He smirked—slow, deliberate, and sharp as a blade—the kind of smirk that had always driven her to the brink of madness, that infuriating curve of his lips that made her want to tear into him, to claw past that insufferable exterior, to rip through the arrogance like paper just to see what lay buried beneath it all. She wanted to unravel the layers of control he wore like armor, to expose the man beneath the smug confidence, beneath the meticulously polished cruelty, beneath that maddening, unbearable poise that made her pulse thunder and her skin feel too tight. It was a subtle thing, barely visible—a mere twitch of his mouth, a fleeting glimmer of amusement in the depths of his otherwise impenetrable, frozen expression—but it was enough.
Enough to tip her over the edge she'd been teetering on for far too long. Enough to snap the last thread of composure she'd been clinging to. Enough to ignite something wild and volatile within her, something raw that twisted in her gut and spread through her like wildfire. Her hands curled into trembling fists, her breath caught between rage and longing, escaping in a ragged, gasping exhale as she stepped forward—closer than she should, closer than was safe—and when she spoke, her voice was a fractured whisper laced with fury, every syllable cutting like shattered glass. "Fuck you, Malfoy."
His eyes, once cold and distant, darkened with sudden intensity, the smirk on his lips curving into something deeper, more dangerous—something bitter and cruel, sharp-edged and devastating in its truth.
"Come and fuck me then, darling," he said, each word slow and deliberate, laced with a taunting heat that curled like smoke. "Wasn't that what it was supposed to be?" His voice dropped lower, lazy on the surface but trembling with something volatile just beneath it—something that threatened to break if touched too roughly. "Just a mediocre shag, right? Isn't that what you said?"
Her heart slammed violently against her ribcage, the air caught in her lungs like a trapped scream, because she couldn't tell anymore whether she wanted to strike him or kiss him or fall to her knees and shatter in his arms. Because he was doing it again—twisting her emotions like a blade, wrapping her up in his chaos, making it impossible to think clearly, to breathe properly, to be anything other than completely, helplessly consumed by the presence of him.
"Draco…"
The smirk faltered—just slightly, just enough to let something else flicker through his eyes. Something unguarded. Something unbearably raw that made her chest ache with things she hadn't let herself name.
"You had your chance to speak your mind," he murmured then, his voice quieter now, stripped of the arrogance, rough around the edges, heavy with things unsaid. "To speak your truth. And now…" He swallowed, jaw tense, his composure barely holding. "Now you're free to go. You can leave, if that's what you want."
She froze, breath catching—because she didn't know what she wanted anymore.
Her whole body went rigid, frozen in place as if time itself had paused around her. Her nails dug into the soft flesh of her palms, sharp enough to leave little crescent-shaped marks, but the pain barely registered over the nauseating twist in her stomach. It was the kind of sickening churn that came with sudden clarity, the kind that made her want to double over and scream, because deep down—on a level so bone-deep it ached—she knew. She fucking knew.
This wasn't a bluff. This wasn't one of their typical games, their endless back-and-forths of snide remarks and charged silences and touches that meant too much. This wasn't just another round in their exhausting, exhilarating battle of wills. He was serious. Dead serious. He was handing her an exit, an escape, a clean break wrapped in quiet devastation—and she didn't want it. She didn't fucking want it.
She wanted to scream until her throat was raw, to grab him by the collar and shake the truth out of him, to demand answers he wasn't giving—what the hell he was thinking, why he was saying these things, why his voice sounded like a goodbye dressed in grief. Why he was looking at her with that haunted expression, like he was already mourning something that hadn't been lost yet, bracing himself for the pain he seemed convinced was inevitable.
Draco let out a breath, short and sharp, like it hurt to release it, and dragged a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its usual edge—it was quieter now, hollowed out, laced with bitterness that didn't feel like anger so much as defeat. Something final.
