thing she had done to him without even touching him.
"Who the fuck was he?"
It was not a question. It was a sentence, flat and low, wrapped in the kind of darkness that came with intent. The words carried something territorial, something lethal, something that curled like smoke through the air between them and wound around her like invisible rope, demanding an answer whether she wanted to give it or not.
And she—this girl, this impossible fucking girl—had the audacity to let her smile grow.
"My ex-husband."
The words were clean, unshaken, but they hit him like a curse aimed straight for the center of his chest. He felt them crack through the last barrier holding his composure together, each syllable sharp enough to bite.
Then she leaned in the tiniest bit, not enough for the world to notice, but enough for him to feel the shift, and she ended him.
"The one who knows how my cunt feels and tastes. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
The ground tilted beneath him. His vision narrowed to nothing but her mouth, her voice, the clean cruelty in her eyes. His blood roared in his ears, hot enough to scorch. For a heartbeat, he could not breathe. His body went rigid, his pulse thundering so erratically he half believed it might kill him right there. Rage and want surged in equal measure, a collision so violent it made him dizzy.
She was not finished.
"The man who once made me squirt in his face is my ex-husband."
The sound that left him was not human. It tore out from somewhere deep, somewhere dark, a growl that vibrated in his chest and scraped raw against his throat. It was not a warning. It was a promise.
He did not breathe for a moment. Could not. Her words sank into him like poisoned hooks, lodging deep, yanking at something primal that had no interest in reason or restraint. He was frozen, stunned, utterly fucking ruined, every muscle locked so tight it was as if she had cast Petrificus Totalus. It felt like she had stepped into the center of his chest and torn something out with her bare hands, leaving him standing there stripped of the last thin thread of control he had been clinging to.
His chest rose and fell in hard, uneven pulls. His palms twitched, aching to touch her, to ground himself, to do something, anything, to stop the spinning in his head. Heat climbed his spine, the kind of heat that had nothing to do with desire alone and everything to do with the dangerous collision of fury and want. Dirty, filthy mouth on this girl. He could not decide if he wanted to punish her for it or drop to his knees and let her keep talking until he burned alive.
And then he moved.
There was no pause, no breath, no thought spared for consequences. His hands were on her before his mind had caught up, gripping hard around her thighs and dragging her forward with a force that left no room for misunderstanding. The sound she made was sharp and breathless, not quite a gasp, not quite a moan, something caught in between that only made his grip tighten. Her fingers shot to his shoulders, clutching for balance, nails grazing through the thin fabric of his shirt.
He pulled her into the solid line of his body, close enough that her hip bones pressed into him, close enough that he could feel the faint tremor in her legs, close enough to know she was not as untouchable as she pretended to be. Her scent hit him all at once, warm and clean with a faint trace of whatever tea she had been working with, mixed with the sharper, intoxicating edge of her skin.
She had pushed him past the point of return. Every word she had spoken had been chosen to wound, to dig under his skin and make him bleed, and she had done it without mercy. Now she stood in front of him, caught in his hold, breathing his air, and he could see the truth in her eyes. She was not immune. Not now. Not like this.
"You wanted a reaction," he said, his voice low and uneven, his mouth close enough to brush her ear if he leaned a fraction closer. "Congratulations."
She had no idea how close she was to learning exactly what that reaction would feel like.
His hands left her thighs only to find her face, palms warm against her skin, fingers spanning the fine line of her jaw with a grip that balanced on the knife-edge between possession and restraint. His thumb dragged an unhurried path across her cheek, almost tender, almost reverent, but with an undertone of something darker. He was holding her as though he could not decide whether to worship her or ruin her past the point of recognition.
She stayed still, maddeningly still, her body quiet beneath his touch, but the truth betrayed itself in the subtle tension in her shoulders, the sharp pull of her breath, the way her lips parted just slightly, as though a word was forming and dying all at once. She looked like she was waiting. Waiting for him to crack, waiting to see if he would be fool enough to loosen his grip and let her go.
That was never going to happen.
