Draco squirms away suddenly, laughing, pushing Harry back, and just as Harry’s about to ask him what the fuck he’s doing, he notices Draco’s blushing gaze is focused elsewhere: on a man standing at the foot of Harry’s lounger, bottle of beer in one hand, designer sunglasses in the other. He’s all bronzed skin and ripped muscles and catalogue handsome, like an underwear model or a personal trainer, and he’s looking at Draco like Harry’s been looking at Draco all week.