"I put your house back where it belongs," he said, each word slow, pronounced, like he had rehearsed this moment, like he needed to say it out loud to make it real. "So you can pretend none of this mattered. You can pretend that this year meant absolutely nothing to you. You can pretend that I wasn't standing there, ring in my fucking pocket, planning to propose to you on our anniversary."
And just like that, the world stopped spinning.
Luna's heart slammed to a standstill, her lungs seizing mid-breath, her entire universe narrowing to the sound of his voice echoing in her skull. Everything around her blurred into background noise—she couldn't hear anything but her own heartbeat pounding like war drums in her ears, couldn't think beyond the weight of his words.
"What?"
The word slipped out, barely more than a breath, hoarse and broken and disbelieving. She hardly recognized her own voice—it sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else. She didn't even notice the way her hands had started to tremble again, or how her vision went hazy for a heartbeat before she blinked and forced herself to look at him. Really look at him. To memorize every line of his face, every flicker of emotion he wasn't trying hard enough to hide, to feel the full force of what he'd just said settle in her bones.
Draco's jaw was clenched tight, as if the effort of holding himself together was fraying at the seams. His eyes were blank, unreadable, but his posture betrayed him—his shoulders drawn in, spine stiff with restraint, like a man doing everything he could not to collapse under the weight of his own vulnerability.
"You're free to leave," he said again, softer this time, like the words physically hurt him to say, like they were being pulled from somewhere deep inside. And yet, they struck with the same force, no less devastating, no less real.
She just stood there, utterly paralyzed, staring at him—at this man who had shattered her defenses and stormed into her life like a reckoning. The man who had fought for her when no one else would, who had challenged her, changed her, broken her open and filled her with something terrifying and beautiful. The man who had loved her in ways she never thought possible.
A proposal?
He had been planning to propose?
The thought was so absurd it almost made her laugh. Almost. Was he completely mental?
She should leave. Every instinct screamed it—turn around, walk away, run as fast and as far as she could. Put it all behind her.
But her feet wouldn't move.
She should push past him—should brush past his shoulder without a second glance, stride out the door, and pretend this entire conversation had never happened. Pretend that her chest didn't feel like it had been cracked open with surgical precision, that something deep and fragile inside her hadn't just split wide apart under the weight of what he said. Pretend that the ache blooming in her ribcage, sharp and breathless and unbearable, wasn't real. That it was all just a momentary lapse in control, a fleeting, meaningless flash of vulnerability in a sea of calculated distance. She should leave. She knew that. But her feet refused to move.
Instead, she swallowed hard, the lump in her throat nearly choking her, and forced her voice to rise above the silence. It shook, trembled with unshed emotions and raw confusion, but she managed to speak through it, even if every word felt like a struggle.
"Why would you say something like that?" she asked, her voice rough, accusatory, barely held together. Her fists clenched tight at her sides, her entire body trembling—not just from anger, but from something deeper. Something uncertain and unsteady and terrifying. "Just to fuck with my head? Is that it? I don't appreciate this kind of tactic, Malfoy. Not from you. Not like this."
Draco exhaled, a shaky, uneven breath that sounded like it was scraped straight from his lungs. He dragged a hand through his already tousled hair, his movements restless, agitated, like he was trying to keep from unraveling. His chest rose and fell heavily, each breath a struggle under the weight of everything he hadn't said, everything he'd bottled up for far too long. And when he finally spoke, his voice came out low and hoarse, thick with something that bordered on desperation—a kind of fragile honesty that cost him far more than he liked to admit. But in this moment, he didn't care. Not about pride. Not about power. Not about control. The only thing he cared about was getting her to understand, truly understand.