This was not a game for him. It had never been casual, never fleeting, never something he could step away from once it grew complicated. There had never been a question of whether he wanted her. Only how soon he would take her, how deeply, how completely he would sink his claim into her until there was no part of her that did not bear his mark. The wanting had been there from the beginning, coiled low in his ribs like a living thing, winding tighter every time she spoke, every time her gaze caught his, every time she moved in a way that made his hands ache to touch her.
Now it had reached its limit.
Because he was selfish. Because he was greedy. Because every thought he had about her came laced with the same violent promise to take and to keep. Because he wanted to break her composure, strip her down until nothing was left except the parts of her that belonged to him. Because he wanted her to remember this moment for the rest of her life, to feel it in her bones even if she lived a hundred more years.
He leaned in, slow and deliberate, until the faint heat of his breath mingled with hers. His lips found the barest edge of her mouth, brushing so lightly it could have been mistaken for an accident, for a slip. The contact was a ghost of warmth, the softest spark of what she knew he could give her if he chose, and it was over almost before it began.
It was not enough to satisfy. It was enough to make her want more. Enough to set her nerves alight and keep them burning. Enough to drive her mad with the awareness that he was holding himself back, that every inch he did not take now was a promise of what he would take later.
But he knew she felt it. He could hear it in the small hitch of her breath against his lips, could see it in the way her body swayed ever so slightly toward him, could feel it in the faint, reflexive clench of her fingers where they hovered at her sides. She was standing perfectly still, but it was the stillness of someone holding themselves back from something they wanted, the stillness of a bowstring drawn to breaking. She was fighting it just as violently as he was.
And because he was a cruel, cruel man, because he wanted to push her to the edge and then watch her fall, because some vicious part of him needed her to understand exactly what she was doing to him, he bent just a fraction closer and whispered.
"Good morning, love."
The words were low, deliberate, as smooth and slow as honey, but with the weight of something darker. They slid between them like a blade in silk, wrapping around her like a spell, slipping under her skin as if they had always belonged there.
Her lips parted, not much, just enough for him to watch her breath stutter, enough for him to catch the smallest, most fragile sound that escaped her in the space between heartbeats. Her body hovered so close to his that it would have taken almost nothing to close the distance, to take her mouth with his, to make her taste exactly what she had provoked.
And then, just when he thought she might step back, might shove at his chest and end it before he could break himself any further, she stayed. She stayed exactly where she was, soft and unmoving, unbearably calm in the face of the chaos he was barely holding together.
"Good morning, darling."
Her voice was quiet, teasing, maddeningly composed, and the sound of it went through him like a slow, precise cut.
That was it.
That was the moment Draco Malfoy understood there would be no coming back from this. She was his. She had been his from the very first moment, from the first spark that had burned between them, from the first time her eyes had lingered on him without fear. She was his in ways she had not yet admitted, maybe not even to herself.
She just did not know it yet.
Luna was not entirely sure when this had begun, when the air between them had taken on a weight that seemed to press against her skin, when the easy banter had started to carry an edge sharp enough to cut, when the teasing had slowed and thickened until it felt like honey dragging itself from a spoon, sweet but heavy, too rich, too drawn out. Somewhere in the spaces between glances and the pauses in their conversations, it had changed. She had once thought of it as a harmless diversion, a lighthearted experiment in patience and self-control, a game played with careful hands and easy laughter. Yet somewhere along the way, the rules had shifted. It had become something else entirely, something with heat and teeth, something that wrapped around them like a ribbon pulled tighter and tighter until it bit into the skin. There was no slack left. No room to step back. No room to pretend that either of them could walk away unchanged.
It had begun with words, with sly remarks traded like stolen coins, with deliberate touches disguised as accidents, with veiled taunts meant to see just how far they could push before the other snapped. It had been sparring, at first, all feints and half-smiles, but now there was nothing playful about it. The air between them was heavy with unspoken promises, with the sort of silence that hummed louder than any sound. It had stopped being about who could outmaneuver the other and started being about who would break first.
Luna could not pinpoint the exact moment when her curiosity had shifted into something far more dangerous. Perhaps it was the way his voice would drop, low and rough, when he spoke to her alone. Perhaps it was the way his gaze lingered, unblinking, the weight of it trailing over her like a slow hand. Perhaps it was the way her own body betrayed her, the heat that curled low in her belly every time she caught that flicker in his eyes, the flicker that made her think of locked doors and stolen hours. There was something in him now, something that made her aware of every inch of her own skin.
