I glanc at the Muggle alarm clock beside the bed. Three minutes before six. Too early. Usually I don't wake up for another hour. I only wake up early when…
…when I'm really excited.
Then I remember. Quickly, I ran my fingers through my hair and jump onto the cold marble floor of my apartment. Too cold. Immediately, I take refuge on the soft warm carpet under the bed. It provides enough comfort before I could adjust to the chill and brave the floor again.
In earnest anticipation, I slowly tiptoe to the adjacent living room. I peer around, slowing my breathing, afraid that a sharp intake of breath would draw too much noise. It might wake him up.
I edge closer to the couch, and with each step, each abated breath, my heart pounds faster and louder. I even consider doubling back before I could wake him up but my feet seem defiant in going backward.
Then I see him.
Honestly, I always wondered why he wanted so much to sleep on the couch. My couch, which I bought from a junk shop. My couch, which is old and battered, that it would cough up feathers every now and then. Why would he put up with it when he has a majestic bed lined with the finest silk in his manor? Why would he go through a whole night's torture, when I could offer him my bed? Of course, I could never tell him that. But why had he never asked?
He never misses an opportunity to stay the night, anyway. He always grabs the chance whenever it presents itself. After every happy hour with the Order and night-outs with the gang, he would offer to walk me home and not give me squirming room to protest. Then, he would ask to crash on the moldy couch, sometimes after a round of scrabble or a small talk.
Sometimes I catch myself staring at him. Once, I kept my gaze on him for far too long, that I earned a measuring look from Ginny. Does Ginny know? Does she suspect? Nah, maybe she doesn't…I hope. I enjoy his company so much; it would be a shame if it all ended because of her incessant teasing.
He looks so peaceful this time. His usual sneer is absent, to be replaced by a calm pink softness, slightly parted for breath. It's almost weird to see the scowl gone from his pale face.
Even his silver-blue eyes, usually hinting a wink or a mad glint, were hidden underneath long lashes. How I love those lashes and every time they brush against his cheek—or mine, for that matter—whenever he would hug me in for a friendly gesture.
Sometimes I had the pleasure of touching his hair, a rare feat as he is very touchy about it. I would do that when he messes up mine playfully, or when he is caught completely off-guard. That's when he'd laugh, another uncommon event. He sounds so childish yet manly at the same time. So genuine. Then he'd attack me, wrapping his strong arms around me, and tickling me to death.
Other times we'd just sit down and talk seriously. Last time we did that, I had him roll up his left sleeve and show me his Dark Mark. It was a dark contrast to his pale and fragile skin. It was hideous. But he assured me that all its evil would end there, and that he'd cut off his arm if he needed to prove where his loyalties lay. He had been dead serious that time; it was actually turning me on.
So I "accidentally" spilled my butterbeer all over his front. It seemed like an appealing idea at first because after the initial shock, we began to laugh. But suddenly he took his shirt off, as if I weren't even there. I blushed furiously as I tried to look elsewhere but his toned muscles, always hidden under bulky robes.
He noticed my flustered reaction, of course. He then asked, and I remember it quite clearly, "See something you like?"
I wanted to answer him honestly, teasingly, so I said, "What do you think, ferret?"
He smiled. "I see you've got a hidden desire there, beaver," he shot back. Typical.
"So what if I do?" I retorted, although I regretted that almost instantly. By the look he gave me, he had read too much into it.
So I backed off for the second time. He could've pulled me back in the conversation but I muttered that I had to take my shift in Grimmauld Place and that he could rest.
I take one last look at his innocent face, memorizing each detail, before I would bustle around in the kitchen and make waffles. He likes my waffles. My waffles, which are burnt at the sides, are particularly his favorite, he said.
I leaned closer to his face so that I could smell his musky cologne and feel his breath on my lips. I am so close, barely an inch between us now. Seizing my chance, I whispered words I didn't have the courage to tell him when he was awake. Gryffindor bravery, my ass. Brightest witch isn't the bravest, then.
"I love you, Malfoy."
OOO
Yeah, finally posted here in I didn't edit this or anything. Too tired right now. Maybe later.
bEdit: Edited./b