"I did want to propose," he said, and the words were so soft, so laced with pain, it felt like they might fall apart in the air. "That wasn't some empty line, Luna. That wasn't a manipulation. That was me—fucking terrified and trying not to lose you. Because you're the only person in my life who has ever actually seen me. Really seen me. Not the name. Not the money. Not the title or the business deals or the legacy." His voice cracked, the edge of it rough as he pressed forward. "Not the arrogant, possessive bastard everyone else assumes I am. You saw straight through all of it. Through the walls. Through the anger. Through the damn armor I didn't even know I was wearing. You saw me before I even knew who the fuck I was—and that…" He broke off, swallowing hard, his hands curling into fists, jaw tight with effort as he fought for the words. "That's why I needed you to be mine. Not as a possession, not to own you, but because you were already a part of me. You've always been. That's why I wanted you to be my wife."
Luna inhaled sharply, the sound of it like a gasp dragged through disbelief. Her eyes were wide, shimmering with emotion she wasn't ready to name, her lips parted as she stared at him like he had just rewritten the entire story of them in one breath. She looked like she wanted to run, like her instincts were still screaming at her to turn and flee—but she didn't. Instead, she just stood there, rooted in place, caught in a storm she hadn't seen coming, unsure whether to believe him, to trust this naked truth, or to shield herself from it before it consumed her completely. Because for all the walls she'd built, for all the battles they'd fought—she had never imagined he'd say those words. And now that he had, she didn't know how to hold them.
Draco didn't give her the space to interrupt—not even for a breath, not for a heartbeat. He couldn't. If he stopped now, he wasn't sure he'd be able to start again. He needed to get the words out before they drowned him. He needed her to hear every last syllable, to feel the full weight of them, to understand just how far gone he was—how completely, irrevocably lost in her he had become.
"I needed you to be the mother of my heir," he said, his voice thickening, rasping around the edges, growing hoarser with every word, like the emotions were clawing their way up his throat, trying to strangle him mid-confession. "I needed to see your hair turn grey beside mine. I needed to hear you complain about the aches of getting older while I handed you your tea in the morning. I needed to bicker with you about what curtains we should buy in our seventies. I needed to get old and miserable with you in the kind of way that only love can make beautiful. I needed you to fucking exist beside me, in all your maddening, beautiful chaos, every single day for the rest of my life, because I don't know how to exist without you anymore. I don't know how to breathe in a world where you're not mine. And I know it's wrong. I know I'm not wired right—I'm obsessive, I'm possessive, I'm fucking broken in a thousand ways. I know I don't love cleanly or gently or normally. But it's you, Luna." His voice cracked. "It's always been you."
Her fingers twitched where they hung at her sides, the barest movement betraying the storm beneath her skin. Like they wanted to reach out and touch him, to ground him—or maybe to ground herself. Like they ached to close the distance between them, to take hold of something real and burning and undeniable. But she didn't move. Not yet. Because she was fighting a war inside herself, a war between fear and longing, between everything she'd spent years holding back and everything she felt threatening to break free.
"And I know," Draco went on, softer now, the sharp edge of his voice dulled by desperation. He could barely breathe, barely meet her eyes, like he was holding himself together with sheer will. Like he wasn't sure he could survive her silence, let alone her rejection. "I know I could never stop obsessing over you. Not even if I tried. Not even if I was ordered to forget. I know that even if you walk out that door tonight and never look back, even if you spend the rest of your life pretending that we never happened, pretending that none of this mattered—I will never, ever stop loving you. I will never stop wondering if you're okay, or hoping you're happy, or hating myself for not being enough. I will never stop thinking about you at 3 a.m. I will never stop waiting for you, even if it takes my whole damn life."
Silence fell then.
A thick, aching silence that pressed in from all sides, wrapping around them like a second skin. Agonizing. Unbearable. Full of everything unsaid and everything too loud to speak.
Draco could feel his pulse hammering relentlessly in his ears, each beat loud and urgent like a drum signaling war. The blood surged through his veins, hot and frantic, as if trying to carry all the unsaid things straight to his heart. Every second felt like a lifetime—like the universe itself had slowed, stretched thin with tension—as she just stood there, unmoving, staring at him with a look he couldn't decipher. There was something in her eyes—something fragile, something fierce, something that made hope rise and fall in the span of a breath.