Every time his fingers flexed at his sides, it was as though he was holding himself back from closing the distance, from testing how easily he could pin her in place. Every time she caught the dilation of his pupils, that darkening of his gaze, she knew it had nothing to do with idle interest. It was possession. It was a warning. It was hunger so sharp it could draw blood.
This was no longer just a lingering glance exchanged in passing. It was no longer the faint curl of a smirk meant to amuse. It was something coiled and ready, something that had been pulled taut for too long. It was need. It was war. It was surrender, and they had both already given far more ground than they were willing to admit.
For years she had thought of him as a distant thing, a shadow moving through the background of her life, a name spoken in both awe and caution. That boy was long gone. The man who stood before her now was something else entirely. He was raw edges and bruised pride, restless energy wound into every sharp movement. He looked like a man who had spent too long holding himself together and was now balanced on the very brink of letting himself come apart.
She saw it in the way his jaw tightened whenever she stepped into his space, in the way his breath would catch when her voice dipped to that hushed register meant for secrets. She saw it in his hands, in the restless curl and release of his fingers as though they could barely stand being empty. He looked like he wanted to take her apart piece by piece, to leave his mark so deep that no one could touch her without knowing who she belonged to.
And the worst part, the most dangerous part, was that she wanted him to.
She needed to know. Not just in the idle way one wonders about the taste of an unfamiliar fruit or the color of the sea in a faraway country. She needed to know in the way a drowning person needs air, in the way an addict needs the next dose, in the way the earth needs the pull of the moon. She needed to know how it would feel when his hands finally stopped hesitating, when the careful pause between touch and claim vanished, when his grip closed around her with the weight of every single moment he had been biting back. She needed to know the exact sound his breath would make when it broke in her ear, the exact way his body would press into hers when there was no longer anything between them, the exact rhythm of his pulse when he stopped holding himself in check and simply took.
She wanted to know what it would be like to have him above her, all shadow and heat, blocking out everything else until her entire world was the cut of his jaw and the fire in his eyes. She wanted to know what it would feel like to have his weight pinning her down, to have the length of him fitted against her in a way that left no doubt, no air, no escape. She wanted to know the press of his mouth when it was not tempered, not measured, not thinking of consequences. She wanted to know the sharpness of his hunger when it finally sank into her, when it wrapped around her like a second skin.
She wanted to see what Draco Malfoy looked like when he was completely unraveled. Not the small slips, not the cracks she had seen flicker across his composure when she caught him off guard. She wanted to see him ruined. She wanted him stripped bare of the sharp control that had been his armor for years, the icy reserve he wore like a second face. She wanted to watch that fall away piece by piece until there was nothing left between them but skin and want and the raw, burning truth of what this had become. She wanted to see if he would curse her name as he lost himself, if his voice would break on it, if he would shudder against her like a man brought to his knees.
But deep down, she already knew the answer.
Draco Malfoy would not give her the satisfaction easily. He would draw it out. He would make her beg for it, not because he needed her desperation but because he would want to taste it, to savor it, to make her feel every inch of what she had done to him. He would take his time. He would mark her with every slow, deliberate touch until she understood exactly what it meant to provoke him, until every teasing glance, every whispered provocation, every calculated brush of her hand was burned into her skin as something she could never take back. And she, with the same hunger curling deep in her own body, would welcome it.
Because this was not just attraction. It was not some fleeting pull destined to burn itself out. It was not a passing curiosity or a game of idle temptation. This was something older, something carved into the bone. It felt inevitable in a way that defied reason, the kind of inevitability that made her believe in words like fate.
She had already won, though she doubted he would ever admit it aloud. She had already embedded herself under his skin, in the quiet places of his mind he kept hidden from the world. She had already pried loose the grip he kept on himself, had already watched the restraint shred into ribbons when she pressed just hard enough. He was not the man who had walked into her shop weeks ago, all polished edges and cool disdain. He was not the man who had believed he could admire her from a distance and then simply walk away. He was not the man who thought desire could be denied without consequence.
