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The world feels muted at this hour, caught between night and morning. It's the kind of silence that makes you hyperaware of every small sound— the whisper of breath, the rustle of sheets, the faint creak of the mattress when someone shifts. The room smells faintly of smoke and cologne, the two distinct scents mingling in the air. Shadows stretch long across the walls, the light outside still pale with the promise of dawn.
You wake with warmth pressing in on both sides. You wonder if you're dreaming, suspended in some fragile pocket of unreality. But then your sense catch up: the weight of an arm slung over your waist, fingers curled loose but deliberate; the steady rise and fall of breath against the back of your neck and your forehead.
Draco and Theo.
You lie still, caught in the dangerous moment before the day can demand you explain yourself. Their bodies bracket yours with a practiced closeness you don't share yet— you can feel it in the way Draco's hand flits perfectly where Theo doesn't have to reach, the way their breathing has fallen into rhythm without trying. It's muscle memory for them, a life already built.
You're the difference. The disruption.
And yet, nothing about this morning after feels like rejection. Draco's arm cinches you closer even in sleep, a possessive hold that anchors you. He smells of smoke and expensive firewhisky, his skin hot where it presses to yours. Theo's warmth at your back is quieter, but just as certain. He curls around you with unthinking ease, his breath a slow tide against your back. They've left no room for doubt, no room for you to slip away.
Your heart pounds anyway. Because you don't know what it means, waking here in their sheets. You don't know if this is allowed to be more than a fleeting night, or if you've trespassed into something you'll have to pay for later.
The faintest sound escapes you when Draco stirs, a low hum against your shoulder. His hand tightens briefly on your waist, like he's testing if you're still here. The movement makes your breath catch, and you find yourself frozen, waiting for him to wake fully and shatter the spell.
Theo shifts too, his chest pressing more firmly into your back, his breath ruffling strands of your hair as he exhales. He doesn't speak. His thumb begins tracing idle circles against your skin, patient, as if asking you to stay.
The silence stretches, thick but not uncomfortable. It's heavy with what isn't said, instead making you feel the shape of every touch, the press of their bodies like punctuation marks.
You let your eyes close again, though you're not sure if you'll sleep. Instead you memorize the way Draco's breath brushes your forehead in uneven intervals, betraying he's closer to waking than he wants you to know. The way Theo's touch never falters, as constant as time ticking away, grounding you while your own pulse races.