"I do love you…" she began, cutting through the silence before he could even find the words forming on his tongue. The moment the words touched the air, the breath he hadn't realized he was holding came rushing out of him in a sharp, uneven exhale, his chest heaving with the release of it. Relief surged up his spine, bright and blinding—but it was short-lived. Because then she kept going. And the rest of her words landed like a slap to the chest.
"But not like this," she said, and the quiet heartbreak in her voice splintered through him. "I don't like the possessive side of you. That's the only thing I don't like. And…" her voice softened, tilted just enough into something teasing, "…that you snore."
Draco blinked in stunned disbelief, his brain taking a second too long to register the shift in tone. His jaw tensed, teeth grinding as his pride kicked in, and his stomach bottomed out in protest.
"I do not!" he snapped, the words sharp with indignation and deeply wounded ego. His tone was nearly scandalized, as though she had just accused him of something far more offensive. "I absolutely do not snore."
To his surprise—and complete internal undoing—Luna laughed. She actually laughed. A real, unfiltered, unguarded laugh that lit up her whole face and echoed in the quiet space between them. And fuck, the sound of it—God, the sound—slammed into him like a meteor. It was so familiar, so painfully missed, that it stole the air from his lungs. That laugh had once been his favorite sound in the world. It had softened the hardest parts of him, had melted the walls he didn't even know he'd built. And now, just hearing it again unraveled something tight in his chest, made the tension in his shoulders loosen, made the world—just for a second—feel lighter.
"You do," she said, amusement dancing in her voice, her lips curving as her eyes sparkled with that maddening mischief that had always been so uniquely her. "But only when you're exhausted. You get this little puff-snore thing. It's honestly kind of cute."
Draco narrowed his eyes at her, his whole expression shifting into mock outrage. He opened his mouth, ready to argue, to refute every syllable, to demand evidence—because he was a Malfoy, and Malfoys did not snore. It was practically a law of nature. But before he could launch into his defense, she moved—just slightly—drawing in a deep breath, and the world snapped back into place. The laughter faded into the background, and the truth of the moment returned with a sharp edge. They weren't out of the storm yet.
"Back to the serious topic," she murmured, her voice dipping low, dragging them both back into the gravity of everything that had been momentarily softened by laughter. And just like that, the air shifted again—thickening, charged with that familiar, electric tension that always seemed to crackle between them when they touched something real. Her eyes searched his, slow and deliberate, as if she were peeling back the layers of his defenses one by one. "Why are you so obsessed with me?"
Draco paused—just for a fraction of a second—but the silence said more than hesitation. It was a breath before impact, a heartbeat before truth. Because the answer wasn't complicated. It never had been. It had lived inside him from the first time he'd truly seen her, woven into the marrow of his bones, into the way his soul tilted toward her without permission.
"You smell like my Amortentia," he said at last, the words quiet, but jagged around the edges. His voice carried the weight of everything he'd never said aloud. His gaze fixed on her, dark and unreadable, but heavy with meaning—like he was bracing for her to laugh, to pull away, to not understand how much that one sentence contained.
Luna tilted her head just slightly, the smallest of movements, but it felt like the air shifted again. Her expression was unreadable, as elusive and haunting as moonlight on water. Her lashes lowered, casting shadows over her cheeks, but her lips parted, and when she spoke, her voice was softer than before—softer, but more dangerous. It wrapped around him like silk laced with thorns, like a whispered incantation that could undo him with a single word. "And?" she asked, as if daring him to keep going, to give her all of it.
Draco stepped forward—slow, measured, deliberate. He wasn't just closing the physical distance; he was pressing everything he was into that space between them, filling it with the heat of his body, the steady force of his presence. It wasn't just nearness—it was gravity. And she was caught in his orbit. His voice, when he spoke, was low, composed on the surface, but there was something just beneath—something feral, something aching, something that wanted her too much.