She had cracked him open.
But that was only the beginning.
Because a crack could be patched. A crack could be hidden. What she wanted was something far beyond that. She wanted to break him in ways that could never be undone. She wanted to find the exact place where his control bled into weakness, where his pride dissolved into surrender, where the man who had built himself into something untouchable could no longer stand. She wanted to take him to that place and keep him there.
She wanted to find the thing that would finally bring him to his knees.
And when she did, when she uncovered the piece of him that could not bear the weight of her touch without crumbling, when she pushed him past the edge and left him shaking and undone, when he was too far gone to deny her, too far gone to remember what life had been before this, too far gone to let her go, she would not stand above him in victory.
She would go down with him.
Draco still stood between her legs, his body radiating heat like a living furnace, his shadow falling over her until it felt as though the entire world had narrowed to the space he occupied. He was so close that she could feel every subtle shift of his breath, every ripple of tension in the muscles beneath his clothes, every pulse of energy rolling off him in waves that seemed to press into her skin. It should have been suffocating. It should have made her pull back, should have made her question every step that had led her to this moment, should have made her remember that getting too close to him was like walking barefoot across a floor littered with shards of glass.
But she did not retreat. She did not flinch. She did not even consider moving away.
This was exactly what she had been working toward, exactly what she had been stoking with each lingering look, each quiet provocation, each razor-edged remark delivered just close enough to cut. This was the conclusion that had been building with every meeting, every argument, every moment they had tested each other, circling like predators too proud to admit that they were already caught.
He was close, so close that the air between them felt charged enough to spark, but it still was not enough. She could feel the restraint vibrating in him, stretched taut like a rope about to snap. It was there in the way his hands hovered just above her thighs, close enough to feel their warmth but refusing to close the distance. It was there in the way his jaw locked so tightly she thought it might crack. It was there in the deliberate, shallow rhythm of his breathing, each inhale and exhale a battle for control.
And she liked it.
She liked the way he was forcing himself to hold back. She liked the way he allowed her to set the pace, even though she knew it was costing him more than he would ever admit. She liked that she could feel the raw, volatile energy caged beneath his skin, ready to explode with the slightest push. Because they both knew he was one breath, one glance, one touch away from abandoning that precious control entirely.
That was what she wanted.
She wanted to see him lose himself, wanted to watch the moment the mask slipped and the man beneath it emerged, stripped bare and burning. She wanted to feel the moment he gave in, the moment every ounce of his composure shattered and left him desperate, reckless, undone. She wanted him ruined in her hands.
So she touched him.
Her fingers moved with a kind of slow, deliberate care that was all the more devastating for its restraint. She started low, smoothing her palms over the rigid lines of his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles tightened under her touch as though bracing against a blow. Her nails scraped lightly across his skin, not enough to hurt but enough to leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake. She could feel the small tremor that ran through him, the involuntary twitch that betrayed what he was trying so hard to hide.
Her hands wandered higher, tracing the planes of his chest, mapping the solid strength there with an almost idle curiosity that she knew was anything but innocent. When her palm pressed flat over his heart, she felt it pounding with a force that matched her own, the erratic rhythm exposing every lie in the calm he tried to project.
He was trying. Merlin, he was trying.
But his body had already given him away.
By the time she reached his face, he was already leaning into her touch without thinking, his body betraying him before his mind could form a protest. It was the smallest shift, the slightest lean, but it spoke louder than anything he could have said. Her fingertips skimmed along the sharp edge of his jaw, the heat of his skin searing against her palm as she smoothed over the ridge of his cheekbone. She traced the curve of his mouth with a featherlight touch, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, and his lips parted as though the contact had stolen the air from his lungs.
Everything about him was wound tight, every muscle drawn and coiled, his control stretched to the breaking point. He was waiting. Waiting for permission, waiting for her to tip him over that edge, waiting for something he did not even have the language for. She could feel it in the way his chest rose and fell too quickly, in the shallow rhythm of his breathing, in the way his hands stayed locked on her hips without pulling her closer, as though the act of holding back had become a punishment in itself.
