The air is warm. Too warm. There is the heavy, stifling scent of expensive cologne and something faintly metallic.

And then there is the weight. A heavy, muscular arm draped across the waist, pinning Y/n to the mattress.

Beside them, Draco Malfoy is already awake.

He is lying on his back, staring fixedly at the ceiling. His platinum hair is a complete disaster, sticking up in three different directions, and there is a faint, tell-tale flush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears.