"Hermione..." This wasn't what he fucking wanted. Why did it always have to be so Merlin damned hard? It wasn't fair, he thought, opening his eyes and meeting hers, pleading with her silently to just understand. She sat folded up naked by his side, a corner of the bed sheet draped lightly over her lap, staring at him with stifled frustration printed on her face. He couldn't do this. He couldn't deal with how he felt; she might be able to unzip herself and let all her innards spill over the bed between them, let everything out and acknowledge it, face it – but Draco couldn't. He had never done it before; never told anyone but Hermione his real feelings, his vulnerabilities, and the few times he'd done that had been hard enough. There was no way he could talk to her about things he could hardly bring himself to acknowledge.