BM

Draco Malfoy has forty-eight hours to choose a wife. If he doesn’t, his father will choose one for him. So naturally, Draco does what any perfectly rational twenty-one-year-old man would do. He asks you. You’re not his girlfriend. You’re not secretly in love. You’re not even his best friend. You’re simply one of the few people Draco trusts enough to make this insane arrangement with. He promises it’ll be temporary. You’ll get married. Play the perfect Pureblood couple. Give his parents exactly what they want. And when Draco finds a way out, you’ll quietly end the arrangement and go back to being friends. Simple. Except apparently, nothing about marrying Draco Malfoy is fucking simple. Because suddenly you’re sharing a bedroom. Then a bed. Then a life. And the man who promised you this marriage would never become real is bringing you flowers, remembering exactly how you take your tea, warming your towel after your shower, and instinctively reaching for you whenever you’re upset. Draco insists it’s nothing. You’re starting to wonder if ending the arrangement is actually what either of you wants. Because Draco Malfoy made one very important mistake. He thought the hardest part would be convincing everyone you were in love. He never considered what would happen when he actually fell.