When Draco had woken at four in the morning, a snowy owl had been hooting sleepily out their window, like a hush, to the snowfall. As if it could be any more silent.
Draco had turned to Harry under the covers, discovering a half-smile on his husband's sleeping face.
Now, Draco was roused because of a sudden jostle of the bed. What a perfect way to wake on a Sunday.
"Shit, it's cold," Harry gasped, climbing back under the covers and sticking his chilled feet under Draco's calves. He flung the duvet over them once he'd plastered himself just right against Draco. The cool air tingled against Draco's skin, and he rolled toward Harry.
"Time s'it?" Draco asked, wrapping arms around a naked chest and burying his nose in tangled curls.
"Almost eight from the looks of it. Sky's a bit pinkish."
Draco grumbled and squeezed Harry's ribs. "You're too naked to be running round in the cold."
"Warm me up, yeah?" Harry's palm slipped down Draco's back until his fingers teased at the cleft of his arse.
"Mn," said Draco, warm hand slipping low, low, lower until Harry was gasping with pleasure, not the frigid air just outside their blanketed haven. "Hello gorgeous," Draco murmured, eyes finally clearing from sleep.
"You talking to me or my dick?"
"You're alright, too. I s'pose."
Harry chuckled—hiccoughed when Draco got the rhythm just right.
Drowsy kisses were perfect, almost as perfect as their little world under the covers, with the sound of winter outside their open window and the arching body, the groaning-gasping-whimpering Harry next to him.
"Draco, I love—"
Draco hummed, biting Harry's shoulder as his husband came with a choked moan.
"Love you," Harry finished, huffing and throwing an arm over his eyes.
"And I love you," Draco said, kissing the mark he'd left, and then pushing at Harry's hip. "You still ready from last night?"
Harry rolled over and pressed his arse against Draco.
Yes, what a perfect way to wake up.