"You smell like mine too," she whispered before he could answer, and the words hit him like a blow to the chest. His stomach clenched so hard it made him dizzy, like the ground had tilted beneath him.
But she wasn't finished.
"But that doesn't mean you have to behave like an actual dragon."
A sharp exhale left him, somewhere between a breath and a laugh—but it wasn't joy. It was tension breaking, just for a second. "An actual dragon?" he echoed, one brow arching in disbelief, as if trying to decide whether to be offended or charmed.
Luna shrugged with infuriating casualness, like she hadn't just reached inside him and wrapped her hands around something sacred. "It's the hoarding for me," she said, voice tinged with wry amusement and something gentler underneath. "You collect rare, beautiful, expensive things and then guard them like the world is trying to steal them from you. You get so possessive. And I think you—" Her voice wavered, just for a second, and she exhaled sharply, like she was trying to keep herself from saying too much. "I think you see me like one of them."
Draco's jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His hands flexed at his sides, useless and aching for her. There was a fire building in his chest—hot, wild, suffocating. Because she wasn't wrong. Not really. He did see her that way—not as a thing to own, but as something irreplaceable. Something that couldn't be replicated, couldn't be shared. Something he needed so desperately, it felt like starvation. He knew it wasn't healthy. He knew the way he loved her wasn't gentle or easy or simple. It didn't come in light touches or soft reassurances. It came in waves. It came like a fucking hurricane.
He knew—God, he knew—that the way he looked at her wasn't normal. The way he wanted her, craved her, needed her—it wasn't something he could explain in calm, rational words. It wasn't something that made sense in the light of day. It was the kind of need that hollowed out his chest and rewired his bones. It was madness wrapped in longing, devotion painted in obsession. If he tried to explain it, he'd sound unhinged. Like a man possessed. Like someone who would scorch the sky, drown the oceans, and raze entire empires just to keep her near, just to feel the shape of her heart beating against his. But wasn't that what love was—for him, at least? Wasn't that what it had always been? Not careful. Never easy. It was fire and teeth and need. It was all-consuming, a black hole with her name at the center.
He moved closer, step by deliberate step, until there was barely space between their bodies. So close he could hear her breath hitch—sharp and shallow, caught in her throat like a secret. So close he could see the storm in her eyes, every emotion fighting for dominance—rage, hunger, fear, love. So close that the air between them was no longer breathable; it was charged, alive, waiting to combust. If he moved even an inch, he knew he'd feel the tremor in her limbs, the tension coiled in her spine, the way she was trembling with the force of everything she was trying to contain. He reached for her hands—gentle, reverent—and took them in his own, lifting them to his lips. He kissed each finger, one by one, slow and deliberate, like each touch was a promise he wasn't ready to speak aloud. And when he reached her ring finger, he lingered there, his lips brushing the skin like a vow whispered in a chapel. Like something sacred. Like something inevitable.
"I love you," he breathed against her skin, the words almost weightless, but heavy with everything he meant. His voice was soft, reverent, raw. "More than the universe itself. More than anything I've ever known."
Luna shuddered. The sound, the feel of those words—their truth—moved through her like a shockwave. Draco saw it all, every subtle shift in her. The way her chest rose in one desperate breath, the way her pupils darkened and expanded, swallowing the light, the way her fingers twitched like she didn't trust them anymore. Like she didn't trust herself not to reach for him and never let go.
She wanted to slap him. To scream and curse and rail against the way he always made her feel too much. She wanted to rip the clothes from his arrogant, maddening, beautiful body. She wanted to claw at him, to hurt him, to force him to feel everything she felt. She wanted to kiss him so hard it broke them both. She wanted to destroy him and let him destroy her right back. She wanted him—his chaos, his obsession, his burning, brutal love—forever. And that terrified her more than anything else in the world ever had.