She smiled then, slow and deliberate, the kind of smile that spoke of knowledge and victory all at once. Tilting her head, she let her thumb pass over his lower lip, pressing just enough to feel the shape of it before dragging along the heat of his mouth. His pupils blew wide, his breathing turned ragged, and the grip on her hips tightened as if he was hanging by a single thread.
She knew exactly where to cut.
Because she wanted to see him crack, because she wanted to see that mask splinter and fall away, because she wanted to watch him unravel completely beneath her hands, she leaned in. Her voice dropped to something soft and velvety, but sharp enough to draw blood if he was not careful.
"Were you a good boy?"
The effect was instantaneous. His reaction was not loud or wild, but it hit with the force of a curse. His fingers dug into her hips, his body locked solid, and a shudder ran through him so deep it felt as though she had struck the very center of him. It was there in the way his breath left him in one long, unsteady exhale, in the way his jaw flexed like he was biting back a thousand words, in the way his eyes went dark and desperate all at once.
She had found something.
It was written across his face, in the flicker of panic that came and went so quickly it might have been missed by anyone else, in the dawning recognition that she had uncovered a weakness he had not known he possessed until she spoke it aloud.
His lips parted, and what came out was raw, scraped down to the bone.
"No."
Then, sharper, more certain, each syllable bitten off like it burned to admit.
"Absolutely not."
The sound of it coiled through her, hot and dangerous. It was not contrition. It was not shame. It was an admission of something darker, something ruinous, something that made her pulse hammer in her throat.
"What did you do?"
The question was almost playful, but her eyes never left his. She did not have to ask. She could see the answer in him already, in the way his gaze flickered, in the memory she could almost feel sparking behind his eyes. But she wanted to hear him say it. She wanted to hold the words in her hands.
Her thumb swept across his lip again, slow and deliberate, and he shuddered. She could feel the restraint vibrating in him, the way it seemed to pull his body taut, the way his jaw worked under the pressure of his own teeth.
"Destroyed my home."
The confession was almost too calm, too matter-of-fact, as if the words themselves could not possibly contain the scale of what he had done.
Her blink was slow, measured, not in surprise but in satisfaction. Understanding settled into her like the final piece of a puzzle sliding into place. She could see it so clearly now, as if she had been there herself.
Draco Malfoy, alone in the cold, echoing halls of his family manor, tearing through the silence with the fury she had left in him. His hands ripping priceless heirlooms from the walls, magic sparking in the air like a storm breaking loose indoors, rage making him careless with things generations of Malfoys had guarded. Shards of glass scattering across marble, portraits screaming from their frames, silver splintering under the weight of a man who had never learned to be denied.
All of it for her.
And Merlin help her, she liked knowing that.
She hummed, low in her throat, the sound carrying more satisfaction than surprise. It was not the kind of reaction that flattered, nor one that sought to soothe. It was the sound of someone who had expected exactly this, who had counted on it.
"Why?"
The question was unnecessary, and they both knew it. She asked anyway, because she wanted to hear the truth fall from his mouth, wanted to trap it between them where there would be no taking it back.
"Were you jealous, darling?"
He did not flinch. He did not try to hide behind a smirk, did not twist the question into a joke, did not give her the out of pretending it had been nothing. His hands tightened instantly, the grip on her hips turning bruising, his body coiling as though bracing for impact. For a moment she thought he might actually snap under the strain of it, might take her right there without another word, might tear away the last shred of patience between them.
"Incredibly."
The word was spoken like a confession dragged up from somewhere dark and locked away, like an admission of sin from a man who had never before believed in the act of confessing. There was no hesitation in it, no careful editing, no attempt to make himself look stronger or more in control than he was. It was raw, unvarnished truth, and she drank it in like it was the only thing worth hearing.
Merlin, she loved it.
She loved the way he gave it to her without shame, without flinching, without the faintest trace of reluctance. Draco Malfoy did not beg. Draco Malfoy did not plead. Draco Malfoy did not give anyone the satisfaction of knowing where his weaknesses lay. And yet here he was, laying them bare in her hands as though they belonged to her already.
She smiled, slow and knowing, as the thought settled deep in her bones. She was going to break him apart for it.
