𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐃 | ᴀ ᴅʀᴀᴍɪᴏɴᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ

Chapter 31

What A Difference A Year Makes (Draco POV)

Dates are important to women. Particularly to women in relationships.

There's all the major holidays: Christmas, Valentine's, Easter. There's the birthday—obviously. Then there's the day you met, the day you went out, the day you dropped the L-bomb, the day you got engaged, the day you got married...

I could go on, but I really don't want to.

Because here's the thing—guys don't give a shit about any of that stuff. When we pretend to care? It's only to avoid the verbal ass-whipping that's sure to follow if we act like we don't. For us, there's only one day worth commemorating. One moment that deserves recognition. The ultimate holy day of obligation.

I like to call it—the Fuck-iversary.

It's the day you first sealed the deal. Bumped uglies. Hit the homerun.

Or in my case—the grand slam.

I mean, seriously, you meet new people every day; it's a common occurrence. But unless you have a stellar record like yours truly, you don't screw a new person every day. So for guys, the first time you did the deed is definitely a day to celebrate.

And for me and Hermione? That day is today, kiddies. It's huge. One year ago, the course of my life was altered forever. The foundation of my existence was shaken.

And my bed frame.

That's why I'm in the kitchen right now. See me? Whistling, slicing fruit, and squaring a variety of cheeses? They're for later. We're going to need them—gotta keep the energy up. Because, in my book, you don't just memorialize a fuck-iversary. You top it. And considering the Olympic-worthy high bar that was set that night? I've got my work cut out for me.

But I'm always up for a challenge. Pun intended.

I don't want you to think that fuck-iversaries are just about humping like dogs either. Although, that position is always fun.

But no, it's also about tradition. Sentiment.

Presents.

For a first wedding anniversary, gifts are supposed to be made of paper or some kind of useless crap like that. My gift is so much better—Santa's elves can eat their hearts out. Hermione is going to lose it when she sees it. Her jaw's gonna hit the floor. And her panties will be right behind it.

The front door opens.

That would be the lucky lady herself.

I left work at noon—had preparations to make—so I haven't seen her since lunch. I walk into the living room. And there she is—bag in hand, a mid-length trench coat wrapped around her scrumptious little body. Her hair is down and shiny. Spiked black heels encase the tasty toes I like to suck on like a hard candy.

She smiles.

And as with every other time—it hits me like a punch to the gut.

"Hello, Boyfriend."

"Girlfriend."

Sickening, aren't we? There's a garbage can in the corner if you feel the need to puke.

I stalk towards her. "How was your day, dear?"

She puts her bag down, but leaves the coat on. "It was...distracting."

I'm about to ask her what that means, but she cuts me off.

"What are these?" She's referring to the lighted candles and rose petals strewn about the place.