But she was done pretending. She didn't give a fuck anymore. Not about the fights they'd had, not about the wreckage they'd left in their wake, not about the truth that their love felt more like a war than a sanctuary. Maybe that was what made it real. Maybe they were never meant to be soft. Maybe they were meant to clash like titans, to burn brighter and hotter than anyone else, to push and pull and bleed until one of them finally gave in. And right now, it was Luna. Right now, she was the one shattering.
She moved. No hesitation, no pause. Just action. Fierce, final, full of fire. She stepped into him, closing the distance like it was a battlefield, like her body knew exactly what it needed before her mind could catch up. Her hands found the collar of his shirt, gripped it hard—and then she tore it open with a force that felt like fury and longing combined. Buttons flew, scattered like shrapnel across the floor, some bouncing against wood, others disappearing into the shadows. She didn't even blink.
She didn't care.
She didn't care about his stupid designer shirt, didn't care about anything except the heat radiating off his skin, the wild rise and fall of his chest beneath her touch, the way his pupils were wide and hungry and dark enough to swallow her whole. The way he looked at her—as if nothing else in the world had ever mattered, as if she was gravity and oxygen and salvation all wrapped in one.
And then she kissed him.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't slow. It wasn't the kind of kiss people wrote about in love letters or dreamed about in quiet moments under the stars. It wasn't gentle in the way love was supposed to be—if there was even such a thing as "supposed to be" when it came to the way they loved. No, this was something else entirely. It was jagged and wild, a collision more than a connection, all teeth and tongues and bruising mouths. It was messy, uncontained, a war masquerading as something tender—but there was nothing tender about it. There was no sweetness, no careful hands, no gentle pause. There was only hunger. Only need. Only the overwhelming, suffocating intensity of two people who had spent too long denying what they felt and were now letting it consume them.
There was no hesitation. No fear. Just raw, reckless desperation.
She kissed him like she was trying to punish him, like she wanted to take back every second of pain he had caused her by marking him with her mouth. She poured every ounce of anger, of resentment, of longing, of brokenness into that kiss. Every unshed tear. Every scream that had caught in her throat. Every moment she'd spent trying to hate him and failing. And Draco—Draco let her. At first.
But then, he pulled back.
He took a full step away from her, as if the air between them had become too dangerous, too charged, like even one more second would tear something inside him apart. His chest was rising and falling in erratic bursts, his breath coming out in ragged, uneven gasps. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, so tightly his knuckles had gone white, as if he was physically holding himself back. As if he was fighting every single instinct inside him that screamed to grab her, to pull her close, to never let go again. His shirt hung open around his shoulders, exposing pale skin marred with faded scars and fresh red lines from her nails, his lips parted and swollen from the brutal kiss, his entire body a live wire—tense, coiled, seconds away from snapping.
Luna stood there, chest heaving, mouth still tingling from the force of what they'd just shared. Her whole body felt electric, vibrating with something she couldn't name, couldn't control. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her gaze narrowing as her eyes locked on his. Her voice dropped, low and dark, edged with challenge and something else—something dangerous. "Be a good boy."
And oh, if only she understood what she had just done.
He was a good boy—until she said those words.
And with that single, reckless phrase, she had unshackled something wild.
Draco moved before she could blink. One second he was still, trembling on the edge of restraint, and the next, he was on her. He surged forward with the force of a man no longer willing to hold anything back. His arms wrapped around her, lifting her off the ground like she weighed nothing, like she was his to carry, his to hold. Her back hit the nearest wall with a thud that rattled the frames hanging beside them, and she gasped, the impact shocking the breath from her lungs. Her hands flew up on instinct, clutching at his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, grounding herself in him because everything— everything —was him now. His heat, his body, his breath, surrounding her, caging her in.
He was everywhere.
Pressing into her, pinning her, consuming her with the sheer intensity of his presence. There was no room for thought. No room for doubt. No space to run. Not that she wanted to—not now, not after this.