"I do not love that man anymore."
The words slipped from her lips like a secret meant only for him, soft enough to be mistaken for something tender, but sharp enough to cut straight through the taut line of his control. She saw the twitch in him the moment they landed. His fingers dug into her hips, the pressure sharp enough to send a pulse of heat through her skin, his body shifting closer, closing what little space remained between them. It was as though he wanted to press her into himself until there was nothing separating them at all, as though he wanted to brand those words into his own skin until they were part of him.
"You have nothing to be jealous of."
It was not simple reassurance, and it was not spoken for comfort. It was something else entirely, something truer, something that cut deeper. It was a truth handed over with an unspoken invitation, a quiet acknowledgment that whatever this was between them had weight, had shape, had already rooted itself too deeply to be ignored. It was a promise that he was not imagining the way she looked at him, not imagining the pull that had been dragging them toward this moment since the very first spark caught between them.
But she was not ready to leave it there.
Not yet.
She needed more. She needed to know how much he would give, how far he would go, how much of himself he was willing to lay bare in her hands before she allowed him to take her apart in return. She needed to push him to the edge and see whether he would jump or pull her with him.
She moved with an agonizing slowness, the kind that felt intentional, the kind that could make a man go insane if he was left in it for too long. Every shift of her weight, every subtle bend of her wrist, every inch of space she stole from the air between them was deliberate. There was no rush in her movements, no urgency, no clumsy fumbling. She was in complete control, and she knew it. Her fingers slid up the back of his neck with the lightest curl, not dragging him forward, not holding him captive, just guiding. The touch was deceptively soft, but it carried the weight of a command he could not disobey.
He felt himself yielding without thought, leaning in as if his body belonged to her entirely. The back of his neck burned under her touch, the heat spreading outward in slow, molten waves that pooled in his chest, tightening around his ribs until breathing felt dangerous. His pulse pounded so hard it drowned out everything else, a steady, deafening drum that only grew louder the closer she came.
The air between them was nearly gone now, thinned into something fragile and electric. It hummed around his skin, prickling at the base of his spine, making his lungs ache from the effort it took not to simply close the distance himself. His jaw ached from holding it so tight, his shoulders locked, his hands twitching at his sides like they had minds of their own. He could see the rise and fall of her chest, could feel the faint warmth of her breath when it brushed over his mouth, could taste the unspoken challenge she carried in her stillness.
He wanted to touch her. Merlin, he wanted it so badly it was almost physically painful. His fingers curled and uncurled again and again, desperate for contact, desperate to ground himself against the solid reality of her. But he stayed still. He did not close the gap, did not let himself be the one to break first. This was hers to give. And if she wanted to take her time, if she wanted to torment him, if she wanted to unravel him strand by strand, then he would stand there and let her, even if it killed him.
Then, just when he thought he could not endure a second longer, when he was certain the tension had reached its breaking point and might tear the air apart, she moved.
It was small, almost imperceptible. A slight tilt of her head, the faintest shift of her weight, a change in the current between them so delicate it barely stirred the air. And then it happened. Contact. The softest, briefest press of her lips against his. Not a kiss, not really. Just the barest brush, a taste, a hint of what she was holding back.
It should have been enough to soothe him. It was not.
It was the kind of touch that only deepened the hunger, the kind that opened every nerve and left them raw. It was cruel in its restraint, a calculated denial dressed as a gift. She was offering him a drop of water when he was dying of thirst, letting him inhale the scent of smoke without letting him touch the fire.
His body reacted before his mind could catch up. His lips parted, seeking hers, aching to close the space again, to deepen the contact, to take more. His breath caught as the need clawed up from somewhere low in his gut, sharp and insistent. His hands flexed, rising halfway before he forced them back to his sides, fighting against the bone-deep urge to grab her and hold her there until she gave him what he wanted.
But she was already pulling away.
The loss hit him like a punch, leaving the taste of her ghosted on his mouth, leaving the absence of her pressed into every nerve. His jaw locked so tightly he swore it might crack, and it took every shred of willpower not to make a sound that would betray just how much she had undone him in those few fleeting seconds.
