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Potter stands in his entryway. Now that Draco’s opened his door and coaxed him inside, he doesn’t know what to say.
He’s practiced for this. Ages in the mirror crafting his best arguments, honing that sidelong smile that never failed to have Potter dragging him to bed, but all of that fades with the sight of Potter’s atrocious hair and mismatched socks.
Those mismatched socks make Draco’s heart pang.
“Malfoy,” Potter sighs.
Draco knows now is the time; a couple of words at least, if only he could make his mouth work.
“If you’ve just asked me over to stare at me…”
“Fuck it,” Draco says. He sweeps in, cups Potter’s cheeks and apologizes the only way he knows how.
The knot in his chest doesn’t ease until Potter grabs his waist and kisses him back.
Draco should have known. Potter doesn’t need practiced words and carefully-honed charm.
He just needs this.