Stockholm Syndrome (Draco X Reader)

15. Breaking Point

The rain pounded against the windows, each drops a reminder of the storm brewing both outside and within the house. I paced the living room, my footsteps echoing in the silence, the ticking clock on the wall only heightening my anxiety. Every glance at the clock seemed to stretch time further, each second amplifying the gnawing worry in my stomach. Draco had been gone for over an hour, and with each passing minute, my mind raced through possibilities, none of them comforting.

Finally, I heard the front door open and close softly, the sound barely audible over the rain. Relief surged through me, and I hurried out of the living room, my heart pounding in my chest.

Draco stood in the hallway, drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead. His suit dripped a small puddle at his feet as he shrugged it off almost mechanically, avoiding my gaze.

"Draco, are you okay?" I asked, my voice shaky but filled with concern.

He didn't answer. His silence hit me harder than any words could. I watched him as he hung his wet coat on the hook, his movements slow and deliberate, as if each action took immense effort. Desperation clawed at me as I stepped closer, trying to bridge the emotional distance between us.

"If you're still upset about what your father said... you can talk to me, Draco. Maybe it'll help you feel better."

For a moment, he remained motionless, his back to me. Then, with a heavy sigh, he turned, his eyes meeting mine. They were filled with a mixture of frustration and despair that cut through me like a knife.

"No matter what I do, I can't feel better about it," He muttered, his voice tight with barely restrained anger.

I hesitated, unsure of how to comfort him.

"Maybe... maybe a warm bath? Or some hot cocoa? It might help-"

"No," He snapped, his tone sharp enough to make me flinch. His gaze was hard, his words cutting through the fragile hope I'd tried to offer.

I swallowed hard, knowing my attempts

I swallowed hard, knowing my attempts seemed useless, but I couldn't just give up. I reached out, my fingertips brushing against his damp sleeve, desperate to offer him something-anything-to ease the tension between us.

But as soon as I touched him, he pulled away, his movement abrupt and cold. Without another word, he turned and walked away from me, his long strides taking him swiftly down the hallway.

I sighed heavily, a knot forming in my throat as I hurried to catch up with him. He moved with a sense of purpose, his silence deafening, and I felt the tension between us grow thicker with each step. When he reached the living room, he didn't pause. He strode straight to the sofa, collapsing onto it as if the weight of the world had finally taken its toll.

I stopped in the doorway, my breath catching in my chest as I watched him. He loosened his tie with an irritated jerk, his expression hard and distant.

"Draco," I called his name softly, almost pleadingly.

He glanced at me, his gaze cold, before looking away and starting to roll up his sleeves, the motion rough and agitated.

I bit my lip, trying to think of something-anything-that might reach him.

"Do you want to change into dry clothes? You'll catch a cold in those wet ones."

"No," He replied curtly, his voice flat, refusing to meet my eyes.

"I'll get you a dry towel. You shouldn't stay wet like this. You'll catch a cold." I murmured, trying to keep my voice steady.

He didn't respond-his silence more oppressive than any argument. I sighed, a soft, resigned sound that seemed to disappear into the thick air between us.