His breath was hot against her neck, ragged and uneven, as he gripped her thighs and spread her open, holding her in place like he had every right to claim her, to own her. And gods, it wasn't fair how much she wanted that. How much she wanted to be taken, to be ruined, to be his in a way that erased everything else. She wanted to lose herself in him. To forget the world, the hurt, the past. To forget everything but this moment.
His mouth found her throat, teeth sinking into her skin, lips trailing fire. He kissed and sucked and bit until she was marked, until she could feel the heat radiating from every place he touched. Until she tilted her head back without even thinking, offering him more. Wanting more. Hating herself for it. Loving herself for it. Whimpering his name like a prayer she couldn't hold in.
Then his hand slid between them, rough and eager and shaking slightly. She barely had time to register the sound of his zipper before she felt his fingers beneath the waistband of her knickers, pushing them aside with a frantic, singular focus. She sucked in a breath, her legs tightening around him, her head falling back against the wall.
"You're fucking impossible," he growled, his voice a low rasp against her skin, a mixture of anger, lust, and awe. His fingers grazed her, teasing, claiming, destroying.
"Then stop talking," she snapped, breathless, desperate, her nails raking down his chest and leaving angry, red trails in their wake, "and fuck me."
Draco exhaled sharply, a sound that was half growl, half broken gasp. He looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to this earth, like she was the flame and he was already burning.
Luna choked on a gasp, her head slamming back against the wall, her body stretching, adjusting, trying to take him, trying to accommodate the sheer, unbearable fullness of him. He didn't wait, didn't give her a moment to breathe, to adjust, to think—because thinking wasn't part of this. Thinking would ruin this. Thinking would make her remember why she had been so fucking furious in the first place.
"Gods," she moaned, voice breaking, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan, hard enough to pull another sharp thrust from him, and fuck, she felt it everywhere.
Draco's hands flexed on her thighs, his grip bruising, his forehead pressing against hers, his breath mingling with hers. "You drive me fucking insane," he bit out, his voice low, guttural, every word punctuated by another hard thrust, by another sharp jolt of pleasure that sent her spiraling further and further into oblivion.
"Good," she managed to gasp, barely coherent, barely able to form words at all. "Maybe now you'll understand what it feels like."
A dangerous smirk curved his lips, and then he changed the angle, tilting her hips just slightly, hitting something deep, something devastating, something that made her vision go white at the edges. She let out a choked, wrecked sound, her body jolting, clenching around him, and Draco groaned, low and filthy, his entire body shuddering at the feeling.
"I understand," he whispered, pressing a lingering, almost cruelly soft kiss against her lips before pulling back and thrusting harder, deeper. "I understand perfectly."
And then, Luna stopped thinking altogether. There was no logic, no anger, no battle left to fight, nothing but the way he was breaking her down piece by piece, thrusting into her like he was trying to brand himself into her very soul. Her body was nothing more than a trembling, writhing mess beneath him, her nails dragging across his back, her voice hoarse from screaming his name, from crying out every time he pushed her closer, deeper, further into the oblivion that only he could give her.
Her mind was blank, completely overtaken by the unbearable pleasure coursing through her veins, her legs locked around him as if she could keep him there forever. He didn't slow, didn't stop, didn't let up even for a second, not even as she shattered around him again, her entire body clenching, convulsing, breaking apart beneath him.
She had lost count. She had no idea how many times he had already made her fall apart, how many times she had sobbed his name, how many times he had whispered hers against her skin like a prayer, like a promise, like something sacred. But now—now, she was wrecked. Completely undone. Her body too sensitive, too raw, too overwhelmed by everything he was giving her. And still, he didn't stop.
