Day 159

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Draco realizes what a terrible terrible mistake he's made when Harry comes downstairs shirtless and in plaid pajama bottoms, hair even messier than usual, everything about him rumpled in a way that's horribly attractive, rubbing at his eyes behind his glasses.

"Did you make coffee?"

Right. Words. I can do this, Draco tells himself forcefully.

"Yeah, you weren't up yet, so..."

He can't stop staring at Harry's bare, toned chest and abs. He has an interesting scar in the center of his chest, round and indented, as if something had to be severed from his skin there. There are a few other, more normal-looking scars here and there, presumably from his exploits as an Auror. They make him look just a little bit wild, dangerous, and Draco finds himself wanting to ask about them. He wants to know how Harry got each one, and then press his lips against them, as if he could somehow kiss them better, and then his mouth would travel lower, down his stomach and over those incredibly defined hip bones, and... Fuck, no, Draco, stop. No no no. This...this is not good.

And Harry, completely unaware of Draco's thoughts, pours himself a cup of coffee and moans softly around a sip, and Draco wants to throw something at his stupidly handsome, oblivious face.

"Thanks, Draco."

"You're, um, you're welcome. I'd better go. Shop to open and all." Marie is opening the shop that morning, but that doesn't matter. Draco just knows that he has to get out of there.

"Right." Harry smiles at him, and Draco's stomach does that stupid fluttering thing again. "See you."

As he showers and gets ready for work at home, Draco's thoughts take a more wholesome turn, wondering what it would be like to wake up with the version of Harry he's just seen, still sleepy and adorably tousled, to stay and eat breakfast with him, to leave for work after a long, sweet kiss... Fuck. 

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