She stepped back with the kind of poise that felt like mockery, her breathing calm, her gaze unreadable, as though she had not just taken a piece of him and walked away with it. Draco stood where she had left him, every muscle tight, every breath uneven, and felt the heat of her still clinging to his skin like she had branded him.
And fuck, he was already aching for her to do it again.
His entire body went rigid, every muscle locked, his fists curling tight at his sides until his knuckles ached. It was instinct more than thought, the immediate, violent reaction of someone on the edge, someone moments away from either breaking or exploding. His mind struggled to keep up, to make sense of what had just happened, to piece together the impossible truth that she had done that—kissed him just enough to ruin him—and then turned away like it was nothing. His lips still burned with the ghost of her, his pulse thundered like it was trying to tear through his ribs, and his grip on himself, on the last threads of his self-control, hung by something paper-thin and fraying.
He was already a second from snapping when she did something worse.
Her thumb touched his mouth, slow and deliberate, pressing against the center of his lower lip before tracing the shape of it with a maddening precision. The contact was featherlight but consuming, a single point of heat that spread through him like poison. He could feel the faint drag of her skin, the lingering weight of her fingertip as if she was imprinting herself there, branding him. The message was clear. Do not move. Do not take. Do not do anything but stand here and suffer.
His breathing had turned ragged, shallow pulls of air that left him dizzy. His chest rose and fell too fast. He felt unmoored, his thoughts scattering in every direction, but she was calm. Infuriatingly calm. Her touch didn't waver, her posture didn't falter, her composure didn't crack. She stood there with a small, lazy curve to her lips, her eyes locked on his like she was reading the exact pace of his unraveling. There was something in her gaze that was devastating, something that told him she knew exactly how far she could push him before he broke, and she was enjoying every second of it.
Then she spoke.
"I have to go to the bank, okay?"
His brain stuttered, stalled, then blanked completely.
She was leaving.
She was fucking leaving.
After that? After this? After pulling him to the brink and holding him there until every nerve screamed for her, until he was one breath from grabbing her, keeping her, making her finish what she had started?
"Of course."
The words scraped out of him like they had to fight their way past something lodged in his throat. They came rough, uneven, wrecked, still ghosting against her thumb, still tangled in the taste of her. He hated how weak they sounded, hated that she could do this to him, hated that he felt like the floor had just shifted under his feet because she had touched him for barely a heartbeat and then taken it away.
His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding hard enough to ache, his fingers twitching at his sides with the sharp, unrelenting urge to grab her by the wrist and hold her there until she admitted she wanted to stay. But he didn't. He stood still, letting the moment belong to her, because this was her game and he had already fucking lost.
"Gods, Luna, what are you doing to me?"
Her smile deepened, soft in a way that only made it worse, her eyes carrying a gleam that was part mockery and part something far more dangerous. It hit him like the slow pull of a knife, sharp but deliberate, as if she knew exactly how deep to cut without killing him.
"Kissing you."
The words slid into him like they belonged there. His stomach clenched and twisted, heat curling low and insistent, his body still buzzing with the ghost of her mouth. It was unbearable, this need that felt so raw and unrelenting it bordered on pain. And he knew, without a shred of doubt, that he would do anything, absolutely anything, to feel her kiss him again.
Then she was moving.
He barely caught the shift of her body before she was turning away, slipping from the heat of him, pulling her touch with her. The absence was immediate and brutal, leaving him standing in the center of the room like someone had stripped something vital from his chest. His gaze followed her automatically, his entire body wound so tight he could hear the rush of his own pulse in his ears.
At the door, she glanced back.
Her head tilted, her hair catching the light, her mouth curved just enough to taunt him. The look in her eyes was playful, wicked, and utterly certain of its power.
"See you tomorrow?"
It wasn't a question. It was a sentence, a sentence he wanted to serve for the rest of his life.
He couldn't breathe. His chest felt crushed, his throat tight, his body wound so violently in this hunger for her that even speaking was an effort. Still, somehow, he found his voice.
"See you tomorrow."
And then she was gone, the sound of her steps fading into silence, and Draco Malfoy stood there, alone, officially and entirely ruined.