"Draco," she whimpered, her voice wrecked, pleading, desperate, her nails digging into his shoulders as he pushed into her again, as his thumb circled her clit in slow, torturous movements that made her legs tremble, that made her breath come in short, sharp gasps. "I—I can't—please—"
His grip on her thighs tightened, his lips dragging over the curve of her jaw, his breath hot against her ear. "You know what to say, doll," he murmured, his voice dark, low, rough with restraint, with the sheer effort it was taking for him to hold himself back.
Her head tipped back against the wall, her mouth falling open, her body so fucking close to breaking completely. And then she said it. The words that shattered the last shred of control he had, the words that sealed her fate, the words that made his entire body tense with something raw, something primal, something completely fucking unhinged.
"Please, Draco," she begged, her voice nothing more than a breathless whisper, her hands gripping his face, forcing him to look at her, to see her, to understand exactly what she was asking for. "Come in me."
That was it. That was all he needed.
He let out a low, guttural growl, his entire body shuddering, his movements turning frantic, desperate, almost brutal as he chased his release, as he buried himself as deep inside her as he possibly could. His forehead pressed against hers, his breath mingling with hers, his hands gripping her hips so tightly it would leave bruises in the morning, but she didn't care. She wanted him to leave his mark on her, wanted to feel him even after this, even when she woke up and realized what she had done, what they had done.
And then he was coming, spilling inside her with a broken, wrecked groan, his entire body tensing, his arms shaking from the effort of holding himself up, his lips finding hers in a messy, desperate kiss that tasted like relief, like surrender, like something inevitable. She kissed him through it, swallowed every moan, every gasp, every sharp, shuddering breath, letting him lose himself completely, letting him take everything he needed, everything she was willing to give him.
His hands trembled as he drew back just enough to look at her, just enough to let her breathe, to let her see him—not the version the world demanded, not the hardened man he pretended to be—but him . Unmasked. Unraveled. And in his eyes, she saw something that made her breath catch. Something raw. Something broken open. Something so vulnerable it nearly shattered her all over again. He looked at her like she was the only thing that could hold him together, the only thing tethering him to this moment, to this life. And then, with a voice that barely rose above a whisper, with a reverence that made her heart ache, he said, "Come back to me, please. Be mine. I'm begging you."
The words were a plea, not a command. Soft, stripped of pride, stripped of defense. The kind of words that didn't come from a place of control or possession but from deep, desperate love. And she didn't answer—not with words. Because words would never be enough for this.
Instead, she lifted one hand. Just a single, quiet gesture. And in the stillness between them, the air shimmered with the hum of silent magic, ancient and intuitive, born of feeling rather than incantation. Her magic knew what her voice couldn't say.
And then, one by one, her things began to return.
Her books floated through the air like birds returning to roost, their worn spines and dog-eared pages fluttering softly as they made their way through the manor. Each one settled gently into the shelves of the library— their library—where he had left space for her, always. Her clothes folded themselves with familiar grace, gliding through open windows and down hallways until they nestled back into the wardrobe beside his. Her favorite mug—the chipped one with the faded constellation on the side—spiraled gently into the kitchen cabinet, clinking softly as it slid into its rightful place.
And then came the plants.
All of them.
Trailing ivy and blooming orchids and tiny succulents with painted pots—floating delicately into the sunroom he'd built just for her. They hovered for a moment, as if remembering, as if sensing something sacred had returned, before settling into their spots, their leaves bright and vibrant, drinking in the golden light that filtered through the glass. The entire manor sighed beneath the weight of her presence, as though it, too, had been waiting for her to come home.
Luna remained where she was, her back pressed against the wall, her limbs still trembling from everything they'd shared. She was wrecked—emotionally, physically, completely undone—but she didn't move. Not until the last of her things had found their place.
And then, she lifted her gaze.
Her eyes met his.
And in that one look, everything changed.
Because Draco saw it—felt it—deep in his chest like a second heartbeat. She hadn't said a word. She hadn't needed to. In that quiet, soul-stripping gaze, he knew with absolute certainty…
She wasn't going anywhere.
Not this time.
Not ever again.