Malfoy Manor’s master bedroom was always kept at a temperature that felt less like comfort and more like preservation. Like everything else in this marriage.

The clock on the nightstand read 2:47 AM.

Beside her, Draco had already turned. His back was a perfect, unyielding wall of white silk and pale skin. The dark ink of his tattoos peeked out from beneath his collar—a twisting serpent she’d traced a hundred times but never been invited to study.

His breathing was already evening out. Deep. Even. Done.

Three years.

She knew the routine by heart. The passion in the dark, the silence after. The way he’d roll away like she was a task he’d ticked off a list.

Y/n stared at the canopy above her. The velvet was deep green, embroidered with the Malfoy crest. It had felt like a fairy tale once. Now it felt like a cage.

I wish you’d just look at me, she thought. Just once. Like I’m not a transaction.

She turned toward the window, blinking back the sting in her eyes.

No. Not inside. Beside her.

Draco’s voice. But his lips hadn't moved.