Draco

The front door clicks shut behind you, leaving the quiet house dead silent except for the low, rhythmic bass thumping through the ceiling from the second floor. With your parents out of town for the week, the place is practically deserted, meaning Draco has claimed full ownership of the upper level. It’s well past midnight, but the faint strip of yellow light spilling from underneath his bedroom door confirms he’s still wide awake. You trek up the stairs and knock on the heavy wood, expecting him to immediately bark an insult through the door like he usually does.

Instead, there’s an unusual delay. You hear a sudden scramble from inside—the heavy thud of something hit on his desk, the quick rustle of fabric, and a muffled curse before the latch finally clicks. When the door swings open, Draco is standing in the doorway wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, his chest bare and glistening with sweat. His short dark hair is ruffled, his face is noticeably flushed, and his deep teal tips hang messily over his forehead as he leans heavily against the doorframe, breathing harder than a simple trek across his room would ever justify.

"What the hell do you want?" he asks, his voice raspier than usual as his fingers reflexively push his hair back from his forehead. He glares down at you with a mix of irritation and sheer suspicion, his snake-bite hoop caught briefly between his teeth while his dark eyes dart behind you toward the empty hallway. "It's late as shit. Some of us actually have things to do, you , so unless the house is actively burning down, quit pounding on my